The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Red True Story Book, by Various, Edited
by Andrew Lang, Illustrated by Henry J. Ford
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Title: The Red True Story Book
Author: Various
Editor: Andrew Lang
Release Date: December 23, 2008 [eBook #27603]
Language: English
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THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK
* * * * *
WORKS BY ANDREW LANG.
COCK LANE AND COMMON SENSE: a Series of Papers
Crown 8vo. 6_s._ 6_d._ _net._
BAN and ARRIÈRE BAN: a Rally of Fugitive Rhymes.
Crown 8vo. 5_s._ _net._
ST. ANDREWS. With 8 Plates and 24 Illustrations in
the Text by T. Hodge. 8vo. 15_s._ _net._
HOMER AND THE EPIC. Crown 8vo. 9_s._ _net._
CUSTOM AND MYTH: Studies of Early Usage and
Belief. With 15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3_s._
6_d._
BALLADS OF BOOKS. Edited by ANDREW LANG. Fcp. 8vo.
6_s._
LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. Fcp. 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._
_net._
BOOKS AND BOOKMEN. With 2 Coloured Plates and 17
Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ _net._
OLD FRIENDS. Fcp. 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ _net._
LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._
_net._
GRASS OF PARNASSUS. Fcp. 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ _net._
ANGLING SKETCHES. With 3 Etchings and numerous
Illustrations by W. G. Burn-Murdoch. Crown 8vo.
3_s._ 6_d._
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
134 Illustrations by H. J. Ford and G. P. Jacomb
Hood. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
100 Illustrations by H. J. Ford and Lancelot
Speed. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
99 Illustrations by H. J. Ford. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
104 Illustrations by H. J. Ford. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
100 Illustrations by H. J. Ford and Lancelot
Speed. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
SCHOOL EDITION, without Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo.
2_s._ 6_d._
SPECIAL EDITION, printed on Indian paper. With
Notes, but without Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 7_s._
6_d._
THE TRUE STORY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
66 Illustrations by H. J. Ford, Lucien Davis,
Lancelot Speed, and L. Bogle. Crown 8vo. 6_s._
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
London and New York.
* * * * *
[Illustration: 'IN THE BORGHESE GARDENS PRACTISED THAT ROYAL GAME OF
GOLF.']
THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK
Edited by
ANDREW LANG
[Illustration]
With Numerous Illustrations by Henry J. Ford
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
and New York
1895
All rights reserved
_INTRODUCTION_
_The Red True Story Book_ needs no long Introduction. The Editor, in
presenting _The Blue True Story Book_, apologised for offering tales so
much less thrilling and romantic than the legends of the Fairies, but he
added that even real facts were, sometimes, curious and interesting.
Next year he promises something quite as true as History, and quite as
entertaining as Fairies!
For this book, Mr. Rider Haggard has kindly prepared a narrative of
'Wilson's Last Fight,' by aid of conversations with Mr. Burnham, the
gallant American scout. But Mr. Haggard found, while writing his
chapter, that Mr. Burnham had already told the story in an 'Interview'
published by the _Westminster Gazette_. The courtesy of the proprietor
of that journal, and of Mr. Burnham, has permitted Mr. Haggard to
incorporate the already printed narrative with his own matter.
'The Life and Death of Joan the Maid' is by the Editor, who has used M.
Quicherat's _Procès_ (five volumes, published for the Historical Society
of France), with M. Quicherat's other researches. He has also used M.
Wallon's Biography, the works of Father Ayroles, S.J., the _Jeanne d'Arc
à Domremy_ of M. Siméon Luce, the works of M. Sepet, of Michelet, of
Henri Martin, and, generally, all printed documents to which he has had
access. Of unprinted contemporary matter perhaps none is known to exist,
except the Venetian Correspondence, now being prepared for publication
by Father Ayroles.
'How the Bass was held for King James' is by the Editor, mainly from
Blackadder's _Life_.
'The Crowning of Ines de Castro' is by Mrs. Lang, from Schäfer.
'Orthon,' from Froissart, 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'Monsieur de Bayard's Duel'
(Brantôme), are by the same lady; also 'Gaston de Foix,' from Froissart,
and 'The White Man,' from Mile. Aïssé's Letters.
Mrs. McCunn has told the story of the Prince's Scottish Campaign, from
the contemporary histories of the Rising of 1745, contemporary tracts,
_The Lyon in Mourning_, Chambers, Scott, Maxwell of Kirkconnel, and
other sources.
The short Sagas are translated from the Icelandic by the Rev. W. C.
Green, translator of _Egil Skalagrim's Saga_.
Mr. S. R. Crockett, Author of _The Raiders_, told the tales of 'The Bull
of Earlstoun' and 'Grisell Baillie.'
Miss May Kendall and Mrs. Bovill are responsible for the seafarings and
shipwrecks; the Australian adventures are by Mrs. Bovill.
Miss Minnie Wright compiled 'The Conquest of Peru,' from Prescott's
celebrated History.
Miss Agnes Repplier, that famed essayist of America, wrote the tale of
Molly Pitcher.
'The Adventures of General Marbot' are from the translation of his
Autobiography by Mr. Butler.
With this information the Editor leaves the book to children, assuring
them that the stories are _true_, except perhaps that queer tale of
'Orthon'; and some of the Sagas also may have been a little altered from
the real facts before the Icelanders became familiar with writing.
CONTENTS
PAGE
_Wilson's Last Fight_ 1
_The Life and Death of Joan the Maid_ 19
_How the Bass was held for King James_ 92
_The Crowning of Ines de Castro_ 99
_The Story of Orthon_ 105
_How Gustavus Vasa won his Kingdom_ 114
_Monsieur de Bayard's Duel_ 122
_Story of Gudbrand of the Dales_ 125
_Sir Richard Grenville_ 132
_The Story of Molly Pitcher_ 137
_The Voyages, Dangerous Adventures, and Imminent Escapes of
Captain Richard Falconer_ 141
_Marbot's March_ 150
_Eylau. The Mare Lisette_ 162
_How Marbot crossed the Danube_ 175
_The piteous Death of Gaston, Son of the Count of Foix_ 186
_Rolf Stake_ 191
_The Wreck of the 'Wager'_ 195
_Peter Williamson_ 213
_A Wonderful Voyage_ 226
_The Pitcairn Islanders_ 238
_A Relation of three years' Suffering of Robert Everard
upon the Island of Assada, near Madagascar, in
a Voyage to India, in the year 1686_ 247
_The Fight at Svolder Island_ 252
_The Death of Hacon the Good_ 261
_Prince Charlie's War_ 265
_The Burke and Wills Exploring Expedition_ 324
_The Story of Emund_ 346
_The Man in White_ 354
_The Adventures of 'the Bull of Earlstoun'_ 358
_The Story of Grisell Baillie's Sheep's Head_ 366
_The Conquest of Peru_ 371
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
_PLATES_
_'In the Borghese gardens practised that royal
game of golf'_ _Frontispiece_
_Just as his arm was poised I fired_ _To face p._ 10
_Joan in church_ " 24
_Joan rides to Chinon_ " 38
_Joan tells the King his secret_ " 42
_The English Archers betrayed by the Stag_ " 64
_The Coronation of Charles VII_ " 68
_'Instantly a gust of wind blew her off the rock
into the sea'_ " 92
_'One man . . . stalked about the deck and
flourished a cutlass . . . shouting that he
was "king of the country"'_ " 196
_The Indian threatens Peter Williamson_ " 214
_'Another party of Indians arrived, bringing
twenty scalps and three prisoners'_ " 218
_The savages attack the boat_ " 230
_'The madman dwelt alone'_ " 242
_King Olaf leaps overboard_ " 256
_'In the Borghese gardens practised that royal
game of golf_ " 266
_'I will, though not another man in the
Highlands should draw a sword'_ " 272
_'He galloped up the streets of Edinburgh
shouting, "Victory! Victory!"'_ " 294
_Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo Huaco, the
Children of the Sun, come from Lake
Titicaca to govern and civilise the
tribes of Peru_ " 374
_In one cave the soldiers found vases of
pure gold, etc._ " 412
_WOODCUTS IN TEXT_
PAGE
_One of them lifted his assegai_ 17
_'The Fairy Tree'_ 20
_Joan hears the Voice_ 28
_Robert thinks Joan crazed_ 34
_'Sir, this is ill done of you'_ 37
_'In a better language than yours,' said Joan_ 46
_'Lead him to the Cross!' cried she_ 50
_'Then spurred she her horse . . . and put out the flame'_ 53
_Joan is wounded by the arrow_ 57
_'Now arose a dispute among the captains'_ 61
_One Englishman at least died well_ 63
_Joan challenges the English to sally forth_ 73
_'Go she would not till she had taken that town'_ 79
_Joan Captured_ 83
_Joan at Beaurevoir_ 85
_'The burned Joan the Maid'_ 89
_The Bass attacked by the frigates_ 97
_Ines pleads for her life_ 101
_'I will send you a champion whom you will fear more than
you fear me'_ 107
_Orthon's last appearance_ 112
_Gustavus leaves school for good!_ 115
_'Lazy loon! Have you no work to do?'_ 119
_'Surrender, Don Alonzo, or you are a dead man!'_ 123
_'In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream'_ 127
_The destruction of the idol_ 130
_'Still he cried to his men, "Fight on, fight on!"'_ 134
_Molly takes her husband's place_ 139
_'As we approached we saw the pirate sinking'_ 143
_Falconer knocks down a bird_ 145
_Falconer returns to his companions_ 148
_'Then, drawing their swords, they dashed at the rest'_ 152
_Marbot's fight with the Carabineers in the alley_ 157
_Lisette catches the thief in the stable_ 164
_'I regarded myself as a horseman who is trying to win a
steeplechase'_ 166
_Lisette carries off the Russian officer_ 169
_'Guided by the transport man he reached me and found me
living'_ 172
_'"I will go, sir," I cried'_ 177
_'We had to saw the rope'_ 182
_'The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand'_ 188
_Gaston in prison_ 189
_'But now here sits in the high seat a thin stake'_ 192
_'He fleeth not the flame
Who leapeth o'er the same'_ 193
_The Captain shoots Mr. Cozens_ 202
_Mr. Hamilton's fight with the sea-lion_ 205
_The Cacique fires off the gun_ 208
_Byron rides past the turnpikes_ 211
_The captain guarded by the mutineers_ 228
_The Pitcairn islanders on board the English frigate_ 239
_Old John Adams teaches the children_ 245
_Death of the supercargo_ 248
_'None will now deny that "Long Snake" sails by'_ 255
_Hacon casts his shield away_ 263
_'Go, sir, to your general; tell him what you have
seen . . .'_ 276
_Escape of the Duke of Perth_ 281
_'In many a panelled parlour'_ 284
_'Och no! she be relieved'_ 287
_Mrs. Murray of Broughton distributes cockades to the
crowd_ 289
_James More wounded at Prestonpans_ 293
_Crossing Shap Fell_ 301
_'Many had their broadswords and dirks sharpened'_ 304
_'The Prince caught him by the hair'_ 307
_The poor boy fell, mortally wounded_ 311
_The 'Rout of Moy'_ 315
_The end of Culloden_ 322
_'The advance party of eight started on October 29'_ 327
_Golah is abandoned_ 332
_'King, they are gone!'_ 337
_Death of Burke_ 342
_Bessé introduced to the Man in White_ 355
_'Saw reflected in the mirror the white figure'_ 356
_'Sometimes he would find a party searching for him quite
close at hand'_ 360
_Alexander Gordon wood-chopping in the disguise of a
labourer_ 362
_Grisell brings the sheep's head to her father in the
vault_ 367
_A Peruvian postman_ 381
_Almagro wounded in the eye_ 387
_Many of the Spaniards were killed by the snakes and
alligators_ 389
_Amazement of the Indians at seeing a cavalier fall from
his horse_ 391
_Pizarro sees llamas for the first time_ 393
_The cavalier displays his horsemanship before Atahuallpa_ 401
_The friar urges Pizarro to attack the Peruvians_ 404
_The Spaniards destroy the idol at Pachacamac_ 407
_WILSON'S LAST FIGHT_
'They were men whose fathers were men'
TO make it clear how Major Wilson and his companions came to die on the
banks of the Shangani on December 4, 1893, it will be necessary, very
briefly, to sketch the events which led to the war between the English
settlers in Mashonaland in South Africa and the Matabele tribe, an
offshoot of the Zulu race.
In October 1889, at the instance of Mr. Cecil Rhodes and others
interested, the Chartered Company of British South Africa was
incorporated, with the sanction of Her Majesty's Government.
In 1890 Mashonaland was occupied, a vast and fertile territory nominally
under the rule of Lobengula, king of the Matabele, which had been ceded
by him to the representatives of the Company in return for certain
valuable considerations. It is, however, an easier task for savage kings
to sign concessions than to ensure that such concessions will be
respected by their subjects, especially when those 'Subjects' are
warriors by nature, tradition, and practice, as in the present case, and
organised into regiments, kept from year to year in perfect efficiency
and readiness for attack. Whatever may have been Lobengula's private
wishes and opinions, it soon became evident that the gathering of the
white men upon their borders, and in a country which they claimed by
right of conquest if they did not occupy it, was most distasteful to the
more warlike sections of the Matabele.
Mashonaland takes its name from the Mashona tribes who inhabit it, a
peaceful and, speaking by comparison, an industrious race, whom, ever
since they first settled in the neighbourhood, it had been the custom of
the subjects of Lobengula and of his predecessor, Mosilikatze, 'the
lion,' to attack with every cruelty conceivable, raiding their cattle,
slaughtering their men, and sweeping their maidens and young children
into captivity. Terrified, half exterminated indeed, as they were by
these constant and unprovoked onslaughts, the Mashonas welcomed with
delight the occupation of their country by white men, and thankfully
placed themselves under the protection of the Chartered Company.
The Matabele regiments, however, took a different view of the question,
for now their favourite sport was gone: they could no longer practise
rapine and murder, at least in this direction, whenever the spirit moved
them. Presently the force of habit overcame their fear of the white men
and their respect for treaties, and towards the end of 1891 the chief
Lomaghondi, who lived under the protection of the Company, was killed by
them. Thereon Dr. Jameson, the Administrator of Mashonaland,
remonstrated with Lobengula, who expressed regret, saying that the
incident had happened by mistake.
This repudiation notwithstanding, an impi, or armed body of savages,
again crossed the border in 1892, and raided in the Victoria district.
Encouraged by the success of these proceedings, in July 1893 Lobengula
sent a picked company to harry in the neighbourhood of Victoria itself,
writing to Dr. Jameson that he made no excuse for so doing, claiming as
he did the right to raid when, where, and whom he chose. The 'indunas,'
or captains, in command of this force were instructed not to kill white
men, but to fall particularly upon those tribes who were in their
employ. On July 9, 1893, and the following days came the climax, for
then the impi began to slaughter every Mashona whom they could find.
Many of these unfortunates were butchered in the presence of their
masters, who were bidden to 'stand upon one side as the time of the
white men had not yet come.'
Seeing that it was necessary to take action, Dr. Jameson summoned the
head indunas of the impi, and ordered them to cross the border within an
hour or to suffer the consequences of their disobedience. The majority
obeyed, and those who defied him were attacked by Captain Lendy and a
small force while in the act of raiding a kraal, some of them being
killed and the rest driven away.
From this moment war became inevitable, for the question lay between the
breaking of the power of Lobengula and the evacuation of Mashonaland.
Into the details of that war it is not proposed to enter; they are
outside the scope of this narrative. It is enough to say that it was one
of the most brilliant and successful ever carried out by Englishmen.
The odds against the little force of a thousand or twelve hundred white
men who invaded Matabeleland were almost overwhelming, and when it is
remembered that the Imperial troops did not succeed in their contest
against Cetywayo, the Zulu king, until nearly as many soldiers were
massed in the country as there were able-bodied Zulus left to oppose
them, the brilliancy of the achievement of these colonists led by a
civilian, Dr. Jameson, can be estimated. The Matabele were beaten in two
pitched battles: that of the Shangani on October 25, and that of the
Imbembezi on November 1. They fought bravely, even with desperation, but
their valour was broken by the skill and the cool courage of the white
man. Those terrible engines of war, the Maxim guns and the Hotchkiss
shells, contributed largely to our success on these occasions. The
Matabele, brave as they were, could not face the incessant fire of the
Maxims, and as to the Hotchkiss they developed a curious superstition.
Seeing that men fell dead in all directions after the explosion of a
shell, they came to believe that as it burst out of each missile numbers
of tiny and invisible imps ran forth carrying death and destruction to
the white men's foes, and thus it happened that to their minds moral
terrors were added to the physical dangers of warfare. So strong was
this belief among them, indeed, that whenever a shell struck they would
turn and fire at it in the hope that thus they might destroy the 'live
devils' who dwelt within it.
After these battles Lobengula, having first set fire to it, fled from
his chief place, Buluwayo, which was occupied by the white men within a
month of the commencement of the campaign.
In reply to a letter sent to him by Dr. Jameson, demanding his surrender
and guaranteeing his safety, Lobengula wrote that he 'would come in.'
The promised period of two days' grace having gone by, however, and
there being no sign of his appearance, a force was despatched from
Buluwayo to follow and capture him. This force, which was under the
leadership of Major Patrick W. Forbes, consisted of ninety men of the
Salisbury Column, with Captains Heany and Spreckley and a mule Maxim gun
under Lieutenant Biscoe, R.N.; sixty men of the Victoria Column
commanded by Major Wilson, with a horse Maxim under Captain Lendy; sixty
men of the Tuli Column, and ninety men of the Bechuanaland Border
Police, commanded by Captain Raaf, C.M.G., accompanied by two horse
Maxims and a mule seven-pounder, commanded by Captain Tancred.
The column, which started on or about November 14, took with it food
for three days only, carried by natives, and a hundred rounds of
ammunition per man. After several days' journeying northward the patrol
reached the Bubye River, where dissensions arose between Captain Raaf
and Major Forbes, the former being of opinion, rightly enough as the
issue showed, that the mission was too dangerous to be pursued by a
small body of men without supplies of food, and having no reserve of
ammunition and no means of carrying the wounded. The upshot was that
Major Forbes decided to return, but was prevented from doing so by a
letter received from Dr. Jameson, stating that he was sending forward a
reinforcement of dismounted men under Captain Napier with food,
ammunition, and wagons, also sixteen mounted men under Captain Borrow.
The force then proceeded to a deserted Mission Station known as Shiloh.
On November 25 the column, three hundred strong and carrying with it
three-quarter rations for twelve days, took up the King's wagon spoor
about one mile from Shiloh, and followed it through much discomfort,
caused by the constant rain and the lack of roads, till, on December S,
a point was reached on the Shangani River, N.N.W. of Shiloh and distant
from it about eighty miles.
On November 29, however, Major Forbes, finding that he could make small
progress with the wagons, sent them away, and proceeded with the best
mounted men and two Maxims only, so that the actual force which reached
the Shangani on the 3rd consisted of about one hundred and sixty men and
a couple of machine guns.
At this time the information in possession of the leaders of the column
was to the effect that the King was just in front of them across the
river, accompanied only by a few of his followers. Under these
circumstances Major Forbes instructed Major Wilson and eighteen men to
go forward and reconnoitre along Lobengula's spoor; the understanding
seeming to have been that the party was to return by sundown, but that
if it did not return it was, if necessary, to be supported by the whole
column. With this patrol went Mr. Burnham, the American scout, one of
the three surviving white men who were eye-witnesses of that eventful
night's work, which ended so tragically at dawn.
What followed is best told as he narrated it by word of mouth to the
compiler of this true story, and to a reporter of the 'Westminster
Gazette,' the editor of which paper has courteously given permission for
the reproduction of the interview. Indeed, it would be difficult to tell
it so well in words other than Mr. Burnham's own.
[Illustration: Sketch of Route of the Wilson Patrol and of the Scouts'
ride back to Major Forbes _Drawn from memory by Mr. Burnham_
N.B. _Supposed distance of King's Wagons from Forbes Camp 5 Miles,
windings by the Spoor might be a little more._]
'In the afternoon of December 8,' says Mr. Burnham, 'I was scouting
ahead of the column with Colenbrander, when in a strip of bush we lit on
two Matabele boys driving some cattle, one of whom we caught and brought
in. He was a plucky boy, and when threatened he just looked us sullenly
in the face. He turned out to be a sort of grandson or grand-nephew of
Lobengula himself. He said the King's camp was just ahead, and the King
himself near, with very few men, and these sick, and that he wanted to
give himself up. He represented that the King had been back to this
place that very day to get help because his wagons were stuck in a bog.
The column pushed on through the strip of bush, and there, near by, was
the King's camp--quite deserted. We searched the huts, and in one lay a
Maholi slave-boy, fast asleep. (The Maholis are the slaves of the
Matabele.) We pulled him out, and were questioning him, when the other
boy, the sulky Matabele, caught his eye, and gave him a ferocious look,
shouting across to him to take care what he told.
'The slave-boy agreed with the others that the King had only left this
camp the day before; but as it was getting dark, Major Forbes decided to
reconnoitre before going on with the column. I learnt of the decision to
send forward Major Wilson and fifteen men on the best horses when I got
my orders to accompany them, and, along with Bayne, to do their
scouting. My horse was exhausted with the work he had done already; I
told Major Forbes, and he at once gave me his. It was a young horse,
rather skittish, but strong and fairly fresh by comparison.
'Ingram, my fellow-scout, remained with the column, and so got some
hours' rest; thanks to which he was able not only to do his part of
tracking for the twenty men afterwards sent on to us through the bush at
night, but also, when he and I got through after the smash, to do the
long and dangerous ride down country to Buluwayo with the despatches--a
ride on which he was accompanied by Lynch.
'So we set off along the wagon track, while the main body of the column
went into laager.
'Close to the river the track turned and led down stream along the west
bank. Two miles down was a drift' (they call a fordable dip a drift in
South Africa), 'and here the track crossed the Shangani. We splashed
through, and the first thing we scouts knew on the other side was that
we were riding into the middle of a lot of Matabele among some scherms,
or temporary shelters. There were men, and some women and children. The
men were armed. We put a bold face on it, and gave out the usual
announcement that we did not want to kill anybody, but must have the
King. The natives seemed surprised and undecided; presently, as Major
Wilson and the rest of the patrol joined us, one of them volunteered to
come along with us and guide us to the King. He was only just ahead, the
man said. How many men were with him? we asked. The man put up his
little finger--dividing it up, so. Five fingers mean an impi; part of
the little finger, like that, should mean fifty to one hundred men.
Wilson said to me, "Go on ahead, taking that man beside your saddle;
cover him, fire if necessary, but don't you let him slip."
'So we started off again at a trot, for the light was failing, the man
running beside my horse, and I keeping a sharp eye on him. The track led
through some thick bush. We passed several scherms. Five miles from the
river we came to a long narrow vlei [a vlei is a shallow valley,
generally with water in it], which lay across our path. It was now
getting quite dark. Coming out of the bush on the near edge of the vlei,
before going down into it, I saw fires lit, and scherms and figures
showing dark against the fires right along the opposite edge of the
vlei. We skirted the vlei to our left, got round the end of it, and at
once rode through a lot of scherms containing hundreds of people. As we
went, Captain Napier shouted the message about the King wherever there
was a big group of people. We passed scherm after scherm, and still more
Matabele, more fires, and on we rode. Instead of the natives having been
scattering from the King, they had been gathering. But it was too late
to turn. We were hard upon our prize, and it was understood among the
Wilson patrol that they were going to bring the King in if man could do
it. The natives were astonished: they thought the whole column was on
them: men jumped up, and ran hither and thither, rifle in hand. We went
on without stopping, and as we passed more and more men came running
after us. Some of them were crowding on the rearmost men, so Wilson told
off three fellows to "keep those niggers back." They turned, and kept
the people in check. At last, nearly at the other end of the vlei,
having passed five sets of scherms, we came upon what seemed to be the
King's wagons, standing in a kind of enclosure, with a saddled white
horse tethered by it. Just before this, in the crowd and hurry, my man
slipped away, and I had to report to Wilson that I had lost him. Of
course it would not have done to fire. One shot would have been the
match in the powder magazine. We had ridden into the middle of the
Matabele nation.
'At this enclosure we halted and sang out again, making a special appeal
to the King and those about him. No answer came. All was silence. A few
drops of rain fell. Then it lightened, and by the flashes we could just
see men getting ready to fire on us, and Napier shouted to Wilson,
"Major, they are about to attack." I at the same-time saw them closing
in on us rapidly from the right. The next thing to this fifth scherm was
some thick bush; the order was given to get into that, and in a moment
we were out of sight there. One minute after hearing us shout, the
natives with the wagons must have been unable to see a sign of us. Just
then it came on to rain heavily; the sky, already cloudy, got black as
ink; the night fell so dark that you could not see your hand before
you.
'We could not stay the night where we were, for we were so close that
they would hear our horses' bits. So it was decided to work down into
the vlei, creep along close to the other edge of it to the end we first
came round, farthest from the King's camp, and there spend the night.
This, like all the other moves, was taken after consultation with the
officers, several of whom were experienced Kaffir campaigners. It was
rough going; we were unable to see our way, now splashing through the
little dongas that ran down into the belly of the vlei, now working
round them, through bush and soft bottoms. At the far end, in a clump of
thick bush, we dismounted, and Wilson sent off Captain Napier, with a
man of his called Robinson, and the Victoria scout, Bayne, to go back
along the wagon-track to the column, report how things stood, and bring
the column on, with the Maxims, as sharp as possible. Wilson told
Captain Napier to tell Forbes if the bush bothered the Maxim carriages
to abandon them and put the guns on horses, but to bring the Maxims
without fail. We all understood--and we thought the message was
this--that if we were caught there at dawn without the Maxims we were
done for. On the other hand was the chance of capturing the King and
ending the campaign at a stroke.
'The spot we had selected to stop in until the arrival of Forbes was a
clump of heavy bush not far from the King's spoor--and yet so far from
the Kaffir camps that they could not hear us if we kept quiet. We
dismounted, and on counting it was found that three of the men were
missing. They were Hofmeyer, Bradburn and Colquhoun. Somewhere in
winding through the bush from the King's wagons to our present position
these men were lost. Not a difficult thing, for we only spoke in
whispers, and, save for the occasional click of a horse's hoof, we could
pass within ten feet of each other and not be aware of it.
'Wilson came to me and said, "Burnham, can you follow back along the
vlei where we've just come?" I doubted it very much as it was black and
raining; I had no coat, having been sent after the patrol immediately I
came in from firing the King's huts, and although it was December, or
midsummer south of the line, the rain chilled my fingers. Wilson said,
"Come, I must have those men back." I told him I should need some one to
lead my horse so as to feel the tracks made in the ground by our horses.
He replied, "I will go with you. I want to see how you American fellows
work."
'Wilson was no bad hand at tracking himself, and I was put on my mettle
at once. We began, and I was flurried at first, and did not seem to get
on to it somehow; but in a few minutes I picked up the spoor and hung to
it.
'So we started off together, Wilson and I, in the dark. It was hard
work, for one could see nothing; one had to feel for the traces with
one's fingers. Creeping along, at last we stood close to the wagons,
where the patrol had first retreated into the bush.
'"If we only had the force here now," said Wilson, "we would soon
finish."
'But there was still no sign of the three men, so there was nothing for
it but to shout. Retreating into the vlei in front of the King's camp,
we stood calling and cooeying for them, long and low at first, then
louder. Of course there was a great stir along the lines of the native
scherms, for they did not know what to make of it. We heard afterwards
that the natives were greatly alarmed as the white men seemed to be
everywhere at once, and the indunas went about quieting the men, and
saying "Do you think the white men are on you, children? Don't you know
a wolf's howl when you hear it?"
'After calling for a bit, we heard an answering call away down the vlei,
and the darkness favouring us, the lost men soon came up and we arrived
at the clump of bushes where the patrol was stationed. We all lay down
in the mud to rest, for we were tired out. It had left off raining, but
it was a miserable night, and the hungry horses had been under saddle,
some of them twenty hours, and were quite done.
'So we waited for the column.
'During the night we could hear natives moving across into the bush
which lay between us and the river. We heard the branches as they pushed
through. After a while Wilson asked me if I could go a little way around
our position and find out what the Kaffirs were doing. I always think he
heard something, but he did not say so. I slipped out and on our right
heard the swirl of boughs and the splash of feet. Circling round for a
little time I came on more Kaffirs. I got so close to them I could touch
them as they passed, but it was impossible to say how many there were,
it was so dark. This I reported to Wilson. Raising his head on his hand
he asked me a few questions, and made the remark that if the column
failed to come up before daylight, "we are in a hard hole," and told me
to go out on the King's spoor and watch for Forbes, so that by no
possibility should he pass us in the darkness. It was now, I should
judge, 1 A.M. on the 4th of December.
[Illustration: 'JUST AS HIS ARM WAS POISED I FIRED']
'I went, and for a long, long time I heard only the dropping of the rain
from the leaves and now and then a dog barking in the scherms, but at
last, just as it got grey in the east, I heard a noise, and placing my
ear close to the ground, made it out to be the tramp of horses. I ran
back to Wilson and said "The column is here."
'We all led our horses out to the King's spoor. I saw the form of a man
tracking. It was Ingram. I gave him a low whistle; he came up, and
behind him rode--not the column, not the Maxims, but just twenty men
under Captain Borrow. It was a terrible moment--"_If_ we were caught
there at dawn"--and already it was getting lighter every minute.
'One of us asked "Where is the column?" to which the reply was, "You see
all there are of us." We answered, "Then you are only so many more men
to die."
'Wilson went aside with Borrow, and there was earnest talk for a few
moments. Presently all the officers' horses' heads were together; and
Captain Judd said in my hearing, "Well, this is the end." And Kurten
said quite quietly, "We shall never get out of this."
'Then Wilson put it to the officers whether we should try and break
through the impis which were now forming up between us and the river, or
whether we would go for the King and sell our lives in trying to get
hold of him. The final decision was for this latter.
'So we set off and walked along the vlei back to the King's wagons. It
was quite light now and they saw us from the scherms all the way, but
they just looked at us and we at them, and so we went along. We walked
because the horses hadn't a canter in them, and there was no hurry
anyway.
'At the wagons we halted and shouted out again about not wanting to kill
anyone. There was a pause, and then came shouts and a volley. Afterwards
it was said that somebody answered, "If you don't want to kill, we do."
My horse jumped away to the right at the volley, and took me almost into
the arms of some natives who came running from that side. A big induna
blazed at me, missed me, and then fumbled at his belt for another
cartridge. It was not a proper bandolier he had on, and I saw him trying
to pluck out the cartridge instead of easing it up from below with
his finger. As I got my horse steady and threw my rifle down to cover
him, he suddenly let the cartridge be and lifted an assegai. Waiting to
make sure of my aim, just as his arm was poised I fired and hit him in
the chest; he dropped. All happened in a moment. Then we retreated.
Seeing two horses down, Wilson shouted to somebody to cut off the saddle
pockets which carried extra ammunition. Ingram picked up one of the
dismounted men behind him, Captain Fitzgerald the other. The most
ammunition anyone had, by the way, was a hundred and ten rounds. There
was some very stiff fighting for a few minutes, the natives having the
best of the position; indeed they might have wiped us out but for their
stupid habit of firing on the run, as they charged. Wilson ordered us to
retire down the vlei; some hundred yards further on we came to an
ant-heap and took our second position on that, and held it for some
time. Wilson jumped on the top of the ant-heap and shouted--"Every man
pick his nigger." There was no random firing, I would be covering a man
when he dropped to somebody's rifle, and I had to choose another.
'Now _we_ had the best of the position. The Matabele came on furiously
down the open. Soon we were firing at two hundred yards and less; and
the turned-up shields began to lie pretty thick over the ground. It got
too hot for them; they broke and took cover in the bush. We fired about
twenty rounds per man at this ant-heap. Then the position was flanked by
heavy reinforcements from among the timbers; several more horses were
knocked out and we had to quit. We retreated in close order into the
bush on the opposite side of the vlei--the other side from the scherms.
We went slowly on account of the disabled men and horses.
'There was a lull, and Wilson rode up to me and asked if I thought I
could rush through to the main column. A scout on a good horse might
succeed, of course, where the patrol as a whole would not stand a
chance. It was a forlorn hope, but I thought it was only a question of
here or there, and I said I'd try, asking for a man to be sent with me.
A man called Gooding said he was willing to come, and I picked Ingram
also because we had been through many adventures together, and I thought
we might as well see this last one through together.
'So we started, and we had not gone five hundred yards when we came upon
the horn of an impi closing in from the river. We saw the leading men,
and they saw us and fired. As they did so I swerved my horse sharp to
the left, and shouting to the others, "Now for it!" we thrust the
horses through the bush at their best pace. A bullet whizzed past my
eye, and leaves, cut by the firing, pattered down on us; but as usual
the natives fired too high.
'So we rode along, seeing men, and being fired at continually, but
outstripping the enemy. The peculiar chant of an advancing impi, like a
long, monotonous baying or growling, was loud in our ears, together with
the noise they make drumming on their hide shields with the assegai--you
must hear an army making those sounds to realise them. As soon as we got
where the bush was thinner, we shook off the niggers who were pressing
us, and, coming to a bit of hard ground, we turned on our tracks and hid
in some thick bush. We did this more than once and stood quiet,
listening to the noise they made beating about for us on all sides. Of
course we knew that scores of them must have run gradually back upon the
river to cut us off, so we doubled and waited, getting so near again to
the patrol that once during the firing which we heard thickening back
there, the spent bullets pattered around us. Those waiting moments were
bad. We heard firing soon from the other side of the river too, and
didn't know but that the column was being wiped out as well as the
patrol.
'At last, after no end of doubling and hiding and riding in a triple
loop, and making use of every device known to a scout for destroying a
spoor--it took us about three hours and a half to cover as many
miles--we reached the river, and found it a yellow flood two hundred
yards broad. In the way African rivers have, the stream, four feet
across last night, had risen from the rain. We did not think our horses
could swim it, utterly tired as they now were; but we were just playing
the game through, so we decided to try. With their heads and ours barely
above the water, swimming and drifting, we got across and crawled out on
the other side. Then for the first time, I remember, the idea struck me
that we might come through it after all, and with that the desire of
life came passionately back upon me.
We topped the bank, and there, five hundred yards in front to the left,
stood several hundred Matabele! They stared at us in utter surprise,
wondering, I suppose, if we were the advance guard of some entirely new
reinforcement. In desperation we walked our horses quietly along in
front of them, paying no attention to them. We had gone some distance
like this, and nobody followed behind, till at last one man took a shot
at us; and with that a lot more of them began to blaze away. Almost at
the same moment Ingram caught sight of horses only four or five hundred
yards distant; so the column still existed--and there it was. We took
the last gallop out of our horses then, and--well, in a few minutes I
was falling out of the saddle, and saying to Forbes: "It's all over; we
are the last of that party!" Forbes only said, "Well, tell nobody else
till we are through with our own fight," and next minute we were just
firing away along with the others, helping to beat off the attack on the
column.'
Here Mr. Burnham's narrative ends.
* * * * *
What happened to Wilson and his gallant companions, and the exact manner
of their end after Burnham and his two comrades left them, is known only
through the reports of natives who took part in the fight. This,
however, is certain: since the immortal company of Greeks died at
Thermopylæ, few, if any, such stands have been made in the face of
inevitable death. They knew what the issue must be; for them there was
no possibility of escape; the sun shone upon them for the last time, and
for the last time the air of heaven blew upon their brows. Around them,
thousand upon thousand, were massed their relentless foes, the bush
echoed with war-cries, and from behind every tree and stone a ceaseless
fire was poured upon their circle. But these four-and-thirty men never
wavered, never showed a sign of fear. Taking shelter behind the boles of
trees, or the bodies of their dead horses, they answered the fire shot
for shot, coolly, with perfect aim, without haste or hurry.
The bush around told this tale of them in after days, for the bark of
every tree was scored with bullets, showing that wherever an enemy had
exposed his head there a ball had been sent to seek him. Also there was
another testimony--that of the bones of the dead Matabele, the majority
of whom had clearly fallen shot through the brain. The natives
themselves state that for every white man who died upon that day, there
perished at least ten of their own people, picked off, be it remembered,
singly as they chanced to expose themselves. Nor did the enemy waste
life needlessly, for their general ordered up the King's elephant
hunters, trained shots, every one of them, to compete with the white
man's fire.
For two long hours or more that fight went on. Now and again a man was
killed, and now and again a man was wounded, but the wounded still
continued to load the rifles that they could not fire, handing them to
those of their companions who were as yet unhurt. At some period during
the fray, so say the Matabele, the white men began to 'sing.' What is
meant by the singing we can never know, but probably they cheered aloud
after repelling a rash of the enemy. At length their fire grew faint and
infrequent, till by degrees it flickered away, for men were lacking to
handle the rifles. One was left, however, who stood alone and erect in
the ring of the dead, no longer attempting to defend himself, either
because he was weak with wounds, or because his ammunition was
exhausted. There he stood silent and solitary, presenting one of the
most pathetic yet splendid sights told of in the generation that he
adorned. There was no more firing now, but the natives stole out of
their cover and came up to the man quietly, peering at him half afraid.
Then one of them lifted his assegai and drove it through his breast.
Still he did not fall; so the soldier drew out the spear and, retreating
a few yards, he hurled it at him, transfixing him. Now, very slowly,
making no sound, the white man sank forward upon his face, and so lay
still.
There seems to be little doubt but that this man was none other than
Major Allan Wilson, the commander of the patrol. Native reports of his
stature and appearance suggest this, but there is a stronger piece of
evidence. The Matabele told Mr. Burnham who repeated it to the present
writer, that this man wore a hat of a certain shape and size, fastened
up at the side in a peculiar fashion; a hat similar to that which Mr.
Burnham wore himself. Now, these hats were of American make, and Major
Wilson was the only man in that party who possessed one of them, for Mr.
Burnham himself had looped it up for him in the American style, if
indeed he had not presented it to him.
The tragedy seemed to be finished, but it was not so, for as the natives
stood and stared at the fallen white men, from among the dead a man rose
up, to all appearance unharmed, holding in each hand a revolver, or a
'little Maxim' as they described it. Having gained his feet he walked
slowly and apparently aimlessly away towards an ant-heap that stood at
some distance. At the sight the natives began to fire again, scores, and
even hundreds, of shots being aimed at him, but, as it chanced, none of
them struck him. Seeing that he remained untouched amidst this hail of
lead, they cried out that he was 'tagati,' or magic-guarded, but the
indunas ordered them to continue their fire. They did so, and a bullet
passing through his hips, the Englishman fell down paralysed. Then
finding that he could not turn they ran round him and stabbed him, and
he died firing with either hand back over his shoulders at the
slaughterers behind him.
So perished the last of the Wilson patrol. He seems to have been
Alexander Hay Robertson--at least Mr. Burnham believes that it was he,
and for this reason. Robertson, he says, was the only man of the party
who had grey hair, and at a little distance from the other skeletons was
found a skull to which grey hair still adhered.
[Illustration: 'One of them lifted his assegai']
It is the custom among savages of the Zulu and kindred races, for
reasons of superstition, to rip open and mutilate the bodies of enemies
killed in war, but on this occasion the Matabele general, having
surveyed the dead, issued an order: 'Let them be,' he said; 'they were
men who died like men, men whose fathers were men.'
No finer epitaph could be composed in memory of Wilson and his comrades.
In truth the fame of this death of theirs has spread far and wide
throughout the native races of Southern Africa, and Englishmen
everywhere reap the benefit of its glory. They also who lie low, they
reap the benefit of it, for their story is immortal, and it will be
told hundreds of years hence when it matters no more to them whether
they died by shot and steel on the banks of the Shangani, or elsewhere
in age and sickness. At least through the fatal storm of war they have
attained to peace and honour, and there within the circle of the ruins
of Zimbabwe they sleep their sleep, envied of some and revered by all.
Surely it is no small thing to have attained to such a death, and
England may be proud of her sons who won it.
_THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JOAN THE MAID_
I
THE FAIRIES' TREE
FOUR hundred and seventy years ago, the children of Domremy, a little
village near the Meuse, on the borders of France and Lorraine, used to
meet and dance and sing beneath a beautiful beech-tree, 'lovely as a
lily.' They called it 'The Fairy Tree,' or 'The Good Ladies' Lodge,'
meaning the fairies by the words 'Good Ladies.' Among these children was
one named Jeanne (born 1412), the daughter of an honest farmer, Jacques
d'Arc. Jeanne sang more than she danced, and though she carried garlands
like the other boys and girls, and hung them on the boughs of the
Fairies' Tree, she liked better to take the flowers into the parish
church, and lay them on the altars of St. Margaret and St. Catherine. It
was said among the villagers that Jeanne's godmother had once seen the
fairies dancing; but though some of the older people believed in the
Good Ladies, it does not seem that Jeanne and the other children had
faith in them or thought much about them. They only went to the tree and
to a neighbouring fairy well to eat cakes and laugh and play. Yet these
fairies were destined to be fatal to Jeanne d'Arc, JOAN THE MAIDEN, and
her innocent childish sports were to bring her to the stake and the
death by fire. For she was that famed Jeanne la Pucelle, the bravest,
kindest, best, and wisest of women, whose tale is the saddest, the most
wonderful, and the most glorious page in the history of the world. It is
a page which no good Englishman and no true Frenchman can read without
sorrow and bitter shame, for the English burned Joan with the help of
bad Frenchmen, and the French of her party did not pay a _sou_, or write
a line, or strike a stroke to save her. But the Scottish, at least, have
no share in the disgrace. The Scottish archers fought on Joan's side;
the only portrait of herself that Joan ever saw belonged to a Scottish
man-at-arms; their historians praised her as she deserved; and a
Scottish priest from Fife stood by her to the end.[1]
To understand Joan's history it is necessary to say, first, how we come
to know so much about one who died so many years ago, and, next, to
learn how her country chanced to be so wretched before Joan came to
deliver it and to give her life for France.
[Illustration: 'The Fairy Tree']
We know so much about her, not from poets and writers of books who lived
in her day, but because she was tried by French priests (1431), and all
her answers on everything that she ever did in all her life were written
down in Latin. These answers fill most of a large volume. Then, twenty
years later (1550-1556), when the English had been driven out of
France, the French king collected learned doctors, who examined
witnesses from all parts of the country, men and women who had known
Joan as a child, and in the wars, and in prison, and they heard her case
again, and destroyed the former unjust judgment. The answers of these
witnesses fill two volumes, and thus we have all the Maid's history,
written during her life, or not long after her death, and sworn to on
oath. We might expect that the evidence of her friends, after they had
time to understand her, and perhaps were tempted to overpraise her,
would show us a picture different from that given in the trial by her
mortal enemies. But though the earlier account, put forth by her foes,
reads like a description by the Scribes and Pharisees of the trial of
Our Lord, yet the character of Joan was so noble that the versions by
her friends and her enemies practically agree in her honour. Her
advocates cannot make us admire her more than we must admire her in the
answers which she gave to her accusers. The records of these two trials,
then, with letters and poems and histories written at the time, or very
little later, give us all our information about Joan of Arc.
Next, as to 'the great pitifulness that was in France' before Joan of
Arc came to deliver her country, the causes of the misery are long to
tell and not easy to remember. To put it shortly, in Joan's childhood
France was under a mad king, Charles VI., and was torn to pieces by two
factions, the party of Burgundy and the party of Armagnac. The English
took advantage of these disputes, and overran the land. France was not
so much one country, divided by parties, as a loose knot of states,
small and great, with different interests, obeying greedy and selfish
chiefs rather than the king. Joan cared only for her country, not for a
part of it. She fought not for Orleans, or Anjou, or Britanny, or
Lorraine, but for France. In fact, she made France a nation again.
Before she appeared everywhere was murder, revenge, robbery, burning of
towns, slaughter of peaceful people, wretchedness, and despair. It was
to redeem France from this ruin that Joan came, just when, in 1429, the
English were besieging Orleans. Had they taken the strong city of
Orleans, they could have overrun all southern and central France, and
would have driven the natural king of France, Charles the Dauphin, into
exile. From this ruin Joan saved her country; but if you wish to know
more exactly how matters stood, and who the people were with whom Joan
had to do, you must read what follows. If not, you can 'skip' to Chapter
III.
II
A PAGE OF HISTORY
AS you know, Edward III. had made an unjust claim to the French crown,
and, with the Black Prince, had supported it by the victories of Creçy
and Poictiers. But Edward died, and the Black Prince died, and his son,
Richard II., was the friend of France, and married a French princess.
Richard, too, was done to death, but Henry IV., who succeeded him, had
so much work on his hands in England that he left France alone. Yet
France was wretched, because when the wise Charles V. died in 1380, he
left two children, Charles the Dauphin, and his brother, Louis of
Orleans. They were only little boys, and the Dauphin became weak-minded;
moreover, they were both in the hands of their uncles. The best of these
relations, Philip, Duke of Burgundy, died in 1404. His son, John the
Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, was the enemy of his own cousin, Louis of
Orleans, brother of the Dauphin Charles, who was now king, under the
title of Charles VI. John the Fearless had Louis of Orleans murdered,
yet Paris, the capital of France, was on the side of the murderer. He
was opposed by the Count of Armagnac. Now, the two parties of Armagnac
and Burgundy divided France; the Armagnacs professing to be on the side
of Charles the Dauphin. They robbed, burned, and murdered on all sides.
Meanwhile, in England, Henry V. had succeeded to his father, and the
weakness of France gave him a chance to assert his unjust claim to its
throne. He defeated the French at Agincourt in 1415, he carried the Duke
of Orleans a prisoner to London, he took Rouen, and overran Normandy.
The French now attempted to make peace among themselves. The Duke of
Burgundy had the mad Charles VI. in his power. The Dauphin was with the
opposite faction of Armagnac. But, if the Dauphin and the Duke of
Burgundy became friends, the Armagnacs would lose all their importance.
The power would be with the Duke of Burgundy. The Armagnacs, therefore,
treacherously murdered the duke, in the name of the Dauphin, at a
meeting on the Bridge of Montereau (1419). The son of the duke, Philip
the Good, now became Duke of Burgundy, and was determined to revenge his
murdered father. He therefore made friends with Henry V. and the
English. The English being now so strong in the Burgundian alliance,
their terms were accepted in the Peace of Troyes (1420). The Dauphin was
to be shut out from succeeding to the French crown, and was called a
Pretender. Henry V. married the Dauphin's sister Catherine, and when the
mad Charles VI. died, Henry and Catherine were to be King and Queen of
England and France. Meantime, Henry V. was to punish the Dauphin and the
Armagnacs. But Henry V. died first, and, soon after, the mad Charles
died. Who, then, was to be King of France? The Armagnacs held for the
Dauphin, the rightful heir. The English, of course, and the Burgundians,
were for Henry VI., a baby of ten months old. He, like other princes,
had uncles, one of them, the Duke of Gloucester, managed affairs in
England; another, the Duke of Bedford, the Regent, was to keep down
France. The English possessed Paris and the North; the Dauphin retained
the Centre of France, and much of the South, holding his court at
Bourges. It is needless to say that the uncles of the baby Henry VI.,
the Dukes of Gloucester and Bedford, were soon on bad terms, and their
disputes made matters easier for the Dauphin. He lost two great battles,
however, Crevant and Verneuil, where his Scottish allies were cut to
pieces. The hearts of good Frenchmen were with him, but he was indolent,
selfish, good-humoured, and governed by a fat, foolish favourite, La
Tremouille. The Duke of Bedford now succeeded in patching up the
quarrels among the English, and then it was determined (but not by
Bedford's advice) to cross the Loire, to invade Southern France, to
crush the Dauphin, and to conquer the whole country. But, before he
could do all this, Bedford had to take the strong city of Orleans, on
the Loire. And against the walls of Orleans the tide of English victory
was broken, for there the flag of England went down before the peasant
girl who had danced below the Fairy Tree of Domremy, before Joan the
Maiden.
III
THE CHILDHOOD OF JOAN THE MAIDEN
THE English were besieging Orleans; Joan the Maid drove them from its
walls. How did it happen that a girl of seventeen, who could neither
read nor write, became the greatest general on the side of France? How
did a woman defeat the hardy English soldiers who were used to chase the
French before them like sheep?
[Illustration: JOAN IN CHURCH]
We must say that France could only be saved by a miracle, and by a
miracle she was saved. This is a mystery; we cannot understand it. Joan
the Maiden was not as other men and women are. But, as a little girl,
she was a child among children, though better, kinder, stronger than the
rest, and, poor herself, she was always good and helpful to those who
were poorer still.
Joan's parents were not indigent; they had lands and cattle, and a
little money laid by in case of need. Her father was, at one time,
_doyen_, or head-man, of Domremy. Their house was hard by the church,
and was in the part of the hamlet where the people were better off, and
had more freedom and privileges than many of their neighbours. They were
devoted to the Royal House of France, which protected them from the
tyranny of lords and earls further east. As they lived in a village
under the patronage of St. Remigius, they were much interested in Reims,
his town, where the kings of France were crowned, and were anointed with
Holy Oil, which was believed to have been brought in a sacred bottle by
an angel.
In the Middle Ages, the king was not regarded as really king till this
holy oil had been poured on his head. Thus we shall see, later, how
anxious Joan was that Charles VII., then the Dauphin, should be crowned
and anointed in Reims, though it was still in the possession of the
English. It is also necessary to remember that Joan had once an elder
sister named Catherine, whom she loved dearly. Catherine died, and
perhaps affection for her made Joan more fond of bringing flowers to the
altar of her namesake, St. Catherine, and of praying often to that
saint.
Joan was brought up by her parents, as she told her judges, to be
industrious, to sew and spin. She did not fear to match herself at
spinning and sewing, she said, against any woman in Rouen. When very
young she sometimes went to the fields to watch the cattle, like the
goose-girl in the fairy tale. As she grew older, she worked in the
house, she did not any longer watch sheep and cattle. But the times were
dangerous, and, when there was an alarm of soldiers or robbers in the
neighbourhood, she sometimes helped to drive the flock into a fortified
island, or peninsula, for which her father was responsible, in the river
near her home. She learned her creed, she said, from her mother. Twenty
years after her death, her neighbours, who remembered her, described her
as she was when a child. Jean Morin said that she was a good industrious
girl, but that she would often be praying in church when her father and
mother did not know it. Beatrix Estellin, an old widow of eighty, said
Joan was a good girl. When Domremy was burned, Joan would go to church
at Greux, 'and there was not a better girl in the two towns.' A
priest, who had known her, called her 'a good, simple, well-behaved
girl.' Jean Waterin, when he was a boy, had seen Joan in the fields;
'and when they were all playing together, she would go apart, and pray
to God, as he thought, and he and the others used to laugh at her. She
was good and simple, and often in churches and holy places. And when she
heard the church bell ring, she would kneel down in the fields.' She
used to bribe the sexton to ring the bells (a duty which he rather
neglected) with presents of knitted wool.
All those who had seen Joan told the same tale: she was always kind,
simple, industrious, pious, and yet merry and fond of playing with the
others round the Fairy Tree. They say that the singing birds came to
her, and nestled in her breast.[2]
Thus, as far as anyone could tell, Joan was a child like other children,
but more serious and more religious. One of her friends, a girl called
Mengette, whose cottage was next to that of Joan's father, said: 'Joan
was so pious that we other children told her she was too good.'
In peaceful times Joan would have lived and married and died and been
forgotten. But the times were evil. The two parties of Burgundy and
Armagnac divided town from town and village from village. It was as in
the days of the Douglas Wars in Scotland, when the very children took
sides for Queen Mary and King James, and fought each other in the
streets. Domremy was for the Armagnacs--that is, against the English and
for the Dauphin, the son of the mad Charles VI. But at Maxey, on the
Meuse, a village near Domremy, the people were all for Burgundy and the
English. The boys of Domremy would go out and fight the Maxey boys with
fists and sticks and stones. Joan did not remember having taken part in
those battles, but she had often seen her brothers and the Domremy boys
come home all bruised and bleeding.
THE RAID OF DOMREMY
[Illustration: Joan hears the Voice]
Once Joan saw more of war than these schoolboy bickers. It was in 1425,
when she was a girl of thirteen. There was a kind of robber chief on the
English side, a man named Henri d'Orly, from Savoy, who dwelt in the
castle of Doulevant. There he and his band of armed men lived and drank
and plundered far and near. One day there galloped into Domremy a
squadron of spearmen, who rode through the fields driving together the
cattle of the villagers, among them the cows of Joan's father. The
country people could make no resistance; they were glad enough if their
houses were not burned. So off rode Henri d'Orly's men, driving the
cattle with their spear-points along the track to the castle of
Doulevant. But cows are not fast travellers, and when the robbers had
reached a little village called Dommartin le France they rested, and
went to the tavern to make merry. But by this time a lady, Madame
d'Ogévillier, had sent in all haste to the Count de Vaudemont to tell
him how the villagers of Domremy had been ruined. So he called his
squire, Barthélemy de Clefmont, and bade him summon his spears and mount
and ride. It reminds us of the old Scottish ballad, where Jamie Telfer
of the Fair Dodhead has seen all his cattle driven out of his stalls by
the English; and he runs to Branxholme and warns the water, and they
with Harden pursue the English, defeat them, and recover Telfer's kye,
with a great spoil out of England. Just so Barthélemy de Clefmont, with
seven or eight lances, galloped down the path to Dommartin le France.
There they found the cattle, and d'Orly's men fled like cowards. So
Barthélemy with his comrades was returning very joyously, when Henri
d'Orly rode up with a troop of horse and followed hard after Barthélemy.
He was wounded by a lance, but he cut his way through d'Orly's men, and
also brought the cattle back safely--a very gallant deed of arms. We may
fancy the delight of the villagers when 'the kye cam' hame.' It may have
been now that an event happened, of which Joan does not tell us herself,
but which was reported by the king's seneschal, in June 1429, when Joan
had just begun her wonderful career. The children of the village, says
the seneschal, were running races and leaping in wild joy about the
fields; possibly their gladness was caused by the unexpected rescue of
their cattle. Joan ran so much more fleetly than the rest, and leaped so
far, that the children believed she actually _flew_, and they told her
so! Tired and breathless, 'out of herself,' says the seneschal, she
paused, and in that moment she heard a Voice, but saw no man; the Voice
bade her go home, because her mother had need of her. And when she came
home the Voice said many things to her about the great deeds which God
bade her do for France. We shall later hear Joan's own account of how
her visions and Voices first came to her.[3]
Three years later there was an alarm, and the Domremy people fled to
Neufchâteau, Joan going with her parents. Afterwards her enemies tried
to prove that she had been a servant at an inn in Neufchâteau, had lived
roughly with grooms and soldiers, and had learned to ride. But this was
absolutely untrue. An ordinary child would have thought little of war
and of the sorrows of her country in the flowery fields of Domremy and
Vaucouleurs; but Joan always thought of the miseries of _France la
belle_, fair France, and prayed for her country and her king. A great
road, on the lines of an old Roman way, passed near Domremy, so Joan
would hear all the miserable news from travellers. Probably she showed
what was in her mind, for her father dreamed that she 'had gone off with
soldiers,' and this dream struck him so much, that he told his sons that
he, or they, must drown Joan if she so disgraced herself. For many girls
of bad character, lazy and rude, followed the soldiers, as they always
have done, and always will. Joan's father thought that his dream meant
that Joan would be like these women. It would be interesting to know
whether he was in the habit of dreaming true dreams. For Joan, his
child, dreamed when wide awake, dreamed dreams immortal, which brought
her to her glory and her doom.
THE CALLING OF JOAN THE MAID
When Joan was between twelve and thirteen, a wonderful thing befell her.
We have already heard one account of it, written when Joan was in the
first flower of her triumph, by the seneschal of the King of France. A
Voice spoke to her and prophesied of what she was to do. But about all
these marvellous things it is more safe to attend to what Joan always
said herself. She told the same story both to friends and foes; to the
learned men who, by her king's desire, examined her at Poictiers, before
she went to war (April 1429); and to her deadly foes at Rouen. No man
can read her answers to them and doubt that she spoke what she believed.
And she died for this belief. Unluckily the book that was kept of what
she said at Poictiers is lost. Before her enemies at Rouen there were
many things which she did not think it right to say. On one point, after
for long refusing to speak, she told her foes a kind of parable, which
we must not take as part of her real story.
When Joan was between twelve and thirteen (1424), so she swore, 'a
_Voice came to her from God for her guidance_, but when first it came,
she was in great fear. And it came, that Voice, about noonday, in the
summer season, she being in her father's garden. And Joan had not fasted
the day before that, but was fasting when the Voice came.[4] And she
heard the Voice on her right side, towards the church, and rarely did
she hear it but she also saw a great light.' These are her very words.
They asked her if she heard these Voices there, in the hall of judgment,
and she answered, 'If I were in a wood, I should well hear these Voices
coming to me.' The Voices at first only told her 'to be a good girl, and
go to church.' She thought it was a holy Voice, and that it came from
God; and the third time she heard it she knew it was the voice of an
angel. The Voice told her of 'the great pity there was in France,' and
that one day she must go into France and help the country. She had
visions with the Voices; visions first of St. Michael, and then of St.
Catherine and St. Margaret.[5] She hated telling her hypocritical judges
anything about these heavenly visions, but it seems that she really
believed in their appearance, believed that she had embraced the knees
of St. Margaret and St. Catherine, and she did reverence to them when
they came to her. 'I saw them with my bodily eyes, as I see you,' she
said to her judges, 'and when they departed from me I wept, and well I
wished that they had taken me with them.'
What are we to think about these visions and these Voices which were
with Joan to her death?
Some have thought that she was mad; others that she only told the story
to win a hearing and make herself important; or, again, that a trick was
played on her to win her aid. The last idea is impossible. The French
Court did not want her. The second, as everyone will admit who reads
Joan's answers, and follows her step by step from childhood to victory,
to captivity, to death, is also impossible. She was as truthful as she
was brave and wise. But was she partially insane? It is certain that mad
people do hear voices which are not real, and believe that they come to
them from without. But these mad voices say mad things. Now, Joan's
Voices never said anything but what was wise beyond her own wisdom, and
right and true. She governed almost all her actions by their advice.
When she disobeyed 'her counsel,' as she called it, the result was evil,
and once, as we shall see, was ruinous. Again, Joan was not only
healthy, but wonderfully strong, ready, and nimble. In all her converse
with princes and priests and warriors, she spoke and acted like one born
in their own rank. In mind, as in body, she was a marvel, none such has
ever been known. It is impossible, then, to say that she was mad.
In the whole history of the world, as far as we know it, there is only
one example like that of Joan of Arc. Mad folk hear voices; starved
nuns, living always with their thoughts bent on heaven, women of feeble
body, accustomed to faints and to fits, have heard voices and seen
visions. Some of them have been very good women; none have been strong,
good riders, skilled in arms, able to march all day long with little
food, and to draw the arrow from their own wound and mount horse and
charge again, like Joan of Arc. Only one great man, strong, brave, wise,
and healthy, has been attended by a Voice, which taught him what to do,
or rather what _not_ to do. That man was Socrates, the most hardy
soldier, the most unwearied in the march, and the wisest man of Greece.
Socrates was put to death for this Voice of his, on the charge of
'bringing in new gods.' Joan of Arc died for her Voices, because her
enemies argued that she was no saint, but a witch! These two, the old
philosopher and the untaught peasant girl of nineteen, stand alone in
the endless generations of men, alone in goodness, wisdom, courage,
strength, combined with a mysterious and fatal gift. More than this it
is now forbidden to us to know. But, when we remember that such a being
as Joan of Arc has only appeared once since time began, and _that_ once
just when France seemed lost beyond all hope, we need not wonder at
those who say that France was saved by no common good fortune and happy
chance, but by the will of Heaven.[6]
In one respect, Joan's conduct after these Voices and visions began, was
perhaps, as regarded herself, unfortunate. She did not speak of them to
her parents, nor tell about them to the priest when she confessed. Her
enemies were thus able to say, later, that they could not have been holy
visions or Voices, otherwise she would not have concealed them from her
father, her mother, and the priest, to whom she was bound to tell
everything, and from whom she should have sought advice. Thus, long
afterwards, St. Theresa had visions, and, in obedience to her priest,
she at first distrusted these, as perhaps a delusion of evil, or a
temptation of spiritual pride. Joan, however, was afraid that her
father would interfere with her mission, and prevent her from going to
the king. She believed that she must not be 'disobedient to the heavenly
vision.'
HOW JOAN THE MAID WENT TO VAUCOULEURS
It was in 1424 that the Voices first came to Joan the Maid. The years
went on, bringing more and more sorrow to France. In 1428 only a very
few small towns in the east still held out for the Dauphin, and these
were surrounded on every side by enemies. Meanwhile the Voices came more
frequently, urging Joan to go into France, and help her country. She
asked how she, a girl, who could not ride or use sword and lance, could
be of any help? Rather would she stay at home and spin beside her dear
mother. At the same time she was encouraged by one of the vague old
prophecies which were as common in France as in Scotland. A legend ran
'that France was to be saved by a Maiden from the Oak Wood,' and there
was an Oak Wood, _le bois chènu_, near Domremy. Some such prophecy had
an influence on Joan, and probably helped people to believe in her. The
Voices, moreover, instantly and often commanded her to go to
Vaucouleurs, a neighbouring town which was loyal, and there meet Robert
de Baudricourt, who was captain of the French garrison. Now, Robert de
Baudricourt was not what is called a romantic person. Though little over
thirty, he had already married, one after the other, two rich widows. He
was a gallant soldier, but a plain practical man, very careful of his
own interest, and cunning enough to hold his own among his many enemies,
English, Burgundian, and Lorrainers. It was to him that Joan must go, a
country girl to a great noble, and tell him that she, and she alone,
could save France! Joan knew what manner of man Robert de Baudricourt
was, for her father had been obliged to visit him, and speak for the
people of Domremy when they were oppressed. She could hardly hope that
he would listen to her, and it was with a heavy heart that she found a
good reason for leaving home to visit Vaucouleurs. Joan had a cousin, a
niece of her mother's, who was married to one Durand Lassois, at Burey
en Vaux, a village near Vaucouleurs. This cousin invited Joan to visit
her for a week. At the end of that time she spoke to her cousin's
husband. There was an old saying, as we saw, that France would be
rescued by a Maid, and she, as she told Lassois, was that Maid. Lassois
listened, and, whatever he may have thought of her chances, he led her
to Robert de Baudricourt.
Joan came, on May 18, 1423, in her simple red dress, and walked straight
up to the captain among his men. She knew him, she said, by what her
Voices had told her, but she may also have heard him described by her
father. She told him that the Dauphin must keep quiet, and risk no
battle, for before the middle of Lent next year (1429) God would send
him succour. She added that the kingdom belonged, not to the Dauphin,
but to her Master, who willed that the Dauphin should be crowned, and
she herself would lead him to Reims, to be anointed with the holy oil.
[Illustration: Robert thinks Joan crazed]
'And who is your Master?' said Robert.
'The King of Heaven!'
Robert, very naturally, thought that Joan was crazed, and shrugged his
shoulders. He bluntly told Lassois to box her ears, and take her back to
her father. So she had to go home; but here new troubles awaited her.
The enemy came down on Domremy and burned it; Joan and her family fled
to Neufchâteau, where they stayed for a few days. It was perhaps about
this time that a young man declared that Joan had promised to marry him,
and he actually brought her before a court of justice, to make her
fulfil her promise.
Joan was beautiful, well-shaped, dark-haired, and charming in her
manner.
We have a letter which two young knights, André and Guy de Laval, wrote
to their mother in the following year. 'The Maid was armed from neck to
heel,' they say, 'but unhelmeted; she carried a lance in her hand.
Afterwards, when we lighted down from our horses at Selles, I went to
her lodging to see her, and she called for wine for me, saying she would
soon make me drink wine in Paris' (then held by the English), 'and,
indeed, she seems a thing wholly divine, both to look on her and to hear
her sweet voice.'
It is no wonder that the young man of Domremy wanted to marry Joan; but
she had given no promise, and he lost his foolish law-suit. She and her
parents soon went back to Domremy.[7]
HOW JOAN THE MAID WENT AGAIN TO VAUCOULEURS
In Domremy they found that the enemy had ruined everything. Their cattle
were safe, for they had been driven to Neufchâteau, but when Joan looked
from her father's garden to the church, she saw nothing but a heap of
smoking ruins. She had to go to say her prayers now at the church of
Greux. These things only made her feel more deeply the sorrows of her
country. The time was drawing near when she had prophesied that the
Dauphin was to receive help from heaven--namely, in the Lent of 1429. On
that year the season was held more than commonly sacred, for Good Friday
and the Annunciation fell on the same day. So, early in January, 1429,
Joan the Maid turned her back on Domremy, which she was never to see
again. Her cousin Lassois came and asked leave for Joan to visit him
again; she said good-bye to her father and mother, and to her friend
Mengette, but to her dearest friend Hauvette she did not even say
good-bye, for she could not bear it. She went to her cousin's house at
Burey, and there she stayed for six weeks, hearing bad news of the
siege of Orleans by the English. Meanwhile, Robert de Baudricourt, in
Vaucouleurs, was not easy in his mind, for he was likely to lose the
protection of René of Anjou, the Duc de Bar, who was on the point of
joining the English. Thus Robert may have been more inclined to listen
to Joan than when he bade her cousin box her ears and take her back to
her father. A squire named Jean de Nouillompont met Joan one day.
'Well, my lass,' said he, 'is our king to be driven from France, and are
we all to become English?'
'I have come here,' said Joan, 'to bid Robert de Baudricourt lead me to
the king, but he will not listen to me. And yet to the king I must go,
even if I walk my legs down to the knees; for none in all the
world--king, nor duke, nor the King of Scotland's daughter--can save
France, but myself only. _Certes_, I would rather stay and spin with my
poor mother, for to fight is not my calling; but I must go and I must
fight, for so my Lord will have it.'
'And who is your Lord?' said Jean de Nouillompont.
'He is God,' said the Maiden.
'Then, so help me God, I shall take you to the king,' said Jean, putting
her hands in his. 'When do we start?'
'To-day is better than to-morrow,' said the Maid.
Joan was now staying in Vaucouleurs with Catherine le Royer. One day, as
she and Catherine were sitting at their spinning-wheels, who should come
in but Robert de Baudricourt with the _curé_ of the town. Robert had
fancied that perhaps Joan was a witch! He told the priest to perform
some rite of the Church over her, so that if she were a witch she would
be obliged to run away. But when the words were spoken, Joan threw
herself at the knees of the priest, saying, 'Sir, this is ill done of
you, for you have heard my confession and know that I am not a witch.'
Robert was now half disposed to send her to the king and let her take
her chance. But days dragged on, and when Joan was not working she would
be on her knees in the crypt or underground chapel of the Chapel Royal
in Vaucouleurs. Twenty-seven years later a chorister boy told how he
often saw her praying there for France. Now people began to hear of
Joan, and the Duke of Lorraine asked her to visit him at Nancy, where
she bade him lead a better life. He is said to have given her a horse
and some money. On February 12 the story goes that she went to Robert de
Baudricourt.
'You delay too long,' she said. 'On this very day, at Orleans, the
gentle Dauphin has lost a battle.'
[Illustration: 'Sir, this is ill done of you']
This was, in fact, the Battle of Herrings, so called because the English
defeated and cut off a French and Scottish force which attacked them as
they were bringing herrings into camp for provisions in Lent. If this
tale is true, Joan cannot have known of the battle by any common means;
but though it is vouched for by the king's secretary, Joan has told us
nothing about it herself.[8]
[Illustration: JOAN RIDES TO CHINON]
Now the people of Vaucouleurs bought clothes for Joan to wear on her
journey to the Dauphin. They were such clothes as men wear--doublet,
hose, surcoat, boots, and spurs--and Robert de Baudricourt gave Joan a
sword.
In the end this man's dress, which henceforth she always wore, proved
the ruin of Joan. Her enemies, the English and false French, made it one
of their chief charges against her that she dressed, as they chose to
say, immodestly. It is not very clear how she came to wear men's
garments. Jean de Nouillompont, her first friend, asked her if she would
go to the king (a ten days' journey on horseback) dressed as she was, in
her red frock. She answered 'that she would gladly have a man's dress,'
which he says that he provided. Her reason was that she would have to be
living alone among men-at-arms, and she thought that it was more modest
to wear armour like the rest. Also her favourite saint, St. Margaret,
had done this once when in danger. St. Marina had worn a monk's clothes
when obliged to live in a monastery. The same thing is told of St.
Eugenia.[9] Besides, in all the romances of chivalry, and the favourite
poems of knights and ladies, we find fair maidens fighting in arms like
men, or travelling dressed as pages, and nobody ever thought the worse
of them. Therefore this foolish charge of the English against Joan the
Maid was a mere piece of cruel hypocrisy.
HOW JOAN THE MAID RODE TO CHINON
On February 23, 1429, the gate of the little castle of Vaucouleurs, 'the
Gate of France,' which is still standing, was thrown open. Seven
travellers rode out, among them two squires, Jean de Nouillompont and
Bertrand de Poulengy, with their attendants, and Joan the Maid. 'Go, and
let what will come of it come!' said Robert de Baudricourt. He did not
expect much to come of it. It was a long journey--they were eleven days
on the road--and a dangerous. But Joan laughed at danger. 'God will
clear my path to the king, for to this end I was born.' Often they rode
by night, stopping at monasteries when they could. Sometimes they slept
out under the sky. Though she was so young and so beautiful, with the
happiness of her long desire in her eyes, and the glory of her future
shining on her, these two young gentlemen never dreamed of paying their
court to her and making love, as in romances they do, for they
regarded her 'as if she had been an angel.' 'They were in awe of her,'
they said, long afterwards, long after the angels had taken Joan to be
with their company in heaven. And all the knights who had seen her said
the same. Dunois and d'Aulon and the beautiful Duc d'Alençon, '_le beau
Duc_' as Joan called him, they all said that she was 'a thing enskied
and sainted.' So on they rode, six men and a maid, through a country
full of English and Burgundian soldiery. There were four rivers to
cross, Marne, Aube, Seine, and Yonne, and the rivers were 'great and
mickle o' spate,' running red with the rains from bank to bank, so that
they could not ford the streams, but must go by unfriendly towns, where
alone there were bridges. Joan would have liked to stay and go to church
in every town, but this might not be. However, she heard mass thrice at
the church of her favourite saint, Catherine de Fierbois, between Loches
and Chinon, in a friendly country. And a strange thing happened later in
that church.
From Fierbois Joan made some clerk write to the king that she was coming
to help him, and that she would know him among all his men. Probably it
was here that she wrote to beg her parents' pardon, and they forgave
her, she says. Meanwhile news reached the people then besieged in
Orleans that a marvellous Maiden was riding to their rescue. On March 6
Joan arrived in Chinon, where for two or three days the king's advisers
would not let him see her. At last they yielded, and she went straight
up to him, and when he denied that he was the king, she told him that
she knew well who he was.
'There is the king,' said Charles, pointing to a richly dressed noble.
'No, fair sire. You are he!'
Still, it was not easy to believe. Joan stayed at Chinon in the house of
a noble lady. The young Duc d'Alençon was on her side from the first,
bewitched by her noble horsemanship, which she had never learned. Great
people came to see her, but, when she was alone, she wept and prayed.
The king sent messengers to inquire about her at Domremy, but time was
going on, and Orleans was not relieved.
HOW JOAN THE MAID SHOWED A SIGN TO THE KING
[Illustration: JOAN TELLS THE KING HIS SECRET]
Joan was weary of being asked questions. One day she went to Charles and
said, 'Gentle Dauphin, why do you delay to believe me? I tell you that
God has taken pity on you and your people, at the prayer of St. Louis
and St. Charlemagne. And I will tell you, by your leave, something
which will show you that you should believe me.'
Then she told him secretly something which, as he said, none could know
but God and himself. A few months later, in July, a man about the court
wrote a letter, in which he declares that none knows what Joan told the
king, but he was plainly as glad as if something had been revealed to
him by the Holy Spirit. We have three witnesses of this, one of them is
the famous Dunois, to whom the king himself told what happened.
What did Joan say to the king, and what was the sign? About this her
enemies later examined her ten times. She told them from the very first
that she would never let them know; that, if they made her speak, what
she spoke would not be the truth. At last she told them a kind of
parable about an angel and a crown, which neither was nor was meant to
be taken as true. It was the king's secret, and Joan kept it.
We learn the secret in this way. There was a man named Pierre Sala in
the service of Louis XI. and Charles VIII. of France. In his youth,
Pierre Sala used to hunt with M. de Boisy, who, in his youth, had been
gentleman of the bedchamber to Charles VII., Joan's king. To de Boisy
Charles VII. told the secret, and de Boisy told it to Pierre Sala. At
this time of his misfortunes (1429), when his treasurer had only four
crowns in his coffers, Charles went into his oratory to pray alone, and
he made his prayer to God secretly, not aloud, but in his mind.
Now, what Joan told the king was the secret prayer which he had made in
his own heart when alone. And, ten years later, when Joan was long dead,
an impostor went about saying that _she_ was the Maid, who had come to
life again. She was brought to Charles, who said, 'Maiden, my Maid, you
are welcome back again if you can tell me the secret that is between you
and me.' But the false Maid, falling on her knees, confessed all her
treason.
This is the story of the sign given to the king, which is not the least
strange of the things done by Joan the Maid. But there is a thing
stranger yet, though not so rare.
The king to whom Joan brought this wonderful message, the king whom she
loved so loyally, and for whom she died, spoiled all her plans. He, with
his political advisers, prevented her from driving the English quite out
of France. These favourites, men like the fat La Tremouille, found their
profit in dawdling and delaying, as politicians generally do. Thus, in
our own time, they hung off and on, till our soldiers were too late
to rescue Gordon from the Arabs. Thus, in Joan's time, she had literally
to goad them into action, to drag them on by constant prayers and tears.
They were lazy, comfortable, cowardly, disbelieving; in their hearts
they hated the Maid, who put them to so much trouble. As for Charles, to
whom the Maid was so loyal, had he been a man like the Black Prince, or
even like Prince Charlie, Joan would have led him into Paris before
summer was ended. 'I shall only last one year and little more,' she
often said to the king. The Duc d'Alençon heard her,[10] and much of that
precious year was wasted. Charles, to tell the truth, never really
believed in her; he never quite trusted her; he never led a charge by
her side; and, in the end, he shamefully deserted her, and left the Maid
to her doom.
HOW JOAN THE MAID WAS EXAMINED AT POICTIERS
Weeks had passed, and Joan had never yet seen a blow struck in war. She
used to exercise herself in horsemanship, and knightly sports of
tilting, and it is wonderful that a peasant girl became, at once, one of
the best riders among the chivalry of France. The young Duc d'Alençon,
lately come from captivity in England, saw how gallantly she rode, and
gave her a horse. He and his wife were her friends from the first, when
the politicians and advisers were against her. But, indeed, whatever the
Maid attempted, she did better than others, at once, without teaching or
practice. It was now determined that Joan should be taken to Poictiers,
and examined before all the learned men, bishops, doctors, and higher
clergy who still were on the side of France. There was good reason for
this delay. It was plain to all, friends and foes, that the wonderful
Maid was not like other men and women, with her Voices, her visions, her
prophecies, and her powers. All agreed that she had some strange help
given to her; but who gave it? This aid must come, people thought then,
either from heaven or hell--either from God and his saints, or from the
devil and his angels. Now, if any doubt could be thrown on the source
whence Joan's aid came, the English might argue (as of course they did),
that she was a witch and a heretic. If she was a heretic and a witch,
then her king was involved in her wickedness, and so he might be legally
shut out from his kingdom. It was necessary, therefore, that Joan should
be examined by learned men. They must find out whether she had always
been good, and a true believer, and whether her Voices always agreed in
everything with the teachings of the Church. Otherwise her angels must
be devils in disguise. For these reasons Joan was carried to Poictiers.
During three long weeks the learned men asked her questions, and, no
doubt, they wearied her terribly. But they said it was wonderful how
wisely this girl, who 'did not know A from B,' replied to their puzzling
inquiries. She told the story of her visions, of the command laid upon
her to rescue Orleans. Said Guillaume Aymeri, 'You ask for men-at-arms,
and you say that God will have the English to leave France and go home.
If that is true, no men-at-arms are needed; God's pleasure can drive the
English out of the land.'
[Illustration: 'In a better language than _yours_,' said Joan]
'In God's name,' said the Maid, 'the men-at-arms will fight, and God
will give the victory.' Then came the learned Seguin; 'a right sour man
was he,' said those who knew him.
Seguin was a Limousin, and the Limousins spoke in a queer accent at
which the other French were always laughing.
'In what language do your Voices speak?' asked he.
'In a better language than _yours_,' said Joan, and the bishops smiled
at the country quip.
'We may not believe in you,' said Seguin, 'unless you show us a sign.'
'I did not come to Poictiers to work miracles,' said Joan; 'take me to
Orleans, and I shall show you the signs that I am sent to do.' And show
them she did.
Joan never pretended to work miracles. Though, in that age, people
easily believed in miracles, it is curious that none worth mentioning
were invented about Joan in her own time. She knew things in some
strange way sometimes, but the real miracle was her extraordinary
wisdom, genius, courage, and power of enduring hardship.
At last, after examining witnesses from Domremy, and the Queen of Sicily
and other great ladies to whom Joan was entrusted, the clergy found
nothing in her but 'goodness, humility, frank maidenhood, piety,
honesty, and simplicity.' As for her wearing a man's dress, the
Archbishop of Embrun said to the king, 'It is more becoming to do these
things in man's gear, since they have to be done amongst men.'
The king therefore made up his mind at last. Jean and Pierre, Joan's
brothers, were to ride with her to Orleans; her old friends, her first
friends, Jean de Nouillompont and Bertrand de Poulengy, had never left
her. She was given a squire, Jean d'Aulon, a very good man, and a page,
Louis de Coutes, and a chaplain. The king gave Joan armour and horses,
and offered her a sword. But her Voices told her that, behind the altar
of St. Catherine de Fierbois, where she heard mass on her way to Chinon,
there was an old sword, with five crosses on the blade, buried in the
earth. That sword she was to wear. A man whom Joan did not know, and had
never seen, was sent from Tours, and found the sword in the place which
she described. The sword was cleaned of rust, and the king gave her two
sheaths, one of velvet, one of cloth of gold, but Joan had a leather
sheath made for use in war. She also commanded a banner to be made, with
the Lilies of France on a white field. There was also a picture of God,
holding the round world, and two angels at the sides, with the sacred
words, JHESU MARIA. On another flag was the Annunciation, the Virgin
holding a lily, and the angel coming to her. In battle, when she led a
charge, Joan always carried her standard, that she might not be able to
use her sword. She wished to kill nobody, and said 'she loved her
banner forty times more than her sword.' Joan afterwards broke St.
Catherine's sword, when slapping a girl (who richly deserved to be
slapped) with the flat of the blade. Her enemies, at her trial, wished
to prove that her flag was a kind of magical talisman, but Joan had no
belief in anything of that kind. What she believed in was God, her
Voices, and her just cause. When once it was settled that she was to
lead an army to relieve Orleans, she showed her faith by writing a
letter addressed to the King of England; Bedford, the Regent; and the
English generals at Orleans. This letter was sent from Blois, late in
April. It began JHESU MARIA. Joan had no ill-will against the English.
She bade them leave France, 'and if you are reasonable, you yet may ride
in the Maid's company, where the French will do the fairest feat of arms
that ever yet was done for Christentie.' Probably she had in her mind
some Crusade. But, before France and England can march together, 'do ye
justice to the King of Heaven and the Blood Royal of France. Yield to
the Maid the keys of all the good towns which ye have taken and assailed
in France.' If they did not yield to the Maid and the king, she will
come on them to their sorrow. 'Duke of Bedford, the Maid prays and
entreats you not to work your own destruction!'
[Illustration: ORLÉANS
Showing the position of the English forts when Joan arrived.]
We may imagine how the English laughed and swore when they received this
letter. They threw the heralds of the Maid into prison, and threatened
to burn them as heretics. From the very first, the English promised to
burn Joan as a witch and a heretic. This fate was always before her
eyes. But she went where her Voices called her.
HOW JOAN THE MAID RODE TO RELIEVE ORLEANS
At last the men-at-arms who were to accompany Joan were ready. She rode
at their head, as André de Laval and Guy de Laval saw her, and described
her in a letter to their mother. She was armed in white armour, but
unhelmeted, a little axe in her hand, riding a great black charger, that
reared at the door of her lodging and would not let her mount.
[Illustration: 'Lead him to the Cross!' cried she]
'"Lead him to the Cross!" cried she, for a Cross stood on the roadside,
by the church. There he stood as if he had been stone, and she mounted.
Then she turned to the church, and said, in her girlish voice, "You
priests and churchmen, make prayers and processions to God." Then she
cried, "Forwards, Forwards!" and on she rode, a pretty page carrying her
banner, and with her little axe in her hand.' And so Joan went to
war.[11] She led, she says, ten or twelve thousand soldiers.[12] Among the
other generals were Xaintrailles and La Hire. Joan made her soldiers
confess themselves; as for La Hire, a brave rough soldier, she forbade
him to swear, as he used to do, but, for his weakness, she permitted him
to say, _By my bâton!_ This army was to defend a great convoy of
provisions, of which the people of Orleans stood in sore need. Since
November they had been besieged, and now it was late April. The people
in Orleans were not yet starving, but food came in slowly, and in small
quantities. From the first the citizens had behaved well; a Scottish
priest describes their noble conduct. They had burned all the outlying
suburbs, beyond the wall, that they might not give shelter to the
English. They had plenty of cannon, which carried large rough stone
balls, and usually did little harm. But a gun was fired, it is said by a
small boy, which killed Salisbury, the English general, as he looked out
of an arrow-slit in a fort that the English had taken.
The French general-in-chief was the famous Dunois, then called the
Bastard of Orleans. On the English side was the brave Talbot, who fought
under arms for sixty years, and died fighting when he was over eighty.
There were also Suffolk, Pole, and Glasdale, whom the French called
'Classidas.' The English had not soldiers enough to surround and take so
large a town, of 30,000 people, in ordinary war. But as Dunois said,
'two hundred English could then beat a thousand French'--that is, as the
French were before the coming of the Maid.
The position of Orleans was this; it may be most easily understood from
the map.
Looking _down_ the river Loire, Orleans lies on your right hand. It had
strong walls in an irregular square; it had towers on the wall, and a
bridge of many arches crossing to the left side of the river. At the
further end of this bridge were a fort and rampart called Les Tourelles,
and this fort had already been taken by the English, so that no French
army could cross the bridge to help Orleans. Indeed, the bridge was
broken. The rampart and the fort of Les Tourelles were guarded by
another strong work, called Les Augustins. All round the outside of the
town, on the right bank, the English had built strong redoubts, which
they called _bastilles_. 'Paris' was the bastille which blocked the road
from Paris, 'London' and 'Rouen' were bastilles on the western side, but
on the east, above the town, and on the Orleans bank of the Loire, the
English had only one bastille, St. Loup. Now, as Joan's army mustered at
Blois, south of Orleans, further down the river, she might march on the
_left_ side of the river, cross it by boats above Orleans, and enter the
town where the English were weakest and had only one fort, St. Loup. Or
she might march up the _right_ bank, and attack the English where they
were strongest, and had many bastilles. The Voices bade the Maid act on
the boldest plan, and enter Orleans where the English were strongest, on
the right bank of the river. The English would not move, said the
Voices. She was certain that they would not even sally out against her.
But Dunois in Orleans, and the generals with the Maid, thought this plan
very perilous, as, indeed, it was. They therefore deceived her, caused
her to think that Orleans was on the _left_ bank of the Loire, and led
her thither. When she arrived, she saw that they had not played her
fair, that the river lay between her and the town, and the strongest
force of the enemy.
The most astonishing thing about Joan is that, though she had never yet
seen a sword-stroke dealt in anger, she understood the great operations
of war better than seasoned generals. It was not only that she, like old
Blücher, always cried _Forwards!_ Audacity, to fight on every chance,
carries men far in battle. Prince Charlie, who was no great general, saw
that, and while his flag went forward he never lost a fight. But Joan
'was most expert in war,' said the Duc d'Alençon, 'both with the lance
and in massing an army, and arraying battle, and in the management of
artillery. For all men marvelled how far-sighted and prudent she was in
war, as if she had been a captain of thirty years' standing, and, above
all, in the service of the artillery, for in that she was right well
skilled.'[13]
This girl of seventeen saw that, if a large convoy of provisions was to
be thrown into a besieged town, the worst way was to try to ferry the
supplies across a river under the enemy's fire. But Dunois and the other
generals had brought her to this pass, and the Maid was sore
ill-pleased. Now we shall see what happened, as it is reported in the
very words of Dunois, the French general in Orleans. Joan had been
brought, as we said, to the wrong bank of the Loire; it ran between her
and the town where she would be. The wind was blowing in her teeth;
boats could not cross with the troops and provisions. There she sat her
horse and chafed till Dunois came out and crossed the Loire to meet her.
This is what he says about Joan and her conduct.
HOW JOAN THE MAID ENTERED ORLEANS
They were on the wrong side of the Loire, opposite St. Loup, where the
English held a strong fort.[14] 'I did not think, and the other generals
did not think,' says Dunois, 'that the men-at-arms with the Maid were a
strong enough force to bring the provisions into the town. Above all, it
was difficult to get boats and ferry over the supplies, for both wind
and stream were dead against us. Then Joan spoke to me thus:
[Illustration: 'Then spurred she her horse . . . and put out the flame']
'"Are you the Bastard of Orleans?"
'"That am I, and glad of your coming."
'"Is it you who gave counsel that I should come hither by that bank of
the stream, and not go straight where Talbot and the English are?"
'"I myself, and others wiser than I, gave that advice, and we think it
the better way and the surer."
'"In God's name, the counsel of our God is wiser and surer than yours.
You thought to deceive me, and you have deceived yourselves, for I bring
you a better rescue than ever shall come to soldier or city--that is,
the help of the King of Heaven. . . ."
'Then instantly, and as it were in one moment, the wind changed that had
been dead against us, and had hindered the boats from carrying the
provisions into Orleans, and the sails filled.'
Dunois now wished Joan to cross by boat and enter the town, but her army
could not cross, and she was loth to leave them, lest they fell into
sin, for she had made them all confess at Blois. However, the army
returned to Blois, to cross by the bridge there, and come upon the
Orleans bank, as Joan had intended from the first. Then Joan crossed in
the boat, holding in her hand the lily standard. So she and La Hire and
Dunois rode into Orleans, where the people crowded round her, blessing
her, and trying to kiss her hand. Night had fallen, there were torches
flaring in the wind, and, as the people thronged about her, a torch set
fire to the fringe of her banner. 'Then spurred she her horse, and
turned him gracefully and put out the flame, as if she had long followed
the wars, which the men-at-arms beheld with wonder, and the folk of
Orleans.' So they led her with great joy to the Regnart Gate, and the
house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, and there
was she gladly received, with her two brothers and her gentlemen, her
old friends, Nouillompont and Poulengy.
Next day, without leave from Joan, La Hire led a sally against the
English, fought bravely, but failed, and Joan wished once more to bid
the English go in peace. The English, of course, did not obey her
summons, and it is said that they answered with wicked words which made
her weep. For she wept readily, and blushed when she was moved. In her
anger she went to a rampart, and, crying aloud, bade the English begone;
but they repeated their insults, and threatened yet again to burn her.
Next day (May 1), Dunois went off to bring the troops from Blois, and
Joan rode round and inspected the English position. They made no attempt
to take her. A superstitious fear of her 'witchcraft' had already fallen
on them; they had lost heart and soon lost all. On May 4 the army
returned from Blois. Joan rode out to meet them, priests marched in
procession, singing hymns, but the English never stirred. They were
expecting fresh troops under Fastolf. 'If you do not let me know when
Fastolf comes,' cried the Maid merrily to Dunois, 'I will have your head
cut off.' But for some reason, probably because they did not wish her to
run risk, they did not tell Joan when the next fight began. She had just
lain down to sleep when she leaped up with a noise, wakening her squire.
'My Voices tell me,' she said, 'that I must go against the English, but
whether to their forts or against Fastolf I know not.'
There was a cry in the street; Joan armed herself; her page came in.
'Wretched boy!' she said. 'French blood is flowing, and you never told
me!'
In a moment she was in the street, the page handed to her the lily flag
from the upper window. Followed by her squire, d'Aulon, she galloped to
the Burgundy Gate. They met wounded men. 'Never do I see French blood
but my hair stands up on my head,' said Joan. She rode out of the gate
to the English fort of St. Loup, which the Orleans men were attacking.
Joan leaped into the fosse, under fire, holding her banner, and cheering
on her men. St. Loup was taken by the French, in spite of a gallant
defence, and Joan wept for the dead English, fearing that they had died
unconfessed. Next day was Ascension Day. Joan, thinking 'the better the
day the better the deed,' was for fighting. There was no battle, but she
again summoned the English to withdraw, and again was insulted, and
wept.
The French generals now conceived a plan to make a feint, or a sham
attack, on the English forts where they were strongest, on the Orleans
side of the river. The English on the left side would cross to help
their countrymen, and then the French would take the forts beyond the
bridge. Thus they would have a free path across the river, and would
easily get supplies, and weary out the English. They only told Joan of
the first part of their plan, but she saw that they were deceiving her.
When the plan was explained she agreed to it, her one wish was to strike
swiftly and strongly. However, they did not carry out the plan, they
only assailed the forts on the left bank.
The French attacked the English fort of Les Augustins, beyond the river,
but suddenly they fled to their bridge of boats; while the English
sallied out, yelling their insults at Joan. She turned, she gathered a
few men, and charged. The English ran before her like sheep; she planted
her banner again in the ditch. The French hurried back to her, a great
Englishman, who guarded the breach, was shot; two French knights leaped
in, the others followed, and the English took refuge in the redoubt of
Les Tourelles, their strong fort at the bridge-head.
The Maid returned to Orleans, and, though it was a Friday, and she
always fasted on Fridays, she was so weary that she ate some supper. A
bit of bread, her page reports, was all that she usually ate. Now the
generals sent to Joan and said that enough had been done. They had food,
and could wait for another army from the king. 'You have been with your
council,' she said, 'I have been with mine. The wisdom of God is greater
than yours. Rise early to-morrow, do better than your best, keep close
by me; for to-morrow have I much to do, and more than ever yet I did,
and to-morrow shall my blood flow from a wound above my breast.'[15]
Joan had always said at Chinon that she would be wounded at Orleans.
From a letter by a Flemish ambassador, written three weeks before the
event happened, we know that this is true.[16]
Next morning Joan's host had got a fine fish for breakfast. 'Keep it
till evening, and I will bring you a God-damn' (an Englishman) 'to eat
his share,' said the Maid, 'and I will return by the bridge;' which was
broken.
The generals did not wish to attack the bridge-tower, but Joan paid them
no attention. They were glad enough to follow, lest she took the fort
without them.
[Illustration: Joan is wounded by the arrow]
About half-past six in the morning the fight began. The French and
Scottish leaped into the fosse, they set ladders against the walls, they
reached the battlements, and were struck down by English swords and
axes. Cannon-balls and great stones and arrows rained on them. 'Fight
on!' cried the Maid; 'the place is ours.' At one o'clock she set a
ladder against the wall with her own hands, but was deeply wounded by an
arrow, which pierced clean through between neck and shoulder. Joan wept,
but seizing the arrow with her own hands she dragged it out. The
men-at-arms wished to say magic spells over the wound to 'charm' it, but
this the Maid forbade as witchcraft. 'Yet,' says Dunois, 'she did not
withdraw from the battle, nor took any medicine for the wound; and the
onslaught lasted from morning till eight at night, so that there was no
hope of victory. Then I desired that the army should go back to the
town, but the Maid came to me and bade me wait a little longer. Next she
mounted her horse and rode into a vineyard, and there prayed for the
space of seven minutes or eight. Then she returned, took her banner, and
stood on the brink of the fosse. The English trembled when they saw her,
but our men returned to the charge and met with no resistance. The
English fled or were slain, and Glasdale, who had insulted the Maid,
was drowned' (by the burning of the drawbridge between the redoubt and
Les Tourelles. The Maid in vain besought him, with tears, to surrender
and be ransomed), 'and we returned gladly into Orleans.' The people of
Orleans had a great share in this victory. Seeing the English hard
pressed, they laid long beams across the broken arches of the bridge,
and charged by this perilous way. The triumph was even more that of the
citizens than of the army. Homer tells us how Achilles, alone and
unarmed, stood by the fosse and shouted, and how all the Trojans fled.
But here was a greater marvel; and the sight of the wounded girl, bowed
beneath the weight of her banner, frighted stouter hearts than those of
the men of Troy.
Joan returned, as she had prophesied, by the bridge, but she did not
make her supper off the fish: she took a little bread dipped in wine and
water, her wound was dressed, and she slept. Next day the English drew
up their men in line of battle. The French went out to meet them, and
would have begun the attack. Joan said that God would not have them
fight.
'If the English attack, we shall defeat them; we are to let them go in
peace if they will.'
Mass was then said before the French army.
When the rite was done, Joan asked: 'Do they face us, or have they
turned their backs?'
It was the English backs that the French saw that day: Talbot's men were
in full retreat on Meun.
From that hour May 8 is kept a holiday at Orleans in honour of Joan the
Maiden. Never was there such a deliverance. In a week the Maid had
driven a strong army, full of courage and well led, out of forts like
Les Tourelles. The Duc d'Alençon visited it, and said that with a few
men-at-arms he would have felt certain of holding it for a week against
any strength however great. But Joan not only gave the French her
spirit: her extraordinary courage in leading a new charge after so
terrible a wound, 'six inches deep,' says d'Alençon, made the English
think that they were fighting a force not of this world. And that is
exactly what they were doing.
HOW JOAN THE MAID TOOK JARGEAU FROM THE ENGLISH
The Maid had shown her sign, as she promised; she had rescued Orleans.
Her next desire was to lead Charles to Reims, through a country
occupied by the English, and to have him anointed there with the holy
oil. Till this was done she could only regard him as Dauphin--king,
indeed, by blood, but not by consecration.
After all that Joan had accomplished, the king and his advisers might
have believed in her. She went to the castle of Loches, where Charles
was: he received her kindly, but still he did not seem eager to go to
Reims. It was a dangerous adventure, for which he and his favourites
like La Tremouille had no taste. It seems that more learned men were
asked to give their opinion. Was it safe and wise to obey the Maid? On
May 14, only six days after the relief of Orleans, the famous Gerson
wrote down his ideas. He believed in the Maid. The king had already
trusted her without fear of being laughed at; she and the generals did
not rely on the saints alone, but on courage, prudence, and skill. Even
if, by ill fortune, she were to fail on a later day, the fault would not
be hers, but would be God's punishment of French ingratitude. 'Let us
not harm, by our unbelief or injustice, the help which God has given us
so wonderfully.' Unhappily the French, or at least the Court, were
unbelieving, ungrateful, unjust to Joan, and so she came to die, leaving
her work half done. The Archbishop of Embrun said that Joan should
always be consulted in great matters, as her wisdom was of God. And as
long as the French took this advice they did well; when they distrusted
and neglected the Maid they failed, and were defeated and dishonoured.
Councils were now held at Tours, and time was wasted as usual. As usual,
Joan was impatient. With Dunois, who tells the story, she went to see
Charles at the castle of Loches. Some nobles and clergy were with him;
Joan entered, knelt, and embraced his knees.
'Noble Dauphin,' she said, 'do not hold so many councils, and such weary
ones, but come to Reims and receive the crown.'
Harcourt asked her if her Voices, or 'counsel' (as she called it) gave
this advice.
She blushed and said: 'I know what you mean, and will tell you gladly.'
The king asked her if she wished to speak before so many people.
Yes, she would speak. When they doubted her she prayed, 'and then she
heard a Voice saying to her:
'"_Fille Dé, va, va, va, je serai à ton aide, va!_"'[17]
'And when she heard this Voice she was right glad, and wished that she
could always be as she was then; and as she spoke,' says Dunois, 'she
rejoiced strangely, lifting her eyes to heaven.' And still she repeated:
'I will last for only one year, or little more; use me while you may.'
Joan stirred the politicians at last. They would go to Reims, but could
they leave behind them English garrisons in Jargeau, where Suffolk
commanded, in Meun, where Talbot was, and in other strong places?
Already, without Joan, the French had attacked Jargeau, after the rescue
of Orleans, and had failed. Joan agreed to assail Jargeau. Her army was
led by the 'fair duke,' d'Alençon. He had but lately come from prison in
England, and his young wife was afraid to let him go to war. 'Madame,'
said Joan, 'I will bring him back safe, and even better than he is now.'
We shall see how she saved his life. It was now that Guy and André de
Laval saw her, and wrote the description of her black horse and white
armour. They followed with her gladly, believing that with her glory was
to be won.
Let us tell what followed in the words of the Duc d'Alençon.
[Illustration: 'Now arose a dispute among the captains']
'We were about six hundred lances, who wished to go against the town of
Jargeau, then held by the English. That night we slept in a wood, and
next day came Dunois and Florence d'Illiers and some other captains.
When we were all met we were about twelve hundred lances; and now arose
a dispute among the captains, some thinking that we should attack the
city, others not so, for they said that the English were very strong,
and had many men.[18] Seeing this difference, Jeanne bade us have no fear
of any numbers, nor doubt about attacking the English, because God was
guiding us. She herself would rather be herding sheep than fighting, if
she were not certain that God was with us. Thereon we rode to Jargeau,
meaning to occupy the outlying houses, and there pass the night; but the
English knew of our approach, and drove in our skirmishers. Seeing this,
Jeanne took her banner and went to the front, bidding our men be in good
heart. And they did so much that they held the suburbs of Jargeau that
night. . . . Next morning we got ready our artillery, and brought guns
up against the town. After some days a council was held, and I, with
others, was ill content with La Hire, who was said to have parleyed with
Lord Suffolk. La Hire was sent for, and came. Then it was decided to
storm the town, and the heralds cried, "To the attack!" and Jeanne said
to me, "Forward, gentle duke." I thought it was too early, but she said,
"Doubt not; the hour is come when God pleases. Ah, gentle duke, are you
afraid? Know you not that I promised your wife to bring you back safe
and sound?" as indeed she had said. As the onslaught was given, Jeanne
bade me leave the place where I stood, "or yonder gun," pointing to one
on the walls, "will slay you." Then I withdrew, and a little later de
Lude was slain in that very place. And I feared greatly, considering the
prophecy of the Maid. Then we both went together to the onslaught; and
Suffolk cried for a parley, but no man marked him, and we pressed on.
Jeanne was climbing a ladder, banner in hand, when her flag was struck
by a stone, and she also was struck on her head, but her light helmet
saved her. She leaped up again, crying, "Friends, friends, on, on! Our
Lord has condemned the English. They are ours; be of good heart." In
that moment Jargeau was taken, and the English fled to the bridges, we
following, and more than eleven hundred of them were slain.'
One Englishman at least died well. He stood up on the battlements, and
dashed down the ladders till he was shot by a famous marksman of
Lorraine.
Suffolk and his brother were taken prisoners. According to one account,
written at the time, Suffolk surrendered to the Maid, as 'the most
valiant woman in the world.' And thus the Maid stormed Jargeau.
HOW THE MAID DEFEATED THE ENGLISH AT PATHAY, AND OF THE STRANGE GUIDE
The French slew some of their prisoners at Jargeau. Once Joan saw a
man-at-arms strike down a prisoner. She leaped from her horse, and laid
the wounded Englishman's head on her breast, consoling him, and bade a
priest come and hear his confession. Cruel and cowardly deeds are done
in all wars, but when was there ever such a general as the Maid, to
comfort the dying?
From Jargeau the Maid rode back to Orleans, where the people could not
look on her enough, and made great festival. Many men came in to fight
under her flag, among them Richemont, who had been on bad terms with
Charles, the uncrowned king. Then Joan took the bridge-fort at Meun,
which the English held; next she drove the English at Beaugency into the
citadel, and out of the town.
[Illustration: One Englishman at least died well]
As to what happened next, we have the story of Wavrin, who was fighting
on the English side under Fastolf.[19] The garrison of the English in
Beaugency, he says, did not know whether to hold out or to yield. Talbot
reported all this to Bedford, at Paris, and large forces were sent to
relieve Beaugency. Wavrin rode with his captain, Fastolf, to Senville,
where Talbot joined them, and a council was held. Fastolf said that the
English had lost heart, and that Beaugency should be left to its fate,
while the rest held out in strong places and waited for reinforcements.
But Talbot cried that, if he had only his own people, he would fight
the French, with the help of God and St. George. Next morning Fastolf
repeated what he had said, and declared that they would lose all King
Henry had won, But Talbot was for fighting. So they marched to a place
between Meun and Beaugency, and drew up in order of battle. The French
saw them, and occupied a strong position on a little hill. The English
then got ready, and invited the French to come down and fight on the
plain. But Joan was not so chivalrous as James IV. at Flodden.
[Illustration: THE ENGLISH ARCHERS BETRAYED BY THE STAG]
'Go you to bed to-night, for it is late; to-morrow, so please God and
Our Lady, we will see you at close quarters.'
The English then rode to Meun, and cannonaded the bridge-fort, which was
held by the French. They hoped to take the bridge, cross it, march to
Beaugency, and relieve the besieged there. But that very night Beaugency
surrendered to the Maid! She then bade her army march on the English,
who were retreating to Paris as soon as they heard how Beaugency had
yielded. But how was the Maid to find the English? 'Ride forward,' she
cried, 'and you shall have a sure guide.' They had a guide, and a
strange one.
The English were marching towards Paris, near Pathay, when their
_éclaireurs_ (who beat the country on all sides) came in with the news
that the French were following. But the French knew not where the
English were, because the deserted and desolate country was overgrown
with wood.
Talbot decided to do what the English did at Creçy, where they won so
glorious a victory. He lined the hedges in a narrow way with five
hundred archers of his best, and he sent a galloper to bring thither the
rest of his army. On came the French, not seeing the English in ambush.
In a few minutes they would have been shot down, and choked the pass
with dying men and horses. But now was the moment for the strange guide.
A stag was driven from cover by the French, and ran blindly among the
ambushed English bowmen. Not knowing that the French were so near, and
being archers from Robin Hood's country, who loved a deer, they raised a
shout, and probably many an arrow flew at the stag. The French
_éclaireurs_ heard the cry, they saw the English, and hurried back with
the news.
'Forward!' cried the Maid; 'if they were hung to the clouds we have
them. To-day the gentle king will gain such a victory as never yet did
he win.'[20]
The French dashed into the pass before Talbot had secured it. Fastolf
galloped up, but the English thought that he was in flight; the captain
of the advanced guard turned his horse about and made off. Talbot was
taken, Fastolf fled, 'making more sorrow than ever yet did man.' The
French won a great victory. They needed their spurs, as the Maid had
told them that they would, to follow their flying foes. The English lost
some 3,000 men. In the evening Talbot, as a prisoner, was presented to
the Duc d'Alençon.
'You did not expect this in the morning?' said the duke.
'Fortune of war!' said Talbot.
So ended the day of Pathay, and the adventure of the Strange Guide.
HOW THE MAID HAD THE KING CROWNED AT REIMS
Here are the exploits which the Maid and the loyal French did in one
week. She took Jargeau on June 11; on June 15 she seized the bridge of
Meun; Beaugency yielded to her on June 17; on June 18 she defeated the
English army at Pathay. Now sieges were long affairs in those days, as
they are even to-day, when cannon are so much more powerful than they
were in Joan's time. Her success seemed a miracle to the world.
This miracle, like all miracles, was wrought by faith. Joan believed in
herself, in her country, and in God. It was not by visions and by
knowing things strangely that she conquered, but by courage, by strength
(on one occasion she never put off her armour for six days and six
nights), and by inspiring the French with the sight of her valour.
Without her visions, indeed, she would never have gone to war. She often
said so. But, being at war, her word was 'Help yourselves, and God will
help you.' Who could be lazy or a coward when a girl set such an
example?
The King of France and his favourites could be indolent and cowards. Had
Charles VII. been such a man as Charles Stuart was in 1745, his foot
would have been in the stirrup, and his lance in rest. In three months
the English would have been driven into the sea. But the king loitered
about the castles of the Loire with his favourite, La Tremouille, and
his adviser, the Archbishop of Reims. They wasted the one year of Joan.
There were jealousies against the Constable de Richemont of Brittany who
had come with all his lances to follow the lily flag. If once Charles
were king indeed and the English driven out, La Tremouille would cease
to be powerful. This dastard sacrificed the Maid in the end, as he was
ready to sacrifice France to his own private advantage.
[Illustration: THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII]
At last, with difficulty, Charles was brought to visit Reims, and
consent to be crowned like his ancestors. Seeing that he was never
likely to move, Joan left the town where he was and went off into the
country. This retreat brought Charles to his senses. The towns which he
passed by yielded to him; Joan went and summoned each. 'Now she was with
the king in the centre, now with the rearguard, now with the van.' The
town of Troyes, where there was an English garrison, did not wish to
yield. There was a council in the king's army: they said they could not
take the place.
'In two days it shall be yours, by force or by good will,' said the
Maid.
'Six days will do,' said the chancellor, 'if you are sure you speak
truth.'
Joan made ready for an attack. She was calling 'Forward!' when the town
surrendered. Reims, after some doubts, yielded also, on July 16, and all
the people, with shouts of '_Noel!_' welcomed the king. On July 17 the
king was crowned and anointed with the Holy Oil by that very Archbishop
of Reims who always opposed Joan. The Twelve Peers of France were not
all present--some were on the English side--but Joan stood by Charles,
her banner in her hand. 'It bore the brunt, and deserved to share the
renown,' she said later to her accusers.
When the ceremony was ended, and the Dauphin Charles was a crowned and
anointed king, the Maid knelt weeping at his feet.
'Gentle king,' she said, 'now is accomplished the will of God, who
desired that you should come to Reims to be consecrated, and to prove
that you are the true king and the kingdom is yours.'
Then all the knights wept for joy.
The king bade Joan choose her reward. Already horses, rich armour,
jewelled daggers, had been given to her. These, adding to the beauty and
glory of her aspect, had made men follow her more gladly, and for that
she valued them. She, too, made gifts to noble ladies, and gave much to
the poor. She only wanted money to wage the war with, not for herself.
Her family was made noble; on their shield, between two lilies, a sword
upholds the crown. Her father was at Reims, and saw her in her glory.
What reward, then, was Joan to choose? She chose nothing for herself,
but that her native village of Domremy should be free from taxes. This
news her father carried home from the splendid scene at Reims.
Would that we could leave the Maiden here, with Orleans saved, and her
king crowned! Would that she, who wept when her saints left her in her
visions, and who longed to follow them, could have been carried by them
to their Paradise!
But Joan had another task; she was to be foiled by the cowardice of her
king; she was to be captured, possibly by treachery; she was to be tried
with the most cruel injustice; she was to die by fire; and was to set,
through months of agony, such an example of wisdom, courage, and loyal
honour as never was shown by man.
Did Joan look forward to her end, did she know that her days were
numbered? On the journey to Reims she met some Domremy people at
Chalons, and told them that she 'feared nothing but treachery.' Perhaps
she already suspected the political enemies, the Archbishop of Reims and
La Tremouille, who were to spoil her mission.
As they went from Reims after the coronation, Dunois and the archbishop
were riding by her rein. The people cheered and cried _Noel_.
'They are a good people,' said Joan. 'Never saw I any more joyous at the
coming of their king. Ah, would that I might be so happy when I end my
days as to be buried here!'
Said the archbishop:
'Oh, Jeanne, in what place do you hope to die?'
Then she said:
'Where it pleases God; for I know not that hour, nor that place, more
than ye do. But would to God, my maker, that now I might depart, and lay
down my arms, and help my father and mother, and keep their sheep with
my brothers and my sister, who would rejoice to see me!'[21]
Some writers have reported Joan's words as if she meant that she wished
the king to let her go home and leave the wars. In their opinion Joan
was only acting under heavenly direction till the consecration of
Charles. Afterwards, like Hal of the Wynd, she was 'fighting for her own
hand,' they think, and therefore she did not succeed. But from the first
Joan threatened to drive the English quite out of France, and she also
hoped to bring the Duc d'Orléans home from captivity in England. If her
Voices had told her _not_ to go on after the coronation, she would
probably have said so at her trial, when she mentioned one or two acts
of disobedience to her Voices. Again, had she been anxious to go home,
Charles VII. and his advisers would have been only too glad to let her
go. They did not wish her to lead them into dangerous places, and they
hated obeying her commands.
Some French authors have, very naturally, wished to believe that the
Maid could make no error, and could not fail; they therefore draw a line
between what she did up to the day of Reims, and what she did
afterwards. They hold that she was divinely led till the coronation, and
not later. But it is difficult to agree with them here. As we saw,
Gerson told the French that by injustice and ingratitude they might
hinder the success of the Maid. His advice was a prophecy.
IV
HOW THE MAID RODE TO PARIS
WHAT was to be done after the crowning of the king? Bedford, the regent
for the child Henry VI., expected to see Joan under the walls of Paris.
He was waiting for the troops which the Cardinal of Winchester had
collected in England as a crusading army against the Hussite heretics, a
kind of Protestants who were giving trouble. Bedford induced Winchester
to bring his men to France, but they had not arrived. The Duke of
Burgundy, the head of the great French party which opposed Charles, had
been invited by the Maid to Reims. Again she wrote to him: 'Make a firm,
good peace with the King of France,' she said; 'forgive each other with
kind hearts'--for the Duke's father had been murdered by the friends of
Charles. 'I pray and implore you, with joined hands, fight not against
France. Great pity it would be of the great battle and bloodshed if your
men come against us.'
The Duke of Burgundy, far from listening to Joan's prayer, left Paris
and went to raise men for the English. Meanwhile Charles was going from
town to town, and all received him gladly. But Joan soon began to see
that, instead of marching west from Reims to Paris, the army was being
led south-west towards the Loire. There the king would be safe among his
dear castles, where he could live indoors, 'in wretched little rooms,'
and take his ease. Thus Bedford was able to throw 5,000 men of
Winchester's into Paris, and even dared to come out and hunt for the
French king. The French should have struck at Paris at once as Joan
desired. The delays were excused, because the Duke of Burgundy had
promised to surrender Paris in a fortnight. But this he did merely to
gain time. Joan knew this, and said there would be no peace but at the
lance-point.
[Illustration: Joan challenges the English to sally forth]
Here we get the best account of what happened from Perceval de Cagny, a
knight in the household of the Duc d'Alençon. He wrote his book in
1436, only five years after Joan was burned, and he spoke of what he
knew well, as a follower of Joan's friend, 'the fair duke.' The French
and English armies kept watching each other, and there were skirmishes
near Senlis. On August 15 the Maid and d'Alençon hoped for a battle. But
the English had fortified their position in the night with ditches,
palisades, and a 'laager' of wagons. Come out they would not, so Joan
rode up to their fortification, standard in hand, struck the palisade,
and challenged them to sally forth. She even offered to let them march
out and draw themselves up in line of battle. La Tremouille thought this
a fine opportunity of distinguishing himself. He rode into the skirmish,
his horse fell with him, but, by evil luck, he was rescued. We do not
hear that La Tremouille risked himself again.[22] The Maid stayed on the
field all night, and next day made a retreat, hoping to draw the English
out of their fort. But they were too wary, and went back to Paris.
More towns came in to Charles. Beauvais yielded, and the Bishop of
Beauvais, Pierre Cauchon, had to fly to the English. He revenged himself
by managing Joan's trial and having her burned. Compiègne, an important
place north of Paris, yielded, and was handed to Guillaume de Flavy as
governor. In rescuing this fatal place later, Joan was taken prisoner.
Now the fortnight was over, after which the Duke of Burgundy was to
surrender Paris. But he did nothing of the kind, and there were more
'long weary councils,' and a truce was arranged with Burgundy till
Christmas. But the Maid was weary of words. She called the Duc d'Alençon
and said: 'My fair duke, array your men, for, by my staff, I would fain
see Paris more closely than I have seen it yet.'
On August 23 the Maid and d'Alençon left the king at Compiègne and rode
to St. Denis, where were the tombs of the kings of France. 'And when the
king heard that they were at St. Denis, he came, very sore against his
will, as far as Senlis, and it seems that his advisers were contrary to
the will of the Maid, of the Duc d'Alençon, and of their company.'
The great captains, Dunois, Xaintrailles, d'Alençon, were soldiers, and
the king's advisers and favourites were clergymen, like the Archbishop
of Reims, or indolent men of peace, like La Tremouille. They declared,
after the Maid was captured, that she 'took too much on herself,' and
they were glad of her fall. But she had shown that nobody but herself
and her soldiers and captains were of any use to France.
The king was afraid to go near Paris, but Bedford was afraid to stay in
the town. He went to Rouen, the strongest English hold in Normandy,
leaving the Burgundian army and 2,000 English in Paris.
Every day the Maid and d'Alençon rode from St. Denis and insulted the
gates of Paris, and observed the best places for an attack in force. And
still Charles dallied and delayed, still the main army did not come up.
Meanwhile Paris was strengthened by the English and Burgundians. The
people of the city were told that Charles intended to plunder the place
and utterly destroy it, 'which is difficult to believe,' says the Clerk
of Parliament, who was in the city at that time.[23] It was 'difficult to
believe,' but the Paris people believed it, and, far from rising for
their king and country, they were rather in arms against the Maid. They
had no wish to fall in a general massacre, as the English and
Burgundians falsely told them would be their fate.
Thus the delay of the king gave the English time to make Paris almost
impregnable, and to frighten the people, who, had Charles marched
straight from Reims, would have yielded as Reims did.
D'Alençon kept going to Senlis urging Charles to come up with the main
army. He went on September 1--the king promised to start next day.
D'Alençon returned to the Maid, the king still loitered. At last
d'Alençon brought him to St. Denis on September 7, and there was a
skirmish that day.
HOW THE MAID WAS WOUNDED IN ATTACKING PARIS, AND HOW THE KING WOULD NOT
LET THE ASSAULT BEGIN AGAIN
In all descriptions of battles different accounts are given, each man
telling what he himself saw, or what he remembers. As to the assault on
Paris on September 8, the Maid herself said a few words at her trial.
Her Voices had neither commanded her to attack nor to abstain from
attacking. Her opinion was that the captains and leaders on her side
only meant to skirmish in force, and to do deeds of chivalry. But her
own intention was to press onwards, and, by her example, to make the
army follow her. It was thus that she took Les Tourelles at Orleans.
This account scarcely agrees with what we read in the book of Perceval
de Cagny, who was with his lord, the Duc d'Alençon. He says that about
eight on the morning of September 8, the day of Our Lady, the army set
forth; some were to storm the town; another division was to remain under
cover and protect the former if a sally was made by the English. The
Maid, the Marshal de Rais, and De Gaucourt led the attack on the Porte
St. Honoré.[24] Standard in hand, the Maid leaped into the fosse near the
pig market. 'The assault was long and fierce, and it was marvel to hear
the noise of cannons and culverins from the walls, and to see the clouds
of arrows. Few of those in the fosse with the Maid were struck, though
many others on horse and foot were wounded with arrows and stone
cannon-balls, but by God's grace and the Maid's good fortune, there was
none of them but could return to camp unhelped. The assault lasted from
noon till dusk, say eight in the evening. After sunset the Maid was
struck by a crossbow bolt in the thigh; and, after she was hurt, she
cried but the louder that all should attack, and that the place was
taken. But as night had now fallen, and she was wounded, and the
men-at-arms were weary with the long attack, De Gaucourt and others came
and found her, and, against her will, brought her forth from the fosse.
And so ended that onslaught. But right sad she was to leave, and said,
"By my bâton, the place would have been taken." They put her on
horseback, and led her to her quarters, and all the rest of the king's
company who that day had come from St. Denis.'
So Cagny tells the story. He was, we may believe, with d'Alençon and the
party covering the attack. Jean Chartier, who was living at the time,
adds that the Maid did not know that the inner moats were full of water.
When she reached the water, she had faggots and other things thrown in
to fill up a passage. At nightfall she would not retreat, and at last
d'Alençon came and forced her to return. The Clerk of Parliament, who,
of course, was within the walls, says that the attack lasted till ten or
eleven o'clock at night, and that, in Paris, there was a cry that all
was lost.
Joan behaved as gallantly as she did at Les Tourelles. Though wounded
she was still pressing on, still encouraging her men, but she was not
followed. She was not only always eager to attack, but she never lost
heart, she never lost grip. An army of men as brave as Joan would have
been invincible.
'Next day,' says Cagny, 'in spite of her wound, she was first in the
field. She went to d'Alençon and bade him sound the trumpets for the
charge. D'Alençon and the other captains were of the same mind as the
Maid, and Montmorency with sixty gentlemen and many lances came in,
though he had been on the English side before. So they began to march on
Paris, but the king sent messengers, the Duc de Bar, and the Comte de
Clermont, and compelled the Maid and the captains to return to St.
Denis. Right sorry were they, yet they must obey the king. They hoped to
take Paris from the other side, by a bridge which the Duc d'Alençon had
made across the Seine. But the king knew the duke's and the Maid's
design, and caused the bridge to be broken down, and a council was held,
and the king desired to depart and go to the Loire, to the great grief
of the Maid. When she saw that they would go, she dedicated her armour,
and hung it up before the statue of Our Lady at St. Denis, and so right
sadly went away in company with the king. And thus were broken the will
of the Maid and the army of the king.'
The politicians had triumphed. They had thwarted the Maid, they had made
her promise to take Paris of no avail. They had destroyed the confidence
of men in the banner that had never gone back. Now they might take their
ease, now they might loiter in the gardens of the Loire. The Maid had
failed, by their design, and by their cowardice. The treachery that she,
who feared nothing else, had long dreaded, was accomplished now. 'The
will of the Maid and the army of the king were broken.'[25]
HOW THE MAID AND HER FAIR DUKE WERE SEPARATED FROM EACH OTHER
The king now went from one pleasant tower on the Loire to another,
taking the Maid with him. Meanwhile, the English took and plundered some
of the cities which had yielded to Charles, and they carried off the
Maid's armour from the chapel in Saint Denis, where she had dedicated
it, 'because _Saint Denis!_ is the cry of France.' Her Voices had bidden
her stay at Saint Denis, but this she was not permitted to do, and now
she must hear daily how the loyal towns that she had won were plundered
by the English. The French garrisons also began to rob, as they had
done before she came. There was 'great pity in France' again, and all
her work seemed wasted. The Duc d'Alençon went to his own place of
Beaumont, but he returned, and offered to lead an army against the
English in Normandy, if the Maid might march with him. Then he would
have had followers in plenty, for the people had not wholly lost faith.
'But La Tremouille, and Gaucourt, and the Archbishop of Reims, who
managed the king and the war, would not consent, nor suffer the Maid and
the duke to be together, nor ever again might they meet.' So says Cagny,
and he adds that the Maid loved the fair duke above other men, 'and did
for him what she would do for no other.' She had saved his life at
Jargeau, but where was the duke when Joan was a prisoner? We do not
know, but we may believe that he, at least, would have helped her if he
could. They were separated by the jealousy of cowards, who feared that
the duke might win too much renown and become too powerful.
HOW MARVELLOUSLY THE MAID TOOK SAINT-PIERRE-LE-MOUSTIER
Even the banks of Loire, where the king loved to be, were not free from
the English. They held La Charité and Saint-Pierre-le-Moustier. Joan
wanted to return to Paris, but the council sent her to take La Charité
and Saint-Pierre-le-Moustier. This town she attacked first. Her squire,
a gentleman named d'Aulon, was with her, and described what he saw.
'When they had besieged the place for some time, an assault was
commanded, but, for the great strength of the forts and the numbers of
the enemy, the French were forced to give way. At that hour, I who speak
was wounded by an arrow in the heel, and could not stand or walk without
crutches. But I saw the Maid holding her ground with a handful of men,
and, fearing ill might come of it, I mounted a horse and rode to her,
asking what she was doing there alone, and why she did not retreat like
the others. She took the _salade_ from her head, and answered that she
was not alone, but had in her company fifty thousand of her people; and
that go she would not till she had taken that town.
'But, whatever she said, I saw that she had with her but four men or
five, as others also saw, wherefore I bade her retreat. Then she
commanded me to have faggots brought, and planks to bridge fosses. And,
as she spoke to me, she cried in a loud voice, "All of you, bring
faggots to fill the fosse." And this was done, whereat I greatly
marvelled, and instantly that town was taken by assault with no great
resistance. And all that the Maid did seemed to me rather deeds divine
than natural, and it was impossible that so young a maid should do such
deeds without the will and guidance of Our Lord.'
[Illustration: 'Go she would not till she had taken that town']
This was the last great feat of arms wrought by the Maid. As at Les
Tourelles she won by sheer dint of faith and courage, and so might she
have done at Paris, but for the king. At this town the soldiers wished
to steal the sacred things in the church, and the goods laid up there.
'But the Maid right manfully forbade and hindered them, nor ever would
she permit any to plunder.' So says Reginald Thierry, who was with her
at this siege. Once a Scottish man-at-arms let her know that her dinner
was made of a stolen calf, and she was very angry, wishing to strike
that Scot. He came from a land where 'lifting cattle' was thought rather
a creditable action.
HOW THE MAID WAITED WEARILY AT COURT
From her latest siege the Maid rode to attack La Charité. But, though
the towns helped her as well as they might with money and food, her
force was too small, and was too ill provided with everything, for the
king did not send supplies. She raised the siege and departed in great
displeasure. The king was not unkind, he ennobled her and her family,
and permitted the dignity to descend through daughters as well as sons;
no one else was ever so honoured. Her brothers called themselves Du Lys,
from the lilies of their crest, but Joan kept her name and her old
banner. She was trailed after the Court from place to place; for three
weeks she stayed with a lady who describes her as very devout and
constantly in church. People said to Joan that it was easy for her to be
brave, as she knew she would not be slain, but she answered that she had
no more assurance of safety than any one of them. Thinking her already a
saint, people brought her things to touch.
'Touch them yourselves,' she said; 'your touch is as good as mine.'
She wore a little cheap ring, which her father and mother had given her,
inscribed JHESU MARIA, and she believed that with this ring she had
touched the body of St. Catherine. But she was humble, and thought
herself no saint, though surely there never was a better. She gave great
alms, saying that she was sent to help the poor and needy. Such was the
Maid in peace.
HOW THE MAID MET AN IMPOSTOR
There was a certain woman named Catherine de la Rochelle, who gave out
that she had visions. A beautiful lady, dressed in cloth of gold, came
to her by night, and told her who had hidden treasures. These she
offered to discover that there might be money for the wars, which Joan
needed sorely. A certain preacher, named Brother Richard, wished to make
use of this pretender, but Joan said that she must first herself see the
fair lady in cloth of gold. So she sat up with Catherine till midnight,
and then fell asleep, when the lady appeared, so Catherine said. Joan
slept next day, and watched all the following night. Of course the fair
lady never came. Joan bade Catherine go back to her family; she needed
money for the war, but not money got by false pretences. So she told the
king that the whole story was mere folly. This woman afterwards lied
against the Maid when she was a prisoner.
HOW THE MAID'S VOICES PROPHESIED OF HER TAKING
Winter melted into spring; the truce with Burgundy was prolonged, but
the Burgundians fought under English colours. The king did nothing, but
in Normandy La Hire rode in arms to the gates of Rouen. Paris became
doubtfully loyal to the English. The Maid could be idle no longer.
Without a word to the king she rode to Lagny, 'for there they had fought
bravely against the English.' These men were Scots, under Sir Hugh
Kennedy. In mid-April she was at Melun. There 'she heard her Voices
almost every day, and many a time they told her that she would presently
be taken prisoner.' Her year was over, and as the Voices prophesied her
wound at Orleans, now they prophesied her captivity. She prayed that she
might die as soon as she was taken, without the long sorrow of
imprisonment. Then her Voices told her to bear graciously whatever
befell her, for so it must be. But they told her not the hour of her
captivity. 'If she had known the hour she would not then have gone to
war. And often she prayed them to tell her of that hour, but they did
not answer.'
These words are Joan's. She spoke them to her judges at Rouen.
Among all her brave deeds this was the bravest. Whatever the source of
her Voices was, she believed in what they said. She rode to fight with
far worse than death under shield before her eyes, knowing certainly
that her English foes would take her, they who had often threatened to
burn her.
HOW THE MAID TOOK FRANQUET D'ARRAS
There was in these parts a robber chief on the Burgundian side named
Franquet d'Arras. The Maid had been sent, as she said, to help the poor
who were oppressed by these brigands. Hearing that Franquet, with three
or four hundred men-at-arms, was near Lagny-sur-Marne, the Maid rode out
to seek him with four hundred French and Scots. The fight is described
in one way by Monstrelet, in another by Cagny and Joan herself.
Monstrelet, being a Burgundian writer, says that Franquet made a gallant
resistance till he was overwhelmed by numbers, as the Maid called out
the garrison of Lagny. Cagny says that Franquet's force was greater than
that of the Maid who took him. However this may be, Franquet was a
knight, and so should have been kept prisoner till he paid his ransom.
Monstrelet tells us that Joan had his head cut off. She herself told
her judges that Franquet confessed to being a traitor, robber, and
murderer; that the magistrates of Senlis and Lagny claimed him as a
criminal; that she tried to exchange him for a prisoner of her own
party, but that her man died, that Franquet had a fair trial, and that
then she allowed justice to take its course. She was asked if she paid
money to the captor of Franquet.
'I am not treasurer of France, to pay such moneys,' she answered
haughtily.
Probably Franquet deserved to die, but a trial by his enemies was not
likely to be a fair trial.
At Lagny the Maid left a gentler memory. She was very fond of children,
and had a girl's love of babies. A boy of three days old was dying or
seemed dead, and the girls of Lagny carried it to the statue of Our Lady
in their church, and there prayed over it. For three days, ever since
its birth, the baby had lain in a trance without sign of life, so that
they dared not christen it. 'It was black as my doublet,' said Joan at
her trial, where she wore mourning. Joan knelt with the other girls and
prayed; colour came back into the child's face, it gasped thrice, was
baptised, then died, and was buried in holy ground. So Joan said at her
trial. She claimed no share in this good fortune, and never pretended
that she worked miracles.
HOW THE MAID FOUGHT HER LAST FIGHT
The name of Joan was now such a terror to the English that men deserted
rather than face her in arms. At this time the truce with Burgundy
ended, and the duke openly set out to besiege the strong town of
Compiègne, held by de Flavy for France. Joan hurried to Compiègne,
whence she made two expeditions which were defeated by treachery.
Perhaps she thought of this, perhaps of the future, when in the church
of Compiègne she declared one day to a crowd of children whom she loved
that she knew she was sold and betrayed. Old men who had heard her told
this tale long afterwards.
Burgundy had invested Compiègne, when Joan, with four hundred men, rode
into the town secretly at dawn. That day Joan led a sally against the
Burgundians. Her Voices told her nothing, good or bad, she says. The
Burgundians were encamped at Margny and at Clairoix, the English at
Venette, villages on a plain near the walls. Joan crossed the bridge on
a grey charger, in a surcoat of crimson silk, rode through the redoubt
beyond the bridge, and attacked the Burgundians. Flavy in the town was
to prevent the English from attacking her in the rear. He had boats on
the river to secure Joan's retreat if necessary.
[Illustration: Joan captured]
Joan swept through Margny, driving the Burgundians before her; the
garrison of Clairoix came to their help; the battle was doubtful.
Meanwhile the English came up; they could not have reached the
Burgundians, to aid them, but some of the Maid's men, seeing the
English standards, fled. The English followed them under the walls of
Compiègne; the gate of the redoubt was closed to prevent the English
from entering with the runaways. Like Hector under Troy, the Maid was
shut out from the town which she came to save.
Joan was with her own foremost line when the rear fled. They told her of
her danger, she heeded not. For the last time rang out in that girlish
voice: '_Allez avant! Forward, they are ours!_'
Her men seized her bridle and turned her horse's head about. The English
held the entrance from the causeway; Joan and a few men (her brother was
one of them) were driven into a corner of the outer wall. A rush was
made at Joan. 'Yield I yield! give your faith to me!' each man cried.
'I have given my faith to Another,' she said, 'and I will keep my oath.'
Her enemies confess that on this day Joan did great feats of arms,
covering the rear of her force when they had to fly.
Some French historians hold that the gates were closed by treason that
the Maid might be taken. We may hope that this was not so; the commander
of Compiègne held his town successfully for the king, and was rescued by
Joan's friend, the brave Pothon de Xaintrailles.
HOW THE MAID LEAPED FROM THE TOWER OF BEAUREVOIR
The sad story that is still to tell shall be shortly told. There is no
word nor deed of the Maid's, in captivity as in victory, that is not to
her immortal honour. But the sight of the wickedness of men, their
cowardice, cruelty, greed, ingratitude, is not a thing to linger over.
The Maid, as a prisoner of the Bastard of Wandomme, himself a man of
Jean de Luxembourg, was led to Margny, where the Burgundian and English
captains rejoiced over her. They had her at last, the girl who had
driven them from fort and field. Luxembourg claimed her and carried her
to Beaulieu. Not a French lance was laid in rest to rescue her; not a
sou did the king send to ransom her. Where were Dunois and d'Alençon,
Xaintrailles and La Hire? The bold Buccleugh, who carried Kinmont Willie
out of Carlisle Castle, would not have left the Maid unrescued at
Beaulieu. 'What is there that a man does _not_ dare?' he said to the
angry Queen Elizabeth. But Dunois, d'Alençon, Xaintrailles, La Hire,
dared all things. Something which we do not know of must have held
these heroes back, and, being ignorant, it does not become us to blame
them.
Joan was the very spirit of chivalry, but in that age of chivalry she
was shamefully deserted. As a prisoner of war she should properly have
been held to ransom. But, within two days of her capture, the
Vicar-General of the Inquisition in France claimed her as a heretic and
a witch. The English knights let the priests and the University of Paris
judge and burn the girl whom they seldom dared to face in war. The
English were glad enough to use French priests and doctors who would
sell themselves to the task of condemning and burning their maiden
enemy. She was the enemy of the English, and they did actually believe
in witchcraft. The English were hideously cruel and superstitious: we
may leave the French to judge Jean de Luxembourg, who sold the girl to
England; Charles, who moved not a finger to help her; Bishop Cauchon and
the University of Paris, who judged her lawlessly and condemned her to
the stake; and the Archbishop of Reims, who said that she had deserved
her fall. There is dishonour in plenty; let these false Frenchmen of her
time divide their shares among themselves.
From Beaulieu, where she lay from May to August, Luxembourg carried his
precious prize to Beaurevoir, near Cambrai, further from the French
armies. He need not have been alarmed, not a French sword was drawn to
help the Maid. At Beaurevoir, Joan was kindly treated by the ladies of
the Castle. These ladies alone upheld the honour of the great name of
France. They knelt and wept before Jean de Luxembourg, imploring him not
to sell Joan to Burgundy, who sold her again to England. May their names
ever be honoured! One of the gentlemen of the place, on the other hand,
was rude to Joan, as he confessed thirty years later.
Joan was now kept in a high tower at Beaurevoir, and was allowed to walk
on the leads. She knew she was sold to England, she had heard that the
people of Compiègne were to be massacred. She would rather die than fall
into English hands, 'rather give her soul to God, than her body to the
English.' But she hoped to escape and relieve Compiègne. She, therefore,
prayed for counsel to her Saints; might she leap from the top of the
tower? Would they not bear her up in their hands? St. Catherine bade her
not to leap; God would help her and the people of Compiègne.
Then, for the first time as far as we know, the Maid wilfully disobeyed
her Voices. She leaped from the tower. They found her, not wounded, not
a limb was broken, but stunned. She knew not what had happened; they
told her she had leaped down. For three days she could not eat, 'yet was
she comforted by St. Catherine, who bade her confess and seek pardon of
God, and told her that, without fail, they of Compiègne should be
relieved before Martinmas.' This prophecy was fulfilled. Joan was more
troubled about Compiègne, than about her own coming doom. She was
already sold to the English, like a sheep to the slaughter; they bought
their French bishop Cauchon, he summoned his shavelings, the doctors of
the University and of the Inquisition.
[Illustration: Joan at Beaurevoir]
The chivalry of England locked up the Maid in an iron cage at Rouen. The
rest was easy to men of whom all, or almost all, were the slaves of
superstition, fear, and greed. They were men like ourselves, and no
worse, if perhaps no better, but their especial sins and temptations
were those to which few of us are inclined. We, like Charles, are very
capable of deserting, or at least of delaying to rescue, our bravest and
best, like Gordon in Khartoum. But, as we are not afraid of witches, we
do not cage and burn girls of nineteen. If we were as ignorant as our
ancestors on this point, no doubt we should be as cowardly and cruel.
V
HOW THE MAID WAS TRIED AND CONDEMNED, AND HOW BRAVELY SHE DIED
ABOUT the trial and the death of the Maid, I have not the heart to write
a long story. Some points are to be remembered. The person who conducted
the trial, itself illegal, was her deadly enemy, the false Frenchman,
the Bishop of Beauvais, Cauchon, whom she and her men had turned out of
his bishoprick. It is most unjust and unheard of, that any one should be
tried by a judge who is his private enemy. Next, Joan was kept in strong
irons day and night, and she, the most modest of maidens, was always
guarded by five brutal English soldiers of the lowest rank. Again, she
was not allowed to receive the Holy Communion as she desired with tears.
Thus weakened by long captivity and ill usage, she, an untaught girl,
was questioned repeatedly for three months, by the most cunning and
learned doctors in law of the Paris University. Often many spoke at
once, to perplex her mind. But Joan always showed a wisdom which
confounded them, and which is at least as extraordinary as her skill in
war. She would never swear an oath to answer _all_ their questions.
About herself, and all matters bearing on her own conduct, she would
answer. About the king and the secrets of the king, she would not
answer. If they forced her to reply about these things, she frankly
said, she would not tell them the truth. The whole object of the trial
was to prove that she dealt with powers of evil, and that her king had
been crowned and aided by the devil. Her examiners, therefore, attacked
her day by day, in public and in her dungeon, with questions about these
visions which she held sacred, and could only speak of with a blush
among her friends. Had she answered (as a lawyer said at the time), '_it
seemed to me_ I saw a saint,' no man could have condemned her. Probably
she did not know this, for she was not allowed to have an advocate of
her own party, and she, a lonely girl, was opposed to the keenest and
most learned lawyers of France. But she maintained that she certainly
did see, hear, and touch her Saints, and that they came to her by the
will of God. This was called blasphemy and witchcraft. And now came in
the fatal Fairies! She was accused of dealing with devils under the Tree
of Domremy.
Most was made of her refusal to wear woman's dress. For this she seems
to have had two reasons; first, that to give up her old dress would have
been to acknowledge that her mission was ended; next, for reasons of
modesty, she being alone in prison among ruffianly men. She would wear
woman's dress if they would let her take the Holy Communion, but this
they refused. To these points she was constant, she would not deny her
visions; she would not say one word against her king, 'the noblest
Christian in the world' she called him, who had deserted her. She would
not wear woman's dress in prison. We must remember that, as she was
being tried by churchmen, she should have been, as she often prayed to
be, in a prison of the church, attended by women. They set a spy on her,
a caitiff priest named L'Oyseleur, who pretended to be her friend, and
who betrayed her. The English soldiers were allowed to bully, threaten,
and frighten away every one who gave her any advice. They took her to
the torture-chamber, and threatened her with torture, but from this even
these priests shrunk, except a few more cruel and cowardly than the
rest. Finally, they put her up in public, opposite a pile of wood ready
for burning, and then set a priest to preach at her. All through her
trial, her Voices bade her 'answer boldly,' in three months she would
give her last answer, in three months 'she would be free with great
victory, and come into the Kingdom of Paradise.' In three months from
the first day of her trial she went free through the gate of fire.
Boldly she answered, and wisely. She would submit the truth of her
visions to the Church, that is, to God, and the Pope. But she would
_not_ submit them to 'the Church,' if that meant the clergy round her.
At last, in fear of the fire, and the stake before her, and on promise
of being taken to a kindlier prison among women, and released from
chains, she promised to 'abjure,' to renounce her visions, and submit to
the Church, that is to Cauchon, and her other priestly enemies. Some
little note on paper she now signed with a cross, and repeated 'with a
smile,' poor child, a short form of words. By some trick this signature
was changed for a long document, in which she was made to confess all
her visions false. It is certain that she did not understand her words
in this sense.
Cauchon had triumphed. The blame of heresy and witchcraft was cast on
Joan, and on her king as an accomplice. But the English were not
satisfied; they made an uproar, they threatened Cauchon, for Joan's life
was to be spared. She was to be in prison all her days, on bread and
water, but, while she lived, they dared scarcely stir against the
French. They were soon satisfied.
Joan's prison was not changed. There soon came news that she had put on
man's dress again. The judges went to her. She told them (they say),
that she put on this dress of her own free will. In confession, later,
she told her priest that she had been refused any other dress, and had
been brutally treated both by the soldiers and by an English lord. In
self-defence, she dressed in the only attire within her reach. In any
case, the promises made to her had been broken. The judge asked her if
her Voices had been with her again?
[Illustration: 'They burned Joan the Maid']
'Yes.'
'What did they say?'
'God told me by the voices of St. Catherine and St. Margaret of the
great sorrow of my treason, when I abjured to save my life; that I was
damning myself for my life's sake.'
'Do you believe the Voices come from St. Margaret and St. Catherine?'
'Yes, and that they are from God.'
She added that she had never meant to deny this, had not understood that
she had denied it.
All was over now; she was a 'relapsed heretic.'
The judges said that they visited Joan again on the morning of her
death, and that she withdrew her belief in her Voices; or, at least,
left it to the Church to decide whether they were good or bad, while she
still maintained that they were _real_. She had expected release, and,
for the first time, had been disappointed. At the stake she understood
her Voices: they had foretold her martyrdom, 'great victory' over
herself, and her entry into rest. But the document of the judges is not
signed by the clerks, as all such documents must be. One of them,
Manchon, who had not been present, was asked to sign it; he refused.
Another, Taquel, is said to have been present, but he did not sign. The
story is, therefore, worth nothing.
Enough. They burned Joan the Maid. She did not suffer long. Her eyes
were fixed on a cross which a priest, Martin L'Advenu, held up before
her. She maintained, he says, to her dying moment, the truth of her
Voices. With a great cry of JESUS! she gave up her breath, and her pure
soul was with God.
Even the English wept, even a secretary of the English king said that
they had burned a Saint. One of the three great crimes of the world's
history had been committed, and, of the three, this was the most
cowardly and cruel. It profited the English not at all. 'Though they
ceased not to be brave,' says Patrick Abercromby, a Scot,[26] 'yet they
were almost on all occasions defeated, and within the short space of
twenty-two years, lost not only all the conquests made by them in little
less than a hundred, but also the inheritances which they had enjoyed
for above three centuries bypast. It is not my part to follow them, as
the French and my countrymen did, from town to town, and from province
to province; I take much more pleasure in relating the glories than the
disgraces of England.'
This disgrace the English must, and do, most sorrowfully confess, and,
that it may never be forgotten while the civilised world stands, there
lives, among the plays of Shakspeare, whether he wrote or did not write
it, that first part of 'Henry VI.,' which may pair with the yet more
abominable poem of the Frenchman, Voltaire.
Twenty years after her death, as we saw, Charles VII., in his own
interest, induced the Pope and the Inquisition, to try the case of Joan
over again. It was as certain that the clergy would find her innocent,
now, as that they would find her guilty before. But, happily, they
collected the evidence of most of the living people who had known her.
Thus we have heard from the Domremy peasants how good she was as a
child, from Dunois, d'Alençon, d'Aulon, how she was beautiful,
courteous, and brave, from Isambart and L'Advenu, how nobly she died,
and how she never made one complaint, but forgave all her enemies
freely. All these old Latin documents were collected, edited, and
printed, in 1849, by Monsieur Jules Quicherat, a long and noble labour.
After the publication of this book, there has been, and can be, no doubt
about the perfect goodness of Joan of Arc. The English long believed
silly stories against her, as a bad woman, stories which were not even
mentioned by her judges. The very French, at different times, have
mocked at her memory, in ignorance and disbelief. They said she was a
tool of politicians, who, on the other hand, never wanted her, or that
she was crazy. Men mixed up with her glorious history the adventures of
the false Maid, who pretended to be Joan come again, and people doubted
as to whether she really died at Rouen. In modern times, some wiseacres
have called the strongest and healthiest of women 'hysterical,' which is
their way of accounting for her Voices. But now, thanks mainly to
Monsieur Quicherat, and other learned Frenchmen, the world, if it
chooses, may know Joan as she was; the stainless Maid, the bravest,
gentlest, kindest, and wisest woman who ever lived. Her country people,
in her lifetime, called her 'the greatest of Saints, after the Blessed
Virgin,' and, at least, she is the greatest concerning whose deeds and
noble sufferings history preserves a record. And her Voices we leave to
Him who alone knows all truth.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This unnamed monk of Dunfermline describes Joan as 'a maid worthy to
be remembered, who caused the recovery of the kingdom of France from the
hands of the tyrant Henry, King of England. This maid I saw and knew,
and was with her in her conquests and sieges, ever present with her in
her life and at her end.' The monk proposed to write Joan's history;
unhappily his manuscript ends in the middle of a sentence. The French
historians, as was natural, say next to nothing of their Scottish
allies. See Quicherat, _Procès_, v. 339; and _The Book of Pluscarden_,
edited by Mr. Felix Skene.
[2] M. Quicherat thinks that this is a mere fairy tale, but the author
has sometimes seen wild birds (a lark, kingfisher, robin, and finch)
come to men, who certainly had none of the charm of Joan of Arc. A
thoughtful child, sitting alone, and very still, might find birds alight
on her in a friendly way, as has happened to the author. If she fed
them, so much the better.
[3] See M. Siméon Luce, _Jeanne d'Arc in Domremy_.
[4] Here we follow Father Ayroles's correction of Quicherat's reading of
the manuscripts.
[5] The Voice and vision of St. Michael alarmed her at first. In 1425
the French had defeated the English by sea, under Mount St. Michael, the
only fortress in Normandy which never yielded to England. Consequently
St. Michael was in high esteem as the patron of France, and, of all
saints, he was most likely to be in Joan's mind. (See Siméon Luce,
_Jeanne d'Arc à Domremy_.) On the other hand, Father Ayroles correctly
argues that Joan first heard the Voices the year before the victory near
Mount St. Michael.
[6] M. Quicherat distinguishes three strange kinds of power in Joan.
These are the power of seeing at a distance, the power of learning the
secret thoughts of men, and the power of foretelling future events. Of
each class 'one example at least rests on evidence so solid, that it
cannot be rejected without rejecting the whole basis of the history.' He
merely states facts, which he makes no attempt to explain. _Aperçus
Nouveaux_, p. 61.
[7] The date of this affair and that of the flight to Neufchâteau are
uncertain.
[8] It occurs in the _Chronique de la Pucelle_, by Cousinot de
Montreuil, at that time the king's secretary, and elsewhere.
[9] Theod. de Leliis, _Procès_, ii. 42.
[10] _Procès_, iii. 99.
[11] This description is a few weeks later than the start from Blois.
[12] This estimate was probably incorrect; 3,500 was more like the
actual number.
[13] _Procès_, iii. 100.
[14] _Procès_, iii. pp. 5, 6, 7. They were 'near Saint Loup,' he says,
'on the _right_ bank of the Loire above Orleans.' But (p. 7) he says
that after their conversation he and Joan crossed to the right from the
left bank. At all events they were some six miles higher up the river
than Orleans.
[15] Following Pasquerel, her priest. _Procès_, iii, 109.
[16] Quicherat, _Nouveaux Aperçus_, p. 76.
[17] 'Daughter of God, go on, and I will help thee.'
[18] Sir Walter Scott reckons that there were five men to each 'lance';
perhaps four men is more usually the right number.
[19] In _Procès_, iv. 414.
[20] D'Alençon, _Procès_, iii. 98.
[21] Dunois. _Procès_, iii. 14.
[22] Journal du Siège. _Procès_, iv. 195. As it stands, this authority
is thirty years later than the events.
[23] This man was Clement de Fauquemberque. When he recorded the relief
of Orleans, he drew on the margin of his paper a little fancy sketch of
Joan, with long hair, a woman's dress, a sword, and a banner with the
monogram of Jesus. This sketch still exists. (_Procès_, iv. 451.)
[24] This was not far from the present Théâtre Français. The statue of
the Maid, on horseback, is near the place where she was wounded.
[25] Paris, as the Clerk of Parliament wrote in his note-book, could
only be taken by blockade. It was a far larger city than Orleans, and we
see how long the English, in the height of courage and confidence, were
delayed by Orleans. But the Maid did not know the word 'impossible.'
Properly supported, she could probably have taken Paris by assault; at
the least she would not have left it while she lived.
[26] In 1715.
_HOW THE BASS WAS HELD FOR KING JAMES_
[Illustration: 'INSTANTLY A GUST OF WIND BLEW HER OFF THE ROCK INTO THE
SEA']
THE Bass Rock is a steep black mass of stone, standing about two miles
out to sea, off the coast of Berwickshire. The sheer cliffs, straight as
a wall, are some four hundred feet in height. At the top there is a
sloping grassy shelf, on which a few sheep are kept, but the chief
inhabitants of the rock are innumerable hosts of sea-birds. Far up the
rock, two hundred years ago, was a fortress, with twenty cannons and a
small garrison. As a boat can only touch at the little island in very
fine weather, the fortress was considered by the Government of Charles
II. an excellent prison for Covenanters. There was a house for the
governor, and a chapel where powder was kept, but where no clergyman
officiated. As the covenanting prisoners were nearly all ministers, and
a few of them prophets, it was thought, no doubt, that they could attend
to their own devotions for themselves. They passed a good deal of their
time in singing psalms. One prisoner looked into the cell of another
late at night, and saw a shining white figure with him, which was taken
for an angel by the spectator. Another prisoner, a celebrated preacher,
named Peden, once told a merry girl that a 'sudden surprising judgment
was waiting for her,' and instantly a gust of wind blew her off the rock
into the sea. The Covenanters, one of whom had shot at the Archbishop of
St. Andrews, and hit the Bishop of Orkney, were very harshly treated.
'They were obliged to drink the twopenny ale of the governor's brewing,
scarcely worth a half-penny the pint,' an inconvenience which they
probably shared with the garrison. They were sometimes actually
compelled to make their own beds, a cruel hardship, when their servants
had been dismissed, probably for plotting their escape. They had few
pleasures except writing accounts of their sufferings, and books on
religion; or studying Greek and Hebrew.
When King James II. was driven from his throne, in 1688, by the Prince
of Orange, these sufferers found release, they being on the Orange side.
But the castle of the Bass did not yield to William till 1690; it was
held for King James by Charles Maitland till his ammunition and stores
were exhausted. The Whigs, who were now in power, used the Bass for a
prison, as their enemies had done, and four Cavalier prisoners were shut
up in the cold, smoky, unwholesome jail, just as the Covenanters had
been before. These men, Middleton, Halyburton, Roy, and Dunbar, all of
them young, had been in arms for King James, and were taken when his
Majesty's forces were surprised and defeated by Livingstone at Cromdale
Haugh. Middleton was a lieutenant; his friends were junior in rank, and
were only ensigns.
These four lads did not devote their leisure to the composition of
religious treatises, nor to the learning of Latin and Greek. On the
other hand they reckoned it more worthy of their profession to turn the
Whig garrison out of the Bass, and to hold it for King James. For three
years they held it against all comers, and the Royal flag, driven out of
England and Scotland, still floated over this little rock in the North
Sea.
This is how the Four took the Bass. They observed that when coals were
landed all the garrison except three or four soldiers went down to the
rocky platform where there was a crane for raising goods. When they
went, they locked three of the four gates on the narrow rocky staircase
behind them.
On June 15, 1691, the soldiers went on this duty, leaving, to guard the
Cavaliers, La Fosse, the sergeant, Swan, the gunner, and one soldier.
These men were overpowered, or won over, by Middleton, Roy, Dunbar, and
Halyburton, who then trained a gun on the garrison below, and asked them
whether they would retire peacefully, or fight? They preferred to sail
away in the coal vessel, and very foolish they must have felt, when they
carried to the Whigs in Edinburgh the news that four men had turned them
out of an impregnable castle, and held it for King James.
Next night young Crawford of Ardmillan, with his servant and two Irish
sailors, seized a long-boat on the beach, sailed over, and joined the
brave little garrison of the Bass. Crawford had been lurking in disguise
for some time, and the two Irishmen had escaped from prison in
Edinburgh, and were not particularly well disposed to the government of
William.
When the news reached King James, in France, he sent a ship, laden with
provisions and stores of all kinds, and two boats, one of them carrying
two light guns. The Whigs established a force on the shore opposite, and
their boats cruised about to intercept supplies, but in this they
failed, the Cavaliers being too quick and artful to be caught easily.
On August 15, however, the enemy seized the large boat at night. Now
Ardmillan and Middleton were absent in search of supplies, and, being
without their leader, Roy and Dunbar thought of surrendering. But just
as they were about signing articles of surrender, Middleton returned
with a large boat and plenty of provisions, and he ran his boat under
the guns of his fort, whence he laughed at the enemies of his king.
Dunbar, however, who was on shore engaged in the business of the
surrender, was held as a prisoner. The Whigs were not much nearer taking
the Bass. On September 3 they sent a sergeant and a drummer to offer a
free pardon to the Cavaliers. They were allowed to land on the rock, but
Middleton merely laughed at the promise of a free pardon, and he kept
the sergeant and drummer, whom he afterwards released. A Danish ship,
sailing between the Bass and shore, had a gun fired across her bows, and
was made prize of; they took out everything that they needed, and then
let her go.
The Cavaliers lived a gay life: they had sheep on the Bass, plenty of
water, meat, biscuits, beer and wine. Cruising in their boats they
captured several ships, supplied themselves with what they wanted, and
held the ships themselves to ransom. When food ran short they made raids
on the shore, lifted cattle, and, generally, made war support war.
The government of the Prince of Orange was driven beyond its patience,
and vowed that the Bass should be taken, if it cost all the revenue of
the country. But Middleton had plenty of powder, he had carefully
collected more than five hundred balls fired at his fort by the English,
and he calmly awaited the arrival of hostile men-of-war. The 'Sheerness'
(Captain Roope) and the 'London Merchant' (Captain Orton) were sent with
orders to bombard the Bass and destroy the fort. After two days of heavy
firing, these vessels had lost a number of men, their rigging was cut to
pieces, and the ships were so damaged that they were glad to slink off
to harbour.
A close watch was now set, the 'Lion' (Captain Burd), a dogger of six
guns, and a long-boat cruised constantly in the neighbourhood. Captain
Burd is described as 'a facetious and intelligent man,' and a brave
officer, but his intelligence and courage were no match for Middleton.
In August 1693 a French frigate of twelve guns sailed under the Bass and
landed supplies. But the Cavaliers were so few that they had to borrow
ten French sailors to help in the landing of the provisions. At this
moment the 'Lion' bore down on the French vessel, which was obliged to
cut her cables to avoid being run down. The garrison of the Bass was
thus left with ten more mouths to feed, and with only the small supplies
that had been landed. They were soon reduced to two ounces of raw rusk
dough for each man, every day. Halyburton was caught and condemned to be
hanged, and a Mr. Trotter, who had helped the Cavaliers, was actually
hanged on shore, within sight of the Bass. Middleton fired a shot and
scattered the crowd, but that did not save poor Trotter.
[Illustration: The Bass attacked by the frigates]
Middleton had now only a few pounds of meal left. He therefore sent in a
flag of truce, and announced that he would surrender, but upon his own
terms. Very good terms they were. Envoys were dispatched by the Whigs:
Middleton gave them an excellent luncheon out of provisions kept for the
purpose, and choice French wines. He had also set coats and caps on the
muzzles of guns, above, on the rocks, so that the Whig envoys believed
he had plenty of men, and no scarcity of provisions. Their lordships
returned, and told the Privy Council that the Bass was in every respect
well provisioned and well manned. Middleton's terms were, therefore,
gladly accepted.
He got a full pardon for every one then in the garrison, and for every
one who had ever been in it (including Halyburton, now under sentence,
of death), 'and none hereafter shall call them to account.' They were to
depart with all the honours of war, with swords and baggage, in their
own boat. They were to be at liberty to come or go, whenever they
pleased, till May 15, 1694; and a ship, properly supplied, was to be
ready to carry them to France, if they preferred to join Dundee's
gallant officers in the French service. Finally, _all their expenses
were to be paid_! The 'aliment' formerly granted to them, and unpaid
when they seized the Bass, was to be handed over to them. On these terms
Middleton took leave of the fortress which he could not have held for a
week longer. There have been greater deeds of arms, but there never was
one so boyish, so gallant, and so gay.
_THE CROWNING OF INES DE CASTRO_
ABOUT the year 1340, when Edward III. was King of England, a young
Spanish lady set out from Castile on the long journey to the Court of
Portugal. She was the only daughter of John Manuel, Duke of Villena, a
very rich and powerful noble, much dreaded by the King of Castile for
his boldness and restlessness. Not many years before he had suddenly
left his post as Warden of the French Marches, to fight against the
Moors in the province of Murcia, and though the King was very angry at
his conduct, he did not dare to punish him, for fear that in some way he
himself would suffer. Villena's daughter Constance had passed much of
her time at the Castilian Court, where she lived in the state that was
expected of a great lady of those days, but when the treaty was made
which decided that she was to marry Dom Pedro, Crown Prince of Portugal,
her household was increased, and special attendants appointed to do
honour to her rank.
Now among the ladies chosen to form part of Constance's court, was a
distant cousin of her own, the beautiful and charming Ines de Castro.
Like Henry II. at the sight of Fair Rosamond, the young Dom Pedro, who
was not more than twenty years of age, fell passionately in love with
her. He did all in his power to hide his feelings from his bride, the
Infanta Constance, but did not succeed, and in a few years she died, it
was said of grief at her husband's coldness, after giving birth to the
Infant, Dom Fernando (1345). After her death, Dom Pedro's father King
Alfonso was anxious that he should marry again, but he refused all the
brides proposed for him, and people whispered among themselves that he
was already secretly wedded to Ines de Castro. Time went on, and they
had four children, but Ines preferred to live quietly in a convent in
the country, and never took her place as Dom Pedro's wife. Still,
however secluded she might be, large numbers of her fellow Castilians,
weary of the yoke of their own King, Pedro the Cruel, flocked into
Portugal, and looked to her for protection, which Dom Pedro for her sake
always gave them, and chief among these foreign favourites were Ines'
two brothers, Fernando and Alvaro Perez de Castro. This state of things
was very bitter to the old Portuguese courtiers, who complained to the
King that in future the country would only be governed by Spaniards.
These rumours grew so loud that in time they even reached the ears of
the Queen, and she, with the Archbishop of Braga, gave Dom Pedro solemn
warning that some plot was assuredly forming which would end in his
ruin. But Dom Pedro, naturally fearless, had faith in his father's
goodwill towards him, and looked on these kindly warnings as mere empty
threats, so proceeded gaily on his path. Thus in silence was prepared
the bloody deed.
When the courtiers thought all was ready they went in a deputation to
Alfonso IV., and pointed out what might be expected in the future if
Ines de Castro was allowed to remain the fountainhead for honours and
employments to all her countrymen who were attracted to Portugal by the
hopes of better pay. They enlarged on the fact that the national laws
and customs would be changed, and Portugal become a mere province of
Spain; worse than all, that the life of the Infant Dom Fernando was
endangered, as upon the death of the King, the Castros would naturally
desire to secure the succession to the children of Ines. If Ines were
only out of the way, Dom Pedro would forget her, and consent to make a
suitable marriage. So things went on, working together for the end of
Ines.
At last the King set forth, surrounded by many of his great nobles and
high officials, for Coimbra, a small town in which was situated the
Convent of Santa Clara, where Ines de Castro quietly dwelt, with her
three surviving children. On seeing the sudden arrival of Alfonso with
this great company of armed knights, the soul of Ines shrank with a
horrible fear. She could not fly, as every avenue was closed, and Dom
Pedro was away on the chase, as the nobles very well knew. Pale as an
image of death, Ines clasped her children in her arms, and flung herself
at the feet of the King. 'My lord,' she cried, 'have I given you cause
to wish my death? Your son is the Prince; I can refuse him nothing. Have
pity on me, wife as I am. Kill me not without reason. And if you have no
compassion left for me, find a place in your heart for your
grandchildren, who are of your own blood.'
The innocence and beauty of the unfortunate woman, who indeed had harmed
no one, moved the King, and he withdrew to think better what should be
done. But the envy and hatred of the courtiers would not suffer Ines to
triumph, and again they brought forward their evil counsels.
[Illustration: Ines pleads for her life]
'Do what you will,' at length said the King. And they did it.
A nameless pain filled the soul of Dom Pedro when on his return he
stood before the bloody corpse of Ines, whom he had loved so well. But
soon another feeling took possession of him, which shut out everything
else--the desire to revenge himself on her murderers. Hastily calling
together the brothers of Ines and some followers who were attached to
his person, he took counsel with them, and then collecting all the
men-at-arms within his reach, he fell upon the neighbouring provinces
and executed a fearful vengeance, both with fire and sword, upon the
innocent inhabitants. How long this rage for devastation might have
lasted cannot be told, but Dom Pedro was at length brought to a better
mind by Gonçalo Pereira, Archbishop of Braga, who, by the help of the
Queen, succeeded in establishing peace between father and son.
So a parchment deed was drawn up between the King and the Infant, in
which Dom Pedro undertook to pardon all who had been engaged in the
murder of Ines, and Alfonso promised to forgive those who had taken his
son's side, and borne arms against himself. And for his part Dom Pedro
vowed to perform the duties of a faithful vassal, and to banish from his
presence all turbulent and restless spirits. So peace was made.
Two years had hardly passed after this event before King Alfonso lay on
his death-bed in Lisbon, and then, thinking over what would happen when
he was dead, the feeling gradually came over him that in spite of Dom
Pedro's solemn oath the murderers of Ines would not be safe from his
revenge. Therefore he sent for the three knights, Diogo Lopez Pacheco,
Alvaro Gonçalves, and Pedro Coelho, who had counselled him to do the
dreadful deed and had themselves struck the blow, and bade them leave
their property and all they had, and fly while there was yet time to
foreign lands for refuge. The knights saw the wisdom of the advice, and
sought shelter in Castile. Then Alfonso prepared himself to die, the
murder of Ines lying heavy on his soul in his last days (1357).
King Pedro was thirty-seven years old when he ascended the throne, and
his first care was to secure peace to his kingdom. To this end he sent
several embassies to the King of Castile, who made a compact with
Alfonso 'to be the friend of his friends, and the enemy of his enemies.'
The results of this treaty may be easily guessed at. The King of
Portugal engaged to send back to Castile all who had fled to his
dominions from the tyranny of Pedro the Cruel, the ally of the Black
Prince, and was to receive in return the murderers of Ines, two of whom
he put to a horrible death. The third, Pacheco, was more fortunate. A
beggar to whom he had been accustomed to give alms discovered his
danger, and hastened to warn the knight, who was away from the city on a
hunting expedition. By his advice Pacheco changed clothes with the
beggar, and made his way through Aragon to the borders of France, where
he took refuge with Henry of Trastamara, half-brother of the King of
Castile. Here he remained, a poor knight without friends or property,
till the year 1367, when on his death-bed the King of Portugal suddenly
remembered that when dying the other two knights had sworn that Pacheco
was guiltless of the murder of Ines, and ordered his son to recall him
from exile and to restore all his possessions. Which Dom Fernando
joyfully did.
That, however, happened several years after the time we are speaking of,
when Dom Pedro had only just ascended the throne. Having satisfied his
feelings of revenge against the murderers of Ines, a nobler desire
filled his heart. He resolved that she who had been so ill-spoken of
during her life, and had died such a shameful death, should be
acknowledged openly as his wife and queen before his Court and his
people. So he assembled all the great nobles and officers, and, laying
his hand on the sacred books, swore solemnly that seven years before he
had taken Ines de Castro to wife, and had lived with her in happiness
till her death, but that through dread of his father the marriage had
been kept secret; and he commanded the Lord High Chamberlain to prepare
a deed recording his oath. And in case there should still be some who
did not believe, three days later the Bishop of Guarda and the Keeper of
the King's Wardrobe bore witness before the great lords gathered
together in Coimbra that they themselves had been present at the secret
marriage, which had taken place at Braganza, in the royal apartments,
according to the rites of the Church.
This solemn function being over, the last act in the history of Ines was
begun. By command of the King her body was taken from the convent of
Santa Clara, where it had lain in peace for many years, and was clad in
royal garments: a crown was placed on her head and a sceptre in her
hand, and she was seated on a throne for the subjects, who during her
life had despised her, to kneel and kiss the hem of her robe. One by one
the knights and the nobles and the great officers of the Crown did
homage to the dead woman, and when all had bowed before what was left of
the beautiful Ines they placed her in a splendid coffin, which was borne
by knights over the seven leagues that lay between Coimbra and
Alcobaça, the royal burying-place of the Portuguese. In this magnificent
cloister a tomb had been prepared carved in white marble, and at the
head stood a statue of Ines in the pride of her beauty, crowned a queen.
Bishops and soldiers, nobles and peasants, lined the road to watch the
coffin pass, and thousands with lighted torches followed the dead woman
to her resting place, till the whole long road from Coimbra to Alcobaça
was lit up with brightness. So, solemnly, Ines de Castro was laid in her
grave, and the honours which had been denied her in life were heaped
around her tomb.[27]
FOOTNOTE:
[27] Schäfer's _Geschichte von Portugal_.
_THE STORY OF ORTHON_
[There may be some who doubt whether the following
story is in all respects perfectly true. It is
taken, however, from a history book, the
'Chronicle of Jean Froissart,' who wrote about the
wars of the Black Prince.]
GREAT marvel it is to think and consider of a thing that I will tell
you, and that was told to me in the house of the Comte de Foix at
Orthez, by him who gave me to know concerning the battle of Juberot. And
I will tell you of this matter, what it was, for since the Squire told
me this tale, whereof you shall presently have knowledge, certes I have
thought over it a hundred times, and shall think as long as I live.
'Certain it is,' quoth the Squire, 'that the day after the fight at
Juberot the Comte de Foix knew of it, whereat men marvelled much how
this might be. And all day, on the Sunday and the Monday and the Tuesday
following, he made in his castle of Orthez such dull and simple cheer
that none could drag a word out of him. All these three days he would
not leave his chamber, nor speak to knight or squire, howsoever near him
they might be. And when it came to Tuesday at evening, he called his
brother, Sir Ernault Guillaume, and said to him in a low voice:
'"Our men have fought, whereat I am grieved; for that has befallen them
of their journey which I told them before they set out."
'Sir Ernault, who is a right wise knight and of good counsel, knowing
well the manner and ways of his brother the Count, held his peace for a
little while. Then the Count, willing to show his heart, and weary of
his long sadness, spoke again, and louder than before, saying:
'"By God, Sir Ernault, it is as I tell you, and shortly we shall have
news; for never did the land of Béarn lose so much in one day--no, not
these hundred years--as it has lost this time in Portugal."
'Many knights and squires standing round who heard the Count noted these
words, and in ten days learned the truth from them who had been in the
fight, and who brought tidings, first to the Court, and afterwards to
all who would hear them, of what befell at Juberot. Thereby was the
Count's grief renewed, and that of all in the country who had lost
brothers and fathers, sons and friends, in the fray.'
'Marry!' said I to the Squire, who was telling me his tale, 'and how
could the Count know or guess what befell? Gladly would I learn this.'
'By my faith,' said the Squire, 'he knew it well, as appeared.'
'Is he a prophet, or has he messengers who ride at night with the wind?
Some art he must have.'
Then the Squire began to laugh.
'Truly he must learn by some way of necromancy; we know not here truly
how he does it, save by phantasies.'
'Ah, good sir, of these fancies prithee tell me, and I will be grateful.
If it is a matter to keep silent, silent will I keep it, and never,
while I am in this country, will I open my mouth thereon.'
'I pray you do not, for I would not that any should know I had spoken.
Yet others talk of it quietly when they are among their friends.'
Thereon he drew me apart into a corner of the castle chapel, and then
began his tale, and spoke thus:
'It may be twenty years since there reigned here a baron named Raymond,
lord of Corasse, a town and castle seven leagues from Orthez. Now, the
lord of Corasse, at the time of which I speak, held a plea at Avignon
before the Pope against a clerk of Catalonia who laid claim to the
tithes of his town, the said clerk belonging to a powerful order, and
claiming the right of the tithes of Corasse, which, indeed, amounted to
a yearly sum of one hundred florins. This right he set forth and proved
before all men, for in his judgment, given in the Consistory General,
Pope Urban V. declared that the clerk had won his case, and that the
Chevalier had no ground for his claim. The sentence once delivered,
letters were given to the clerk enabling him to take possession, and he
rode so hard that in a very short time he reached Béarn, and by virtue
of the papal bull appropriated the tithes. The Sieur de Corasse was
right wroth with the clerk and his doings, and came to him and said:
[Illustration: 'I will send you a champion whom you will fear more than
you fear me']
'"Master Martin, or Master Pierre, or whatever your name may be, do you
think that I am going to give up my rights just because of those letters
of yours? I scarce fancy you are bold enough to lay hands on property of
mine, for you will risk your life in the doing. Go elsewhere to seek a
benefice, for of my rights you shall have none, and this I tell you,
once and for all."
'The mind of the clerk misgave him, for he knew that the Chevalier cared
not for men's lives, and he dared not persevere. So he dropped his
claims, and betook himself to his own country or to Avignon. And when
the moment had come that he was to depart, he entered into the presence
of the Sieur de Corasse, and said:
'"Sir, it is by force and not by right that you lay hands on the
property of the Church, of which you make such ill-use. In this land you
are stronger than I, but know that as soon as I may I will send you a
champion whom you will fear more than you fear me."
'The Sieur de Corasse, who did not heed his words, replied:
'"Go, do as you will; I fear you as little alive as dead. For all your
talk, I will never give up my rights."
'Thus parted the clerk and the Sieur de Corasse, and the clerk returned
to his own country, but whether that was Avignon or Catalonia I know
not. But he did not forget what he had told the Sieur de Corasse when he
bade him farewell; for three months after, when he expected it least,
there came to the castle of Corasse, while the Chevalier was quietly
sleeping, certain invisible messengers, who began to throw about all
that was in the castle, till it seemed as if, truly, nothing would be
left standing. The Chevalier heard it all, but he said nought, for he
would not be thought a coward, and indeed he had courage enough for any
adventure that might befall.
'These sounds of falling weights continued for a long space, then ceased
suddenly.
'When the morning came, the servants all assembled, and their lord
having arisen from bed they came to him and said, "Sir, have you also
heard that which we have heard this night?" And the Sieur de Corasse hid
it in his heart and answered, "No; what have you heard?" And they told
him how that all the furniture was thrown down, and all the kitchen pots
had been broken. But he began to laugh, and said it was a dream, and
that the wind had caused it. "Ah no," sighed his wife; "I also have
heard."
'When the next night arrived, the noise-makers arrived too, and made
more disturbance than before, and gave great knocks at the doors, and
likewise at the windows of the Sieur de Corasse. And the Chevalier
leaped out of his bed and demanded, "Who is it that rocks my bed at this
hour of the night?".
'And answer was made him, "That which I am, I am."
'Then asked the Chevalier, "By whom are you sent here?"
'"By the clerk of Catalonia, to whom you have done great wrong, for you
have taken from him his rights and his heritage. Hence you will never be
suffered to dwell in peace till you have given him what is his due, and
he is content."
'"And you, who are so faithful a messenger," inquired the Chevalier,
"what is your name?"
'"They call me Orthon."
'"Orthon," said the knight, "the service of a clerk is worth nothing,
and if you trust him, he will work you ill. Leave me in peace, I pray
you, and take service with me, and I shall be grateful."
'Now, the knight was pleasing to Orthon, so he answered, "Is this truly
your will?"
'"Yes," replied the Sieur de Corasse. "Do no ill unto those that dwell
here, and I will cherish you, and we shall be as one."
'"No," spoke Orthon. "I have no power save to wake you and others, and
to disturb you when you fain would sleep."
'"Do as I say," said the Chevalier; "we shall agree well, if only you
will abandon this wicked clerk. With him there is nothing but pain, and
if you serve me----"
'"Since it is your will," replied Orthon, "it is mine also."
'The Sieur de Corasse pleased Orthon so much that he came often to see
him in his sleep, and pulled away his pillow or gave great knocks
against the window of the room where he lay. And when the Chevalier was
awakened he would exclaim, "Let me sleep, I pray you, Orthon!"
'"Not so," said Orthon; "I have news to give you."
"And what news will you give me? Whence come you?"
'Then said Orthon, "I come from England, or Germany, or Hungary, or some
other country, which I left, yesterday, and such-and-such things have
happened."
'Thus it was that the Sieur de Corasse knew so much when he went into
the world; and this trick he kept up for five or six years. But in the
end he could not keep silence, and made it known to the Comte de Foix in
the way I shall tell you.
'The first year, whenever the Sieur de Corasse came into the presence of
the Count at Ortais or elsewhere, he would say to him: "Monseigneur,
such-and-such a thing has happened in England, or in Scotland, or in
Germany, or in Flanders, or in Brabant, or in some other country," and
the Comte de Foix marvelled greatly at these things. But one day he
pressed the Sieur de Corasse so hard that the knight told him how it was
he knew all that passed in the world and who told him. When the Comte de
Foix knew the truth of the matter, his heart leapt with joy, and he
said: "Sieur de Corasse, bind him to you in love. I would I had such a
messenger. He costs you nothing, and knows all that passes throughout
the world."
'"Monseigneur," said the Chevalier, "thus will I do."
'Thus the Sieur de Corasse was served by Orthon, and that for long. I
know not if Orthon had more than one master, but certain it is that
every week he came, twice or thrice during the night, to tell to the
Sieur de Corasse the news of all the countries that he had visited,
which the Sieur wrote at once to the Comte de Foix, who was of all men
most joyed in news from other lands. One day when the Sieur de Corasse
was with the Comte de Foix, the talk fell upon Orthon, and suddenly the
Count inquired, "Sieur de Corasse, have you never seen your messenger?"
'He answered, "No, by my faith, Monseigneur, and I have never even asked
to."
'"Well," he replied, "it is very strange. If he had been as friendly to
me as he is to you, I should long ago have begged him to show me who and
what he is. And I pray that you will do all you can, so that I may know
of what fashion he may be. You tell me that his speech is Gascon, such
as yours or mine."
'"By my faith," said the Sieur de Corasse, "it is only the truth. His
Gascon is as good as the best; and, since you advise it, I will spare
myself no trouble to see what he is like."
'Two or three nights after came Orthon, and finding the Sieur de Corasse
sleeping soundly, he pulled the pillow, so as to wake him. So the Sieur
de Corasse awoke with a start and inquired, "Who is there?"
'He answered, "I am Orthon."
'"And whence do you come?"
'"From Prague in Bohemia. The Emperor of Rome is dead."
'"And when did he die?"
'"The day before yesterday."
'"And how far is it from Prague to this?"
'"How far?" he answered. "Why, it is sixty days' journey."
'"And you have come so quickly?"
'"But, by my faith, I travel more quickly than the wind."
'"And have you wings?"
'"By my faith, no."
'"How, then, do you fly so fast?"
'Said Orthon, "That does not concern you."
'"No," he replied; "but I would gladly see of what form you are."
'Said Orthon, "My form does not concern you. Content you with what I
tell you and that my news is true."
'"Now, as I live," cried the Sieur de Corasse, "I should love you better
if I had but seen you."
'Said Orthon, "Since you have such burning desire to see me, the first
thing you behold to-morrow morning on getting out of bed will be I."
'"It is enough," answered the Sieur de Corasse. "Go. I take leave of you
for this night."
'When the day dawned, the Sieur de Corasse arose from his bed, but his
wife was filled with such dread of meeting Orthon that she feigned to be
ill, and protested she would lie abed all day; for she said, "Suppose I
were to see him?"
'"Now," cried the Sieur de Corasse, "see what I do," and he jumped from
his bed and sat upon the edge, and looked about for Orthon; but he saw
nothing. Then he threw back the windows so that he could note more
clearly all that was in the room, but again he saw nought of which he
could say, "That is Orthon."
'The day passed and night came. Hardly had the Sieur de Corasse climbed
up into his bed than Orthon arrived, and began to talk to him, as his
custom was.
'"Go to, go to," said the Sieur de Corasse; "you are but a bungler. You
promised to show yourself to me yesterday, and you never appeared."
'"Never appeared," said he. "But I did, by my faith."
'"You did not."
'"And did you see nothing," said Orthon, "when you leapt from your bed?"
'The Sieur de Corasse thought for a little; then he answered. "Yes," he
replied; "as I was sitting on my bed and thinking of you, I noticed two
long straws on the floor twisting about and playing together."
'"That was I," said Orthon. "That was the form I had taken upon me."
'Said the Sieur de Corasse: "That is not enough. You must take another
form, so that I may see you and know you."
'"You ask so much that I shall become weary of you and you will lose
me," replied Orthon.
'"You will never become weary of me and I shall never lose you,"
answered the Sieur de Corasse; "if only I see you once, I shall be
content."
'"So be it," said Orthon; "to-morrow you shall see me, and take notice
that the first thing you see as you leave your room will be I."
[Illustration: Orthon's last appearance]
'"It is enough," spoke the Sieur de Corasse; "and now go, for I fain
would sleep."
'So Orthon went; and when it was the third hour next morning[28] the
Sieur de Corasse rose and dressed as was his custom, and, leaving his
chamber, came out into a gallery that looked into the central court of
the castle. He glanced down, and the first thing he saw was a sow,
larger than any he had ever beheld, but so thin that it seemed nothing
but skin and bone. The Sieur de Corasse was troubled at the sight of the
pig, and said to his servants: "Set on the dogs, and let them chase out
that sow."
'The varlets departed and loosened the dogs, and urged them to attack
the sow, which uttered a great cry and looked at the Sieur de Corasse,
who stood leaning against one of the posts of his chamber. They saw her
no more, for she vanished, and no man could tell whither she had gone.
'Then the Sieur de Corasse entered into his room, pondering deeply, for
he remembered the words of Orthon and said to himself: "I fear me that I
have seen my messenger. I repent me that I have set my dogs upon him,
and the more that perhaps he will never visit me again, for he has told
me, not once but many times, that if I angered him he would depart from
me."
'And in this he said well; for Orthon came no more to the castle of
Corasse, and in less than a year its lord himself was dead.'
FOOTNOTE:
[28] Six o'clock.
HOW GUSTAVUS VASA WON HIS KINGDOM
NEARLY four hundred years ago, on May 12, 1496, Gustavus Vasa was born
in an old house in Sweden. His father was a noble of a well-known
Swedish family, and his mother could claim as her sister one of the
bravest and most unfortunate women of her time. Now, it was the custom
in those days that both boys and girls should be sent when very young to
the house of some great lord to be taught their duties as pages or
ladies-in-waiting, and to be trained in all sorts of accomplishments. So
when Gustavus Vasa had reached the age of six or seven, he was taken
away from all his brothers and sisters and placed in the household of
his uncle by marriage, whose name was Sten Sture. At that time Sweden
had had no king of her own for a hundred years, when the kingdom had
become united with Norway and Denmark in the reign of Queen Margaret by
a treaty that is known in history as the Union of Calmar (1397). As long
as Queen Margaret lived the three kingdoms were well-governed and happy;
but her successors were by no means as wise as she, and at the period we
are writing of the Danish stewards of King Hans and his son, Christian
II., oppressed and ill-treated the Swedes in every possible way, and
Sten Sture, regent though he was, had no power to protect them. From
time to time the Danish kings came over to Sweden to look after their
own interests, and on one of these visits King Hans saw little Gustavus
Vasa at the house of Sten Sture in Stockholm. He is said to have taken
notice of the boy, and to have exclaimed grimly that Gustavus would be a
great man if he lived; and the Regent, thinking that the less attention
the King paid to his unwilling subjects the safer their heads would be,
at once sent the boy back to his father.
[Illustration: Gustavus leaves school for good!]
For some years Gustavus lived at home and had a merry time, learning to
shoot by hitting a mark with his arrows before he was allowed any
breakfast, and roaming all over the woods in his little coat of scarlet
cloth. At thirteen he was sent for a time to school at Upsala, where he
learned music as well as other things, and even taught himself to make
musical instruments. One day, however, the Danish schoolmaster spoke
scornfully of the Swedes, and Gustavus, dashing the sword which he
carried through the book before him, vowed vengeance on all Danes, and
walked out of the school for good.
As far as we know, Gustavus probably remained with his father for the
next few years, and we next hear of him in 1514 at the Court of Sten
Sture the younger. Already he had obtained a reputation among his
friends both for boldness and caution, and though so young had learned
experience by carefully watching all that was going on around him. His
enemies, too, even the wicked Archbishop Trolle of Upsala, had begun to
fear him without knowing exactly why, and he had already made a name for
himself by his courage at the Swedish victory of Bränkyrka, when the
standard was borne by Gustavus through the thickest of the fight. This
battle dashed to the ground the King's hopes of getting Sten Sture, the
Regent, into his power by fair means, so he tried treachery to persuade
the Swede to enter his ship. But the men of Stockholm saw through his
wiles and declined this proposal, and the King was driven to offer the
Swedes a meeting in a church, on condition that Gustavus Vasa and five
other distinguished nobles should be sent first on board as hostages.
This was agreed to; but no sooner had the young men put off in their
boat than a large Danish vessel cut off their retreat, and they were at
once carried off to Denmark as prisoners.
For one moment it seemed likely that Gustavus would be hanged, and
Sweden remain in slavery for many years longer, and indeed, if his life
was spared, it was only because Christian thought it might be to his own
advantage. Still, spared it was, and the young man was delivered to the
care of a distant relation in Jutland, who was to forfeit 400l. in case
of his escape. Here things were made as pleasant to him as possible, and
he was allowed to hunt and shoot, though always attended by keepers.
One day, after he had behaved with such prudence that his keepers had
almost given up watching him, he managed, while strolling in the great
park, to give them the slip, and to hide himself where there was no
chance of anyone finding him. He contrived somehow to get hold of a
pilgrim's dress; then that of a cattle-driver, and in this disguise he
made his way to the free city of Lübeck, and threw himself on the mercy
of the burgomaster or mayor. By this time his enemies were on his track,
and his noble gaoler, Sir Eric Bauer, claimed him as an escaped
prisoner. But the people of Lübeck, who at that moment had a trade
quarrel with Denmark, declared that the fugitive was not a prisoner who
had broken his parole, but a hostage who had been carried off by
treachery, and refused to give him up, though perhaps their own interest
had more to do with their steadfastness than right and justice. As it
was, Gustavus was held fast in Lübeck for eight months before they would
let him go, and it was not until May 1520 that he crossed the Baltic in
a little fishing-smack, and sailed for Stockholm, then besieged by
Danish ships and defended by the widow of the Regent. But finding the
town closely invested, he made for Calmar, and after a short stay in the
castle he found his way into the heart of the country, learning sadly at
every step how the worst enemies of Sweden were the Swedes themselves,
who betrayed each other to their Danish foes for jealousy and gold. Like
Prince Charlie, however, he was soon to find faithful hearts among his
countrymen, and for every traitor there were at least a hundred who were
true. While hiding on his father's property, he sent some of his tenants
to Stockholm, to find out the state of affairs there. The news they
brought was terrible. A fearful massacre, known in history as the Blood
Bath, had taken place by order of the King. Citizens, bishops, nobles,
and even servants had been executed in the public market, and the King's
thirst for blood was not satisfied until some hundreds of Swedes had
laid down their lives. Among those who fell on the first day was the
father of Gustavus Vasa, who is said to have indignantly rejected the
pardon offered him by the King for his fidelity to his country. 'No,' he
exclaimed; 'let me die with all these honest men.' So he died, and his
son-in-law after him, and his wife, her mother, sister, and three
daughters were thrown into prison, where some of them were starved to
death. To crown all, a price was set on the head of Gustavus.
On hearing this last news Gustavus resolved to take refuge in the
province of Dalecarlia, and to trust to the loyalty of the peasants. By
this time it was the end of November (1520), and the snow lay thick upon
the ground; but this was rather in his favour, as his enemies would be
less likely to pursue him. So he cut his hair short and put on the dress
of a peasant, which in those days consisted of a short, thick jacket,
breeches with huge buttons, and a low soft hat. Then he bought an axe
and plunged into the forest. Here he soon made a friend for life in a
very tall, strong woodcutter, known to his neighbours by the name of the
'Bear-slayer.' This woodcutter was employed by a rich man, Petersen by
name, who had a large property near by, and had been at school with
Gustavus Vasa at Upsala. But hearing that Danish spies were lurking
around, Gustavus would not confide even in him, but patiently did what
work was given him like a common servant. An accident betrayed him. A
maid-servant happened one day to see the golden collar that Gustavus
wore next his skin, and told her master. Petersen then recognised his
old schoolfellow; but knowing that he would lose his own head if he gave
him shelter, he advised the young noble to leave his hiding-place, and
take shelter with another old friend, Arendt, who had once served under
him. Here he was received with open arms; but this hospitality only
concealed treachery, for his old comrade had formed a close friendship
with the Danish stewards who ruled the land, and only wanted an
opportunity to deliver Gustavus up to them. However, he was careful not
to let his guest see anything of his plan, and even pretended to share
his schemes for ridding the country of the enemy. So he hid Gustavus in
an attic, where he assured him he would be perfectly safe, and left him,
saying he would go round to all the neighbouring estates to enlist
soldiers for their cause. But of course he was only going to give
information about Gustavus, and to gain the reward.
Now, it was only an accident that prevented his treachery being
successful. The first man he applied to, though a friend to the Danes,
scorned to take a mean advantage of anyone, and told the traitor to go
elsewhere.
Furiously angry, but greedy and determined as ever, the traitor set
forth for the house of the Danish steward who lived nearest, well
knowing that from him he would receive nothing but gratitude.
But the traitor's wife happened to be standing at her own door as her
husband drove by, and guessed what had occurred and where he was going.
She was an honest woman, who despised all that was base and underhand,
so she stole out to one of her servants whom she could trust, and
ordered him to make ready a sledge, for he would have to go on a
journey. Then, in order that no one should know of Gustavus's escape
until it was too late to overtake him, she let him down out of the
window into the sledge, which drove off at once, across a frozen lake
and past the copper-mines of Fahlun, to a little village at the far end,
where Gustavus left his deliverer, giving him a beautiful silver dagger
as a parting gift.
[Illustration: 'Lazy loon! Have you no work to do?']
Sheltered by one person after another, and escaping many dangers on the
way, Gustavus found himself at last in the cottage of one of the royal
foresters, where he received a hospitable welcome from the man and his
wife. But unknown to himself, Danish spies had been for some time on his
track, and no sooner had Gustavus sat down to warm his tired limbs
before the fire where the forester's wife was baking bread, than they
entered and inquired if Gustavus Vasa had been seen to pass that way.
Another moment and they might have become curious about the stranger
sitting at the hearth, when the woman hastily turned round, and struck
him on the shoulder with the huge spoon she held in her hand. 'Lazy
loon!' she cried. 'Have you no work to do? Off with you at once and see
to your threshing.' The Danes only saw before them a common Swedish
servant bullied by his mistress, and it never entered their heads to ask
any questions; so once again Gustavus was saved.
Next day the forester hid him under a load of hay, and prepared to drive
him through the forest to the houses of some friends--foresters like
himself--who lived in a distant village. But Gustavus was not to reach
even this place without undergoing a danger different from those he had
met with before; for while they were jogging peacefully along the road
they came across one of the numerous parties of Danes who were for ever
scouring the country, and on seeing the cart a man stepped up, and
thrust through the hay with his spear. Gustavus, though wounded, managed
not to cry out, but reached, faint with loss of blood, his next
resting-place.
After spending several days hidden among the boughs of a fir-tree, till
the Danes began to think that their information must be false and
Gustavus be looked for elsewhere, the fugitive was guided by one peasant
after another through the forests till he found himself at the head of a
large lake, and in the centre of many thickly-peopled villages. Here he
assembled the dwellers in the country round, and spoke to them in the
churchyard, telling of the wrongs that Sweden had suffered and of her
children that had been slain. The peasants were moved by his words, but
they did not wish to plunge into a war till they were sure of being
successful, so they told Gustavus that they must find out something more
before they took arms; meantime he was driven to seek a fresh
hiding-place.
Gustavus was terribly dejected at the downfall of his hopes, for he had
thought, with the help of the peasants, to raise at once the standard of
rebellion; still he saw that flight was the only chance just now, and
Norway seemed his best refuge. However, some fresh acts of tyranny on
the part of their Danish masters did what Gustavus's own words had
failed to do, and suddenly the peasants took their resolve and sent for
Gustavus to be their leader.
The messengers found him at the foot of the Dovre-Fjeld Mountains
between Norway and Sweden, and he joyfully returned with them, rousing
the people as he went, till at last he had got together a force that far
outnumbered the army which was sent to meet it.
Gustavus was not present at the first battle, which was fought on the
banks of the Dale River, for he was travelling about preaching a rising
among the Swedes of the distant provinces, but he arrived just after, to
find that the peasants had gained an overwhelming victory. The fruits of
this first victory were far-reaching. It gave the people confidence,
thousands flocked to serve under Gustavus's banner, and within a few
months the whole country, excepting Stockholm and Calmar, was in his
hands. Then the nobles, in gratitude to their deliverer, sought to
proclaim him king, but this he refused as long as a single Swedish
castle remained beneath the Danish yoke, so for two more years he ruled
Sweden under the title of Lord Protector. Then in 1523, when Stockholm
and Calmar at last surrendered, Gustavus Vasa was crowned king.[1]
[Illustration: 1 Chapman's _History of Gustavus Vasa_.]
MONSIEUR DE BAYARD'S DUEL
NOW, when Monsieur de Bayard was fighting in the kingdom of Naples, he
made prisoner a valiant Spanish captain, Don Alonzo de Soto-Mayor by
name, who, not liking his situation, complained of the treatment he
received, which he said was unworthy of his dignity as a knight. This
was, however, quite absurd, and against all reason, for, as all the
world knows, there never was a man more courteous than Monsieur de
Bayard. At length, Monsieur de Bayard, wearied with the continued
grumblings of the Spaniard, sent him a challenge. This was at once
accepted, whether the duel should be fought on foot or on horseback, for
Don Alonzo refused to withdraw anything that he had said of the French
knight.
When the day arrived, Monsieur de la Palisse, accompanied by two hundred
gentlemen, appeared on the ground, escorting their champion Monsieur de
Bayard, mounted on a beautiful horse, and dressed all in white, as a
mark of humility, the old chronicler tells us. But Don Alonzo, to whom
belonged the choice of arms, declared that he preferred to fight on
foot, because (he pretended) he was not so skilful a horseman as
Monsieur de Bayard, but really because he knew that his adversary had
that day an attack of malarial fever, and he hoped to find him weakened,
and so to get the better of him. Monsieur de la Palisse and Bayard's
other supporters advised him, from the fact of his fever, to excuse
himself, and to insist on fighting on horseback; but Monsieur de Bayard,
who had never trembled before any man, would make no difficulties, and
agreed to everything, which astonished Don Alonzo greatly, as he had
expected a refusal. An enclosure was formed by a few large stones piled
roughly one on another. Monsieur de Bayard placed himself at one end of
the ground, accompanied by several brave captains, who all began to
offer up prayers for their champion. Don Alonzo and his friends took up
a position at the other end, and sent Bayard the weapons that they had
chosen--namely, a short sword and a poignard, with a gorget and coat of
mail. Monsieur de Bayard did not trouble himself enough about the matter
to raise any objection. For second he had an old brother-at-arms,
Bel-Arbre by name, and for keeper of the ground Monsieur de la Palisse,
who was very well skilled in all these things. The Spaniard also chose a
second and a keeper of the ground. So when the combatants had taken
their places, they both sank on their knees and prayed to God; but
Monsieur de Bayard fell on his face and kissed the earth, then, rising,
made the sign of the cross, and went straight for his enemy, as calmly,
says the old chronicler, as if he were in a palace, and leading out a
lady to the dance.
[Illustration: 'Surrender, Don Alonzo, or you are a dead man!']
Don Alonzo on his side came forward to meet him, and asked, 'Señor
Bayardo, what do you want of me?' He answered, 'To defend my honour,'
and without more words drew near; and each thrust hard with the sword,
Don Alonzo getting a slight wound on his face. After that, they thrust
at each other many times more, without touching. Monsieur de Bayard soon
discovered the ruse of his adversary, who no sooner delivered his
thrusts than he at once covered his face so that no hurt could be done
him; and he bethought himself of a way to meet it. So, the moment Don
Alonzo raised his arm to give a thrust, Monsieur de Bayard also raised
his; but he kept his sword in the air, without striking a blow, and when
his enemy's weapon had passed harmlessly by him, he could strike where
he chose, and gave such a fearful blow at the throat that, in spite of
the thickness of the gorget, the sword entered to the depth of four
whole fingers, and he could not pull it out. Don Alonzo, feeling that he
had got his death-blow, dropped his sword and grasped Monsieur de Bayard
round the body, and thus wrestling they both fell to the ground. But
Monsieur de Bayard, quick to see and to do, seized his sword, and,
holding it to the nostrils of his enemy, he cried, 'Surrender, Don
Alonzo, or you are a dead man;' but he got no answer, for Don Alonzo was
dead already. Then his second, Don Diego de Guignonnes, came forward and
said, 'Señor Bayardo, you have conquered him,' which everyone could see
for himself. But Monsieur de Bayard was much grieved, for, says the
chronicler, he would have given a hundred thousand crowns, if he had had
them, to have made Don Alonzo surrender. Still, he was grateful to God
for having given him the victory, and gave thanks, and, kneeling down,
kissed the earth three times. And after the body of Don Alonzo was
carried from the ground, he said to the second, 'Don Diego, my lord,
have I done enough?' And Don Diego answered sadly, 'Enough and too much,
Señor Bayardo, for the honour of Spain.' 'You know,' said Monsieur de
Bayard, 'that as the victor the body is mine to do as I will, but I
yield it to you; and truly, I would that, my honour satisfied, it had
fallen out otherwise.' So the Spaniards bore away their champion with
sobs and tears, and the French led off the conqueror with shouts of joy,
and the noise of trumpets and clarions, to the tent of Monsieur de la
Palisse, after which Monsieur de Bayard went straight to the church to
give thanks in that he had gained the victory. Thus it happened to the
greater renown of Monsieur de Bayard, who was esteemed not only by the
French, his countrymen, but by the Spaniards of the kingdom of Naples,
to be a peerless knight, who had no equal look where you may.[29]
FOOTNOTE:
[29] Brantôme.
_STORY OF GUDBRAND OF THE DALES_[30]
THERE was a man named Gudbrand of the Dales, who was as good as king
over the Dales though he had but the title of duke. He had one son, of
whom this story makes mention. Now when Gudbrand heard that King Olaf
was come to Loa and was compelling men to receive Christianity, he cut
the war-arrow and summoned all the dalesmen to meet him at the village
called Houndthorpe. Thither came they all in countless numbers, for the
lake Lögr lies near, and they could come by water as well as by land.
There Gudbrand held an assembly with them, and said: 'There is a man
come to Loa named Olaf; he would fain offer us a faith other than we had
before, and break all our gods in sunder. And he says that he has a God
far greater and mightier. A wonder it is that the earth does not burst
in sunder beneath him who dares to say such things; a wonder that our
gods let him any longer walk thereon. And I expect that if we carry Thor
out of our temple, wherein he stands and hath alway helped us, and he
see Olaf and his men, then will Olaf's God and Olaf himself and all his
men melt away and come to nought.'
At this they all at once shouted loud, and said that Olaf should never
escape alive if he came to meet them. 'Never will he dare to go further
south by the Dales,' said they. Then they appointed seven hundred men to
go and reconnoitre northwards to Breida. This force was commanded by
Gudbrand's son, then eighteen years old, and many other men of renown
with him; and they came to the village called Hof and were there for
three nights, where they were joined by much people who had fled from
Lesja Loa and Vagi, not being willing to submit to Christianity.
But King Olaf and Bishop Sigurd, after appointing teachers of religion
at Loa and Vagi, crossed over the channel between Vagi and the land and
came to Sil, and were there for the night; and they heard the tidings
that a large force was before them. And the people of the country who
were at Breida heard of the King's movements, and prepared for battle
against him. But when the King rose in the morn, then he clad him for
war, and marched south by Silfield, nor stayed till he came to Breida,
where he saw a large army arrayed for battle.
Then the King set his men in array and rode himself before them, and,
addressing the country-folk, bade them embrace Christianity.
They answered: 'Thou wilt have other work to do to-day than to mock us.'
And they shouted a war-shout and smote their shields with their weapons.
Then the King's men ran forward and hurled their spears; but the
country-folk turned and fled, few of them standing their ground.
Gudbrand's son was there taken prisoner; but King Olaf gave him quarter
and kept him near himself. Three nights the King was there. Then spake
he with Gudbrand's son, saying: 'Go thou back now to thy father and tell
him that I shall come there soon.'
Whereupon he went back home and told his father the ill tidings, how
they had met the King and fought with him; 'but our people all fled at
the very first,' said he, 'and I was taken prisoner. The King gave me
quarter, and bade me go and tell thee that he would come here soon. Now
have we left no more than two hundred men out of that force with which
we met him, and I advise thee, father, not to fight with that man.'
'One may hear,' said Gudbrand, 'that all vigour is beaten out of thee.
Ill luck went with thee, and long will thy journey be spoken of. Thou
believest at once those mad fancies which that man brings who hath
wrought foul shame on thee and thine.'
In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream. A man came to him, a
shining one, from whom went forth great terror. And thus he spake: 'Thy
son went not on a path of victory against King Olaf; and far worse wilt
thou fare if thou resolvest to do battle with the King, for thou wilt
fall, thyself and all thy people, and thee and thine will wolves tug and
ravens rend.'
Much afraid was Gudbrand at this terror, and told it to Thord
Fat-paunch, a chief man of the Dales.
He answered: 'Just the same vision appeared to me.'
And on the morrow they bade the trumpet-blast summon an assembly, and
said that they thought it good counsel to hold a conference with that
man who came from the north with new doctrine, and to learn what proofs
he could bring.
After this Gudbrand said to his son: 'Thou shalt go to the King who
spared thy life, and twelve men shall go with thee.' And so it was done.
[Illustration: 'In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream']
And they came to the King and told him their errand--that the
country-folk would fain hold a conference with him, and would have a
truce between them. The King liked that well, and they settled it so by
a treaty between them till the appointed meeting should be; and this
done they went back and told Gudbrand and Thord of the truce. The King
then went to the village called Lidsstadir, and stayed there five
nights. Then he went to meet the country-folk, and held a conference
with them; but the day was very wet.
As soon as the conference was met, the King stood up and said that the
dwellers in Lesja Loa and Vagi had accepted Christianity and broken down
their heathen house of worship, and now believed in the true God who
made heaven and earth and knew all things. Then the King sat down; but
Gudbrand answered:
'We know not of whom thou speakest. Thou callest him God whom neither
thou seest nor anyone else. But we have that god who may be seen every
day, though he is not out to-day because the weather is wet: and
terrible will he seem to you, and great fear will, I expect, strike your
hearts if he come into our assembly. But since thou sayest that your God
is so powerful, then let Him cause that to-morrow the weather be cloudy
but without rain, and meet we here again.'
Thereafter the King went home to his lodging, and with him Gudbrand's
son as a hostage, while the King gave them another man in exchange. In
the evening the King asked Gudbrand's son how their god was made. He
said that he was fashioned to represent Thor: he had a hammer in his
hand, and was tall of stature, hollow within, and there was a pedestal
under him on which he stood when out-of-doors; nor was there lack of
gold and silver upon him. Four loaves of bread were brought to him every
day, and flesh-meat therewith. After this talk they went to bed. But the
King was awake all night and at his prayers.
With dawn of day the King went to mass, then to meat, then to the
assembly. And the weather was just what Gudbrand had bargained for. Then
stood up the bishop in his gown, with mitre on head and crozier in hand;
and he spoke of the faith before the country-folk, and told of the many
miracles which God had wrought, and brought his speech to an eloquent
conclusion.
Then answered Thord Fat-paunch: 'Plenty of words has that horned one who
holds a staff in his hand crooked at the top like a wether's horn. But
seeing that you, my good fellows, claim that your God works so many
miracles, bespeak of Him for to-morrow that He let it be bright
sunshine; and meet we then, and do one of the twain, either agree on
this matter or do battle.'
And with that they broke up the assembly for the time.
There was a man with King Olaf named Kolbein Strong; he was from the
Firths by kin. He had ever this gear, that he was girded with a sword,
and had a large cudgel or club in his hand. The King bade Kolbein be
close to him on the morrow. And then he said to his men:
'Go ye to-night where the country-folk's ships are, and bore holes in
them all, and drive away from their farm-buildings their yoke-horses.'
And they did so.
But the King spent the night in prayer, praying God that He would solve
this difficulty of His goodness and mercy. And when service times were
over (and that was towards daybreak) then went he to the assembly. When
he came there but few of the country-folk had come. But soon they saw a
great multitude coming to the assembly; and they bare among them a huge
image of a man, all glittering with gold and silver; which when those
who were already at the assembly saw, they all leapt up and bowed before
this monster. Then was it set up in the middle of the place of assembly:
on the one side sat the folk of the country, on the other the King and
his men.
Then up stood Gudbrand of the Dales and spake: 'Where is now thy God, O
King? Methinks now He boweth His beard full low; and, as I think, less
is now thy bragging and that of the horned one whom ye call bishop, and
who sits beside thee yea, less than it was yesterday. For now is come
our god who rules all, and he looks at you with keen glance, and I see
that ye are now full of fear and hardly dare to lift your eyes. Lay down
now your superstition and believe in our god, who holds all your counsel
in his hand.' And so his words were ended.
The King spake with Kolbein Strong, so that the country-folk knew it
not: 'If it so chance while I am speaking that they look away from their
god, then strike him the strongest blow thou canst with thy club.'
Then the King stood up and spake: 'Plenty of words hast thou spoken to
us this morning. Thou thinkest it strange that thou canst not see our
God; but we expect that He will soon come to us. Thou goest about to
terrify us with thy god, who is blind and deaf and can neither help
himself nor others, and can in no way leave his place unless he be
carried; and I expect now that evil is close upon him. Nay, look now and
see toward the east, there goeth now our God with great light.'
Just then up sprang the sun, and toward the sun looked the country-folk
all. But in that moment Kolbein dealt such a blow on their god that he
burst all asunder, and thereout leapt rats as big as cats, and vipers
and snakes.
[Illustration: The destruction of the idol]
But the country-folk fled in terror, some to their ships, which when
they launched, the water poured in and filled them, nor could they so
get away, and some who ran for their horses found them not. Then the
King had them called back and said he would fain speak with them;
whereupon the country-folk turned back and assembled.
Then the King stood up and spake.
'I know not,' said he, 'what means this tumult and rushing about that ye
make. But now may well be seen what power your god has, whom ye load
with gold and silver, meat and food, and now ye see what creatures have
enjoyed all this--rats and snakes, vipers and toads. And worse are they
who believe in such things, and will not quit their folly. Take ye your
gold and jewels that are here now on the field and carry them home to
your wives, and never put them again on stocks or stones. But now there
are two choices for us: that you accept Christianity or do battle with
me to-day. And may those win victory to whom it is willed by the God in
whom we believe.'
Then stood up Gudbrand of the Dales and spake: 'Much scathe have we
gotten now in our god; but, as he cannot help himself, we will now
believe in the God in whom thou believest.' And so they all accepted
Christianity.
Then did the bishop baptize Gudbrand and his son. King Olaf and Bishop
Sigurd left religious teachers there, and they parted friends who before
were foes. And Gudbrand had a church built there in the Dales.
FOOTNOTE:
[30] From the Saga of King Olaf the Holy, or St. Olaf.
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE, of Bideford, in Devon, was one of the most noted
admirals in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Although he had large estates,
and was very rich, he liked better to go abroad to the new countries
just then discovered, or to fight for his country, than to stay at home.
From his wonderful courage and determination never to fly from an enemy,
however great the odds might be against him, he had the good fortune to
win glory in the most glorious sea-fight that has ever been fought.
In 1591 he was vice-admiral of a small fleet consisting of six line of
battle ships, six victuallers, and two or three pinnaces, under the
command of Lord Thomas Howard. In the month of August in that year, they
lay at anchor off the island of Flores, where they had put in for a
fresh supply of water, and to take in ballast, as well as to refresh the
crew, for many of them were sick.
Half of the crew of Grenville's ship were disabled and were on shore,
when news was brought that a Spanish Armada, consisting of fifty-three
ships, was near at hand.
When the admiral heard it, knowing himself to be at a disadvantage, he
instantly signalled to the rest of the fleet to cut or weigh their
anchors and to follow him out to sea.
All the commanders obeyed his summons but Sir Richard Grenville, whose
duty as vice-admiral was to follow at the rear of the fleet; he also
waited until his men who were on shore could rejoin him.
Meanwhile he had everything set in readiness to fight, and all the sick
were carried to the lower hold.
The rest of the English ships were far away, hull down on the horizon,
and the Spaniards, who had come up under cover of the island, were
already bearing down in two divisions on his weatherbow before the
'Revenge' was ready to sail. Then the master and others, seeing the
hopelessness of their case, begged Sir Richard to trust to the good
sailing of his ship, 'to cut his maine saile and cast about, and to
follow the admiral.'
But Sir Richard flew into a terrible passion, and swore he would hang
any man who should then show himself to be a coward. 'That he would
rather choose to dye than to dishonour himselfe, his countrie, and her
maiestie's shippe.'
He boldly told his men that he feared no enemy, that he would yet pass
through the squadron and _force_ them to give him way.
Then were the hundred men on the 'Revenge' who were able to fight and to
work the ship, fired with the spirit of their commander, and they sailed
out to meet the foe with a cheer.
All went well for a little time, and the 'Revenge' poured a broadside
into those ships of the enemy that she passed. But presently a great
ship named 'San Felipe' loomed over her path and took the wind out of
her sails, so that she could no longer answer to her helm.
While she lay thus helplessly, all her sails of a sudden slack and
sweeping the yards, she fired her lower tier, charged with crossbar
shot, into the 'San Felipe.' Then the unwieldy galleon of a thousand and
five hundred tons, which bristled with cannon from stem to stern, had
good reason to repent her of her temerity, and 'shifted herselfe with
all dilligence from her sides, utterly misliking her entertainment.' It
is said she foundered shortly afterwards.
Meanwhile four more Spanish vessels had come up alongside the 'Revenge,'
and lay two on her larboard and two on her starboard. Then a hand to
hand fight began in terrible earnest. As those soldiers in the ships
alongside were repulsed or thrown back into the sea, yet were their
places filled with more men from the galleons around, who brought fresh
ammunition and arms. The Spanish ships were filled with soldiers, in
some were two hundred besides mariners, in some five hundred, in others
eight hundred.
'And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears when
he leaps from the water to the land.'
Grenville was severely hurt at the beginning of the fight, but he paid
no heed to his wound, and stayed on the upper decks to cheer and
encourage his men. Two of the Spanish ships were sunk by his side, yet
two more came in their places, and ever and ever more as their need
might be.
Darkness fell upon the scene, and through the silence the musketry fire
crackled unceasingly, and the heavy artillery boomed from time to time
across the sea. About an hour before midnight Grenville was shot in the
body, and while his wound was being dressed, the surgeon who attended
him was killed, and at the same time Grenville was shot again in the
head.
Still he cried to his men, 'Fight on, fight on!'
[Illustration: 'Still he cried to his men, "Fight on, fight on!"']
Before dawn the Spaniards, weary of the fight that had raged for fifteen
hours, that had cost them fifteen ships and fifteen hundred men, had
drawn off to a little distance, and lay around her in a ring.
Daylight discovered the little 'Revenge' a mere water-logged hulk, with
rigging and tackle shot away, her masts overboard, her upper works
riddled, her pikes broken, all her powder spent, and forty of her best
men slain.
The glow that heralded sunrise shot over the sky and stained the placid
waters beneath to crimson. In this sea of blood the wreck lay, her decks
ruddy with the stain of blood sacrificed for honour.
She lay alone at the mercy of the waves, and unable to move save by
their rise and fall, alone with her wounded and dying and her dead to
whom could come no help.
Then Sir Richard Grenville called for the master gunner, whom he knew to
be both brave and trusty, and told him to sink the ship, so that the
Spaniards might have no glory in their conquest. He besought his sailors
to trust themselves to the mercy of God, and not to the mercy of men,
telling them that for the honour of their country the greater glory
would be theirs if they would consent to die with him.
The gunner and many others cried, 'Ay, ay, sir,' and consented to the
sinking of the ship.
But the captain and master would not agree to it: they told Sir Richard
that the Spanish admiral would be glad to listen to a composition, as
themselves were willing to do. Moreover there were still some men left
who were not mortally wounded, and who might yet live to do their
country good service. They told him too that the Spaniard could never
glory in having taken the ship, for she had six feet of water in the
hold already, as well as three leaks from shot under water, that could
not be stopped to resist a heavy sea.
But Sir Richard would not listen to any of their reasoning. Meanwhile
the master had gone to the general of the Armada, Don Alfonso Baffan,
who, knowing Grenville's determination to fight to the last, was afraid
to send any of his men on board the 'Revenge' again, lest they should be
blown up or sink on board of her.
The general yielded that 'all their lives should be saved, the companie
sent for England, and the better sorte to pay such reasonable ransome as
their estate would beare, and in the meane season to be free from galley
or imprisonment.'
After the men had heard what the captain said they became unwilling to
die, and with these honourable terms for surrender they drew back from
Sir Richard and the master gunner. 'The maister gunner, finding himselfe
prevented and maistered by the greater number, would have slaine
himselfe with a sword had he not beene by force withhold and locked into
his cabben.'
Then the Spanish general sent to the 'Revenge' to bring Sir Richard to
his own ship; for he greatly admired his wonderful courage.
Sir Richard told him they might do what they chose with his body, for he
did not care for it; and as he was being carried from his ship in a
fainting state, he asked those of his men near him to pray for him.
He only lived for three days after this, but was treated with the
greatest courtesy and kindness by the Spaniards. He did not speak again
until he was dying, when he said:
'Here am I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for that I
have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do, that hath fought for
his country, Queen, religion, and honour. Whereby my soul most joyfully
departeth out of this body, and shall always leave behind it an
everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath done his dutie
as he was bound to do.'
_THE STORY OF MOLLY PITCHER_
IT is a strange and interesting thing to see how history repeats itself
in a series of noble and picturesque incidents which are so much alike
that they might be easily mistaken for one another. Perhaps in the years
to come they will be mistaken for one another, and then those learned
scholars who love to deny all the things that are worth believing will
say, as they say now of William Tell and the apple: 'Whenever an event
is represented as happening in different countries and among different
nations, we may be sure that it never happened at all.' Yet to Spain
belongs Augustina, the Maid of Saragossa; to England, brave Mary Ambree;
and to America, Molly Pitcher, the stout-hearted heroine of Monmouth;
and these three women won for themselves honour and renown by the same
valorous exploits. Augustina is the most to be envied, for her praises
have been sung by a great poet; Mary Ambree has a noble ballad to
perpetuate her fame; Molly Pitcher is still without the tribute of a
verse to remind her countrymen occasionally of her splendid courage in
the field.
The Spanish girl was of humble birth, young, poor, and very handsome.
When Saragossa was besieged by the French during the Peninsular War, she
carried food every afternoon to the soldiers who were defending the
batteries. One day the attack was so fierce, and the fire so deadly,
that by the gate of Portillo not a single man was left alive to repulse
the terrible enemy. When Augustina reached the spot with her basket of
coarse and scanty provisions, she saw the last gunner fall bleeding on
the walls. Not for an instant did she hesitate; but springing over a
pile of dead bodies, she snatched the match from his stiffening fingers
and fired the gun herself. Then calling on her countrymen to rally their
broken ranks, she led them back so unflinchingly to the charge that the
French were driven from the gate they had so nearly captured, and the
honour of Spain was saved. When the siege was lifted and the city free
a pension was settled on Augustina, together with the daily pay of an
artilleryman, and she was permitted to wear upon her sleeve an
embroidered shield bearing the arms of Saragossa. Lord Byron, in his
poem 'Childe Harold,' has described her beauty her heroism, and the
desperate courage with which she defended the breach:
'Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost!
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foiled by a woman's hand before a battered wall?'
For the story of Mary Ambree we must leave the chroniclers--who to their
own loss and shame never mention her at all--and take refuge with the
poets. From them we learn all we need to know, and it is quickly told.
Her lover was slain treacherously in the war between Spain and Holland,
the English being then allies of the Dutch; and, vowing to avenge his
death, she put on his armour and marched to the siege of Ghent, where
she fought with reckless courage on its walls. Fortune favours the
brave, and wherever the maiden turned her arms the enemy was repulsed,
until at last the gallant Spanish soldiers vied with the English in
admiration of this valorous foe:
'If England doth yield such brave lassies as thee.
Full well may she conquer, faire Mary Ambree.'
Even the Great Prince of Parma desired to see this dauntless young girl,
and finding her as chaste as she was courageous and beautiful, he
permitted her to sail for home without any molestation from his army.
'Then to her own country she back did returne,
Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne;
Therefore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.'
[Illustration: Molly takes her husband's place]
And now for Molly Pitcher, who, unsung and almost unremembered, should
nevertheless share in the honours heaped so liberally upon the Spanish
and English heroines. 'A red-haired, freckled-faced young Irishwoman,'
without beauty and without distinction, she was the newly-wedded wife of
an artilleryman in Washington's little army. On June 28, 1778, was
fought the battle of Monmouth, famous for the admirable tactics by which
Washington regained the advantages lost through the negligence of
General Charles Lee, and also for the splendid charge and gallant death
of Captain Moneton, an officer of the English grenadiers. It was a
Sunday morning, close and sultry. As the day advanced, the soldiers on
both sides suffered terribly from that fierce, unrelenting heat in which
America rivals India. The thermometer stood at 96 in the shade. Men fell
dead in their ranks without a wound, smitten by sunstroke, and the sight
of them filled their comrades with dismay. Molly Pitcher, regardless of
everything save the anguish of the sweltering, thirsty troops, carried
buckets of water from a neighbouring spring, and passed them along the
line. Back and forward she trudged, this strong, brave, patient young
woman, while the sweat poured down her freckled face, and her bare arms
blistered in the sun. She was a long time in reaching her husband--so
many soldiers begged for drink as she toiled by--but at last she saw
him, parched, grimy, spent with heat, and she quickened her lagging
steps. Then suddenly a ball whizzed past, and he fell dead by the side
of his gun before ever the coveted water had touched his blackened lips.
Molly dropped her bucket, and for one dazed moment stood staring at the
bleeding corpse. Only for a moment, for, amid the turmoil of battle, she
heard the order given to drag her husband's cannon from the field. The
words roused her to life and purpose. She seized the rammer from the
trodden grass, and hurried to the gunner's post. There was nothing
strange in the work to her. She was too well versed in the ways of war
for either ignorance or alarm. Strong, skilful, and fearless, she stood
by the weapon and directed its deadly fire until the fall of Moneton
turned the tide of victory. The British troops under Clinton were beaten
back after a desperate struggle, the Americans took possession of the
field, and the battle of Monmouth was won.
On the following day, poor Molly, no longer a furious Amazon, but a
sad-faced widow, with swollen eyes, and a scanty bit of crape pinned on
her broad young bosom, was presented to Washington, and received a
sergeant's commission with half-pay for life. It is said that the French
officers, then fighting for the freedom of the colonies, that is,
against the English, were so delighted with her courage that they added
to this reward a cocked hat full of gold pieces, and christened her 'La
Capitaine.' What befell her in after-years has never been told. She
lived and died obscurely, and her name has well-nigh been forgotten in
the land she served. But the memory of brave deeds can never wholly
perish, and Molly Pitcher has won for herself a little niche in the
temple of Fame, where her companions are fair Mary Ambree and the
dauntless Maid of Saragossa.
_THE VOYAGES, DANGEROUS ADVENTURES, AND IMMINENT ESCAPES OF CAPTAIN
RICHARD FALCONER_[31]
I WAS born at a town called Bruton, in Somersetshire, and my parents
were well-to-do people. My mother died when I was very young; my father,
who had been a great traveller in his days, often told me of his
adventures, which gave me a strong desire for a roving life. I used to
beg my father to let me go to sea with some captain of his acquaintance;
but he only warned me solemnly against the dangers to which sailors were
exposed, and told me I should soon wish to be at home again.
But at last, through my father's misfortunes, my wish was gratified, for
he was robbed of a large sum of money, and found himself unable to
provide for me as he wished. Disaster followed disaster till he was
compelled to recommend to me the very life he had warned me against. I
left him for Bristol, carrying with me a letter he had written to a
captain there, begging him to give me all the help in his power, and
never saw him again. But Captain Pultney, his friend, welcomed me like a
son, and before long got me a berth on the 'Albion' frigate, in which I
set sail for Jamaica on May 2, 1699.
When we were in the Bay of Biscay a terrible storm came on; the billows
ran mountains high, and our vessel was the sport of the waves. A ship
that had overtaken and followed us the day before seemed to be in yet
worse distress, and signalled to us for aid; but we could not get very
near them without danger to ourselves. We sent out our long-boat, with
two of our men; but the rope that held her to the ship broke with the
violence of the waves, and she was carried away, nor did we ever hear
what became of our unhappy comrades. Very soon, in spite of the labour
of the crew, the vessel we were trying to help went down, and out of
fifty-four men, only four were saved who had the good fortune to catch
the ropes we threw out to them. When they told us their story, however,
we could not help wondering at the escape we had had, for the lost ship
belonged to a pirate, who had only been waiting till the storm was over
to attack us, and the men we had saved had, according to their own
account, been compelled against their will to serve the pirates.
Very soon the storm abated, and we continued our voyage. It was not long
before we had another adventure with pirates, and the next time they
caught us at midnight, and, hailing us, commanded us to come on board
their ship with our captain. We answered that we had no boat, and asked
them to wait till the morning. At this, the pirate captain threatened to
sink us, and therewith fired a gun at our vessel.
But we, being on our guard, had already mustered our guns and our
forces, thirty-eight men, counting the passengers, who were as ready to
fight as any of us. So we sent them back a broadside, which surprised
them and did them some damage. Then we tacked about, and with six of our
guns raked the enemy fore and aft; but we were answered very quickly
with a broadside that killed two of our men and wounded a third.
Presently they boarded us with about fourscore men, and we found all our
resistance idle, for they drove us into the forecastle, where we managed
to barricade ourselves, and threatened to turn our own guns against us
if we did not surrender immediately. But our captain being resolute,
ordered us to fire on them with our small-arms. Now close to our
steerage was a large cistern lined with tin, where several cartridges of
powder happened to be; and, happily for us, in the tumult of the firing
this powder took fire, and blew part of the quarter-deck and at least
thirty of the enemy into the air. On this we sallied out, and drove the
rest into their own vessel again with our cutlasses, killing several.
But, alas! with the explosion and the breach of the quarter-deck our
powder-room was quite blocked up, and we had to go on fighting with what
powder we had by us. Fight we did, nevertheless, for at least four
hours, when dawn broke, and to our great joy we saw another ship not far
away, and distinguished English colours. At this sight we gave a great
shout and fired our small-arms again; but our enemies very quickly cut
away their grappling irons, and did their best to make off. Their
rigging, however, was so shattered that they could not hoist sail, and
in the meantime up came the English ship, and without so much as hailing
the pirate, poured a broadside into her. Then followed a desperate
fight. As for us, we steered off, to clear away the lumber from our
powder-room, as we had nothing left to charge our guns with. In
half-an-hour we had loaded again, and returned to the fight; but as we
approached we saw the pirate sinking. The English ship had torn a hole
in her between wind and water, so that she sank in an instant, and only
eight men were saved. They told us that their captain was a pirate from
Guadaloupe, and when they sank they had not more than twenty men left
out of a hundred and fifty. On board our ship seven sailors and two
passengers were killed, while the Guernsey frigate that rescued us had
lost sixteen men and three wounded.
[Illustration: 'As we approached we saw the pirate sinking']
I need now relate no more of our adventures on the voyage till I come to
a very sad one which befell me in October. We were sailing towards
Jamaica, and one day I went into the boat astern which had been hoisted
overboard in the morning to look after a wreck we had seen on the water.
I pulled a book out of my pocket and sat reading in the boat; but before
I was aware, a storm began to rise, so that I could not get up the ship
side as usual, but called for the ladder of ropes in order to get back
that way. Now, whether the ladder was not properly fastened above, or
whether, being seldom used, it broke through rottenness, I cannot tell,
but down I fell into the sea, and though, as I heard afterwards, the
ship tacked about to take me up, I lost sight of it in the dusk of the
evening and the gathering storm.
Now my condition was terrible. I was forced to drive with the wind and
current, and after having kept myself above water for about four hours,
as near as I could guess in my fright, I felt my feet touch ground every
now and then, and at last a great wave flung me upon the sand. It was
quite dark, and I knew not what to do; but I got up and walked as well
as my tired limbs would carry me. For I could discover no trace of firm
land, and supposed I was on some sandbank which the sea would overflow
at high tide. But by-and-by I had to sit down out of sheer exhaustion,
though I only looked for death. All my sins came before me, and I prayed
earnestly, and at last recovered calm and courage.
In spite of all my efforts to keep awake, I fell fast asleep before dawn
came.
In the morning I was amazed to find myself among four or five very low
sandy islands, all separated half-a-mile or more, as I guessed, by the
sea. With that I became more cheerful, and walked about to see if I
could find anything eatable. To my grief I found nothing but a few eggs,
that I was obliged to eat raw, and this almost made me wish that the sea
had engulfed me rather than thrown me on this desert island, which
seemed to me inhabited only by rats and several kinds of birds.
A few bushes grew upon it, and under these I had to shelter at night,
but though I searched through the island, I could not find a drop of
fresh water. Nor could I have continued to live, having only the eggs I
found, if I had not succeeded in knocking down some birds with a stick,
which made me a grand banquet. This gave me heart to try to make a fire
after the fashion of the blacks by rubbing two sticks together, and I
managed to do this after a while, and cooked my birds on the fire I had
lit.
That night came a great storm, with the reddest lightning I had ever
seen, and rain that drenched me through. But in the morning I had the
joy of finding several pools of rain-water; and this put it into my mind
to make a kind of well, that I might keep a supply of water by me.
With my hands and a stick I dug a hollow place, large enough to hold a
hogshead of water, and when it was dug I paved it with stones, and,
getting in, stamped them down hard, and beat the sides close with my
stick so that the well would hold water a long time. But how to get it
there was a difficulty, till by soaking my shirt, which was pretty fine,
in water, I found that I could make it fairly water-tight, and with this
holland bucket carry two gallons at a time, which only leaked out about
a pint in two hundred yards. By this contrivance, in two days I had
filled my well.
[Illustration: Falconer knocks down a bird]
I next made myself a cupboard of earth by mixing water with it; but
unhappily it lasted only four days, the sun drying it so fast that it
cracked.
I had a small Ovid, printed by Elzevir, which fortunately I had put in
my pocket as I was going up the ladder of ropes. This was a great
solace, for I could entertain myself with it under a bush till I fell
asleep. Moreover, I had good health, though at first I was troubled with
headache for want of my hat, which I had lost in the water. But I made
myself a wooden cap of green sprigs, and lined it with one of the
sleeves of my shirt.
The island I was upon seemed about two miles round, and perfectly
deserted. Often did I wish to have companions in my misfortune, and
even--Heaven forgive me!--hoped for a wreck. I fancied that if I stayed
there long alone I should lose the power of speech, so I talked aloud,
asked myself questions, and answered them. If anybody had been by to
hear they would certainly have thought me bewitched, I used to ask
myself such odd questions!
But one morning a violent storm arose, which continued till noon, when I
caught sight of a ship labouring with the waves. At last, with the fury
of the tempest, it was completely thrown out of the water upon the
shore, a quarter of a mile from the place where I was watching. I ran to
see if there was anyone I could help, and found four men, all who were
in the vessel, trying to save what they could out of her. When I came up
and hailed them in English they were mightily surprised, and asked me
how I came there. I told them my story, and they were greatly distressed
for themselves as well as for me, since they found there was no hope of
getting their vessel off the sands; so we began to bemoan each other's
misfortunes. But I must confess that I was never more rejoiced in my
whole life, for they had on board plenty of everything for a
twelvemonth, and nothing spoiled. We worked as hard as we could, and got
out whatever would be useful to us before night. Then, taking off the
sails, we built a tent big enough to hold twenty men, and now I thought
myself in a palace.
The names of my four companions were Thomas Randal, Richard White,
William Musgrave, and Ralph Middleton. When we had been together some
time we began to be very easy, and to wait contentedly till we should
get out of this strait. But at last it came into our minds that a
determined effort might free us, and at once we set to work to clear the
sand from the ship. We laboured at the task for sixteen days, resting
only on Sundays, and by that time we had thrown up the sand on each
side, making a passage for our vessel right to the surface of the water
where it was lowest. We next got poles to put under the vessel to launch
her out, and resolved on the day following, God willing, to thrust her
into the water. But we were prevented by the illness of Mr. Randal, who
had been the guide and counsellor of our whole party. It soon became
evident that he could not recover, and the week after he died.
After this we succeeded in launching our vessel, but again a terrible
misfortune happened. We had made the ship fast with two anchors the
night before we intended to begin our voyage, and my companions resolved
to stay on shore, while I, as for some nights had been my custom, slept
on board.
I rested very contentedly, and in the morning went on deck ready to call
my companions. To my horror the sea surrounded the vessel; there was not
a glimpse of land! The shock was so terrible that I fell down on the
deck unconscious. How long I continued so I know not, but when I came to
myself a little reflection told me what had happened. A hurricane had
risen and torn away the vessel while I slept heavily, for the night
before we had all drunk too freely, and my remorse was the more bitter
for remembering Mr. Randal, the good man whose warnings, had he lived,
would have prevented this misfortune.
But fate was kinder to me than I deserved. For a fortnight I was tossed
upon the sea without discovering land, and with only the company of the
dog that had been poor Mr. Randal's. But three days later I saw land
right ahead, to my great joy, though joy was not unmixed with fear, as I
did not know into whose hands I might fall. It was on January 30 that I
reached the bay and town of Campeche, where I was met by two canoes,
with a Spaniard and six Indians, who, on learning something of my story,
I speaking in broken French, which the Spaniard understood, immediately
took me on shore to the Governor. He, on hearing of my arrival, sent for
me where he sat at dinner, and received me with the utmost kindness.
These generous Spaniards not only feasted me while I remained there, but
soon collected among themselves money enough to fit out my vessel ready
to go and rescue my poor companions left on the desert island. On
February 15 we sailed from Campeche Bay, after I, having nothing else to
give, had offered my Ovid to the Governor. He took it kindly, saying
that he should prize it very highly, not only for its own sake, but in
memory of my misfortunes.
Fifteen days after we reached the island, and found my three companions,
but in a miserable condition. For they were left without provisions and
with hardly any fresh water, every necessary being on board the ship;
and when we arrived they had been five days without eating or drinking,
and were too weak to crawl in search of food. But now, for the time
being, their misfortunes were ended, and I cannot describe the joy with
which they welcomed us after having almost despaired of any human help.
[Illustration: Falconer returns to his companions]
We soon set out again in the Spanish ship, and by-and-by, not without a
number of adventures on the way, we reached Jamaica, where I met with my
old shipmates, who were very much surprised to see me, thinking that I
had been lost in the sea many months ago. The ship had hung lights out
for several hours that I might know where to swim, but all to no
purpose, as I could see nothing through the darkness of the storm. I
found that the captain was very ill, and went to visit him on shore. He
told me that he did not expect to live long, and was glad I had come to
take charge of the ship, which would have sailed before if he had been
fit to command her. A week after he died, entrusting me with the
management of his affairs, and messages to his wife, who lived at
Bristol.
We set sail for England on June 1, 1700, and on August 21 we discovered
the Land's End. How rejoiced I was to see England once more, let them
judge that have escaped so many perils as I had done. My first task when
I reached Bristol was to inquire for my father; but a bitter
disappointment awaited me. He was dead, broken down before his time by
grief and misfortune. I could not bear to stay on shore, where
everything reminded me of him, and, for all my delight in coming back to
England, it was not long before I set sail again in quest of fresh
adventures.
FOOTNOTE:
[31] London, 1720.
_MARBOT'S MARCH_
I HAVE now [says General Marbot, speaking of his Spanish campaign]
reached one of the most terrible experiences of my military career.
Marshal Lannes had just won a great victory, and the next day, after
having received the reports of the generals, he wrote his despatch for
one of our officers to take to the Emperor. Napoleon's practice was to
give a step to the officer who brought him the news of an important
success, and the marshals on their side entrusted such tasks to officers
for whose speedy promotion they were anxious. It was a form of
recommendation which Napoleon never failed to recognise. Marshal Lannes
did me the honour of appointing me to carry the news of the victory of
Tudela, and I could indulge the hope of being major before long. But,
alas! I had yet much blood to lose before I reached that rank.
The high road from Bayonne to Madrid by Vittoria, Miranda del Ebro,
Burgos, and Aranda forks off at Miranda from that leading to Saragossa
by Logroño. A road from Tudela to Aranda across the mountains about
Soria forms the third side of a great triangle. While Lannes was
reaching Tudela the Emperor had advanced from Burgos to Aranda. It was,
therefore, much shorter for me to go from Tudela to Aranda than by way
of Miranda del Ebro. The latter road, however, had the advantage of
being covered by the French armies; while the other, no doubt, would be
full of Spanish fugitives who had taken refuge after Tudela in the
mountains. The Emperor, however, had informed Lannes that he was sending
Ney's corps direct from Aranda to Tudela; so thinking Ney to be at no
great distance, and that an advanced force which he had pushed on the
day after the battle to get touch of him at Taragona would secure me
from attack as far as Aranda, Lannes ordered me to take the shortest
road. I may frankly admit that if I had had my choice I should have
preferred to make the round by Miranda and Burgos; but the marshal's
orders were positive, and how could I express any fear for my own
person in the presence of a man who knew no more fear for others than he
did for himself?
The duties of marshal's aide-de-camp in Spain were terrible. During the
revolutionary wars the generals had couriers paid by the state to carry
their despatches; but the Emperor, finding that these men were not
capable of giving any intelligible account of what they had seen, did
away with them, and ordered that in future despatches should be carried
by aides-de-camp. This was all very well as long as we were at war among
the good Germans, to whom it never occurred to attack a French
messenger; but the Spaniards waged fierce war against them. This was of
great advantage to the insurgents, for the contents of our despatches
informed them of the movements of our armies. I do not think I am
exaggerating when I say that more than two hundred staff officers were
killed or captured during the Peninsular War. One may regret the death
of an ordinary courier, but it is less serious than the loss of a
promising officer, who, moreover, is exposed to the risks of the
battlefield in addition to those of a posting journey. A great number of
vigorous men well skilled in their business begged to be allowed to do
this duty, but the Emperor never consented.
Just as I was starting from Tudela, Major Saint-Mars hazarded a remark
intended to dissuade Lannes from sending me over the mountains. The
marshal, however, answered, 'Oh, he will meet Ney's advance guard
to-night, and find troops echelonned all the way to the Emperor's
head-quarters.' This was too decided for any opposition, so I left
Tudela November 4, at nightfall, with a detachment of cavalry, and got
without any trouble as far as Taragona, at the foot of the mountains. In
this little town I found Lannes' advance guard. The officer in command,
hearing nothing of Ney, had pushed an infantry post six leagues forward
towards Agreda. But as this body was detached from its supports, it had
been ordered to fall back on Taragona if the night passed without Ney's
scouts appearing.
[Illustration: 'Then, drawing their swords, they clashed at the rest']
After Taragona there is no more high road. The way lies entirely over
mountain paths covered with stones and splinters of rock. The officer
commanding our advanced guard had, therefore, only infantry and a score
of hussars of the 2nd (Chamborant) Regiment. He gave me a troop horse
and two orderlies, and I went on my way in brilliant moonlight. When we
had gone two or three leagues we heard several musket-shots, and
bullets whistled close past us. We could not see the marksmen, who were
hidden among the rocks. A little farther on we found the corpses of two
French infantry soldiers, recently killed. They were entirely stripped,
but their shakoes were near them, by the numbers on which I could see
that they belonged to one of the regiments in Ney's corps. Some little
distance farther we saw a horrible sight. A young officer of the 10th
Mounted Chasseurs, still wearing his uniform, was nailed by his hands
and feet, head downwards, to a barn door. A small fire had been lighted
beneath him. Happily, his tortures had been ended by death; but as the
blood was still flowing from his wounds, it was clear that the murderers
were not far off. I drew my sword; my two hussars handled their
carbines. It was just as well that we were on our guard, for a few
moments later seven or eight Spaniards, two of them mounted, fired upon
us from behind a bush. We were none of us wounded, and my two hussars
replied to the fire, and killed each his man. Then, drawing their
swords, they dashed at the rest. I should have been very glad to follow
them, but my horse had lost a shoe among the stones and was limping, so
that I could not get him into a gallop. I was the more vexed because I
feared that the hussars might let themselves be carried away in the
pursuit and get killed in some ambush. I called them for five minutes;
then I heard the voice of one of them saying, in a strong Alsatian
accent, 'Ah! you thieves! you don't know the Chamborant Hussars yet. You
shall see that they mean business.' My troopers had knocked over two
more Spaniards, a Capuchin mounted on the horse of the poor lieutenant,
whose haversack he had put over his own neck, and a peasant on a mule,
with the clothes of the slaughtered soldiers on his back. It was quite
clear that we had got the murderers. The Emperor had given strict orders
that every Spanish civilian taken in arms should be shot on the spot;
and, moreover, what could we do with these two brigands, who were
already seriously wounded, and who had just killed three Frenchmen so
barbarously? I moved on, therefore, so as not to witness the execution,
and the hussars shot the monk and the peasant, repeating, 'Ah, you don't
know the Chamborant!' I could not understand how an officer and two
privates of Ney's corps could be so near Taragona when their regiments
had not come that way; but most probably they had been captured
elsewhere, and were being taken to Saragossa, when their escort learned
the defeat of their countrymen at Tudela, and massacred their prisoners
in revenge for it.
After this not very encouraging start I continued my journey. We had
gone for some hours, when we saw a bivouac fire of the detachment
belonging to the advance guard which I had left at Taragona. The
sub-lieutenant in command, having no tidings of Ney, was prepared to
return to Taragona at daybreak, in pursuance of his orders. He knew that
we were barely two leagues from Agreda, but did not know of which side
that town was in possession. This was perplexing for me. The infantry
detachment would return in a few hours, and if I went back with it, when
it might be that in another league I should fall in with Ney's column, I
should be giving a poor display of courage, and laying myself open to
reproach from Lannes. On the other hand, if Ney was still a day or two's
march away, it was almost certain that I should be murdered by the
peasants of the mountains or by fugitive soldiers. What was more, I had
to travel alone, for my two brave hussars had orders to return to
Taragona when we had found the infantry detachment. No matter; I
determined to push on; but then came the difficulty of finding a mount.
There was no farm or village in this deserted place where I could
procure a horse. That which I was riding was dead lame; and even if the
hussars had been able, without incurring severe punishment, to lend me
one of theirs, theirs were much fatigued. The horse that had belonged to
the officer of chasseurs had received a bullet in the thigh during the
fighting. There was only the peasant's mule left. This was a handsome
beast, and, according to the laws of war, belonged to the two hussars,
who, no doubt, reckoned on selling her when they got back to the army.
Still the good fellows made no demur about lending her to me, and put my
saddle on her back. But the infernal beast, more accustomed to the pack
than to the saddle, was so restive that directly I tried to get her away
from the group of horses and make her go alone she fell to kicking,
until I had to choose between being sent over a precipice and
dismounting.
So I decided to set out on foot. After I had taken farewell of the
infantry officer, this excellent young man, M. Tassin by name--he had
been a friend of my poor brother Felix at the military school--came
running after me, and said that he could not bear to let me thus expose
myself all alone, and that though he had no orders, and his men were raw
recruits, with little experience in war, he must send one with me, so
that I might at least have a musket and some cartridges in case of an
attack. We agreed that I should send the man back with Ney's corps; and
I went off, with the soldier accompanying me. He was a slow-speaking
Norman, with plenty of slyness under an appearance of good nature. The
Normans are for the most part brave, as I learnt when I commanded the
23rd Chasseurs, where I had five or six hundred of them. Still, in order
to know how far I could rely on my follower, I chatted with him as we
went along, and asked if he would stand his ground if we were attacked.
He said neither yes nor no, but answered, 'Well, sir, we shall see.'
Whence I inferred that when the moment of danger arrived my new
companion was not unlikely to go and see how things were getting on in
the rear.
The moon had just set, and as yet daylight had not appeared. It was
pitch-dark, and at every step we stumbled over the great stones with
which these mountain paths are covered. It was an unpleasant situation,
but I hoped soon to come upon Ney's troops, and the fact of having seen
the bodies of soldiers belonging to his corps increased the hope. So I
went steadily on, listening for diversion to the Norman's stories of
his country. Dawn appeared at last, and I saw the first houses of a
large village. It was Agreda. I was alarmed at finding no outposts, for
it showed that not only did no troops of the marshal's occupy the place,
but that his army corps must be at least half a day further on. The map
showed no village within five or six leagues of Agreda, and it was
impossible that the regiments could be quartered in the mountains, far
from any inhabited place. So I kept on my guard, and before going any
farther reconnoitred the position.
Agreda stands in a rather broad valley. It is built at the foot of a
lofty hill, deeply escarped on both sides. The southern slope, which
reaches the village, is planted with large vineyards. The ridge is rough
and rocky, and the northern slope covered with thick coppice, a torrent
flowing at the foot. Beyond are seen lofty mountains, uncultivated and
uninhabited. The principal street of Agreda runs through the whole
length of the place, with narrow lanes leading to the vineyards opening
into it. As I entered the village I had these lanes and the vineyards on
my right. This is important to the understanding of my story.
Everybody was asleep in Agreda; the moment was favourable for going
through it. Besides, I had some hope--feeble, it is true--that when I
reached the farther end I might perhaps see the fires of Marshal Ney's
advance guard. So I went forward, sword in hand, bidding my soldier cock
his musket. The main street was covered with a thick bed of damp leaves,
which the people placed there to make manure; so that our footsteps made
no sound, of which I was glad. I walked in the middle of the street,
with the soldier on my right; but, finding himself no doubt in a too
conspicuous position, he gradually sheered off to the houses, keeping
close to the walls so that he might be less visible in case of an
attack, or better placed for reaching one of the lanes which open into
the country. This showed me how little I could rely on the man; but I
made no remark to him. The day was beginning to break. We passed the
whole of the main street without meeting any one. Just as I was
congratulating myself on reaching the last houses of the village, I
found myself at twenty-five paces' distance, face to face with four
Royal Spanish Carabineers on horseback with drawn swords. Under any
other circumstances I might have taken them for French gendarmes, their
uniforms being exactly similar, but the gendarmes never march with the
extreme advanced guard. These men, therefore, could not belong to Ney's
corps, and I at once perceived they were the enemy. In a moment I faced
about, but just as I had turned round to the direction from which I had
come I saw a blade flash six inches from my face. I threw my head
sharply back, but nevertheless got a severe sabre-cut on the forehead,
of which I carry the scar over my left eyebrow to this day. The man who
had wounded me was the corporal of the carabineers, who, having left his
four troopers outside the village, had according to military practice
gone forward to reconnoitre. That I had not met him was probably due to
the fact that he had been in some side lane, while I had passed through
the main street. He was now coming back through the street to rejoin his
troopers, when, seeing me, he had come up noiselessly over a layer of
leaves and was just going to cleave my head from behind, when, by
turning round, I presented to him my face and received his blow on my
forehead. At the same moment the four carabineers, who seeing that their
corporal was all ready for me had not stirred, trotted up to join him,
and all five dashed upon me. I ran mechanically towards the houses on
the right in order to get my back against a wall; but by good luck I
found, two paces off, one of the steep and narrow lanes, which went up
to the vineyards. The soldier had already reached it. I flew up there
too with the five carabineers after me; but at any rate they could not
attack me all at once, for there was only room for one horse to pass.
The brigadier went in front; the other four filed after him. My
position, although not as unfavourable as it would have been in the
street, where I should have been surrounded, still remained alarming;
the blood flowing freely from my wound had in a moment covered my left
eye, with which I could not see at all, and I felt that it was coming
towards my right eye, so that I was compelled by fear of getting blinded
to keep my head bent over the left shoulder so as to bring the blood to
that side. I could not staunch it, being obliged to defend myself
against the corporal, who was cutting at me heavily. I parried as well
as I could, going up backwards all the time. After getting rid of my
scabbard and my busby, the weight of which hampered me, not daring to
turn my head for fear of losing sight of my adversary, whose sword was
crossed with mine, I told the light infantry man, whom I believed to be
behind me, to place his musket on my shoulder, and fire at the Spanish
corporal. Seeing no barrel, however, I leapt a pace back and turned my
head quickly. Lo and behold, there was my scoundrel of a Norman soldier
flying up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him. The corporal
thereupon attacked with redoubled vigour, and, seeing that he could not
reach me, made his horse rear so that his feet struck me more than once
on the breast. Luckily, as the ground went on rising the horse had no
good hold with his hind legs, and every time that he came down again I
landed a sword cut on his nose with such effect that the animal
presently refused to rear at me any more. Then the brigadier, losing his
temper, called out to the trooper behind him, 'Take your carbine: I will
stoop down, and you can aim at the Frenchman over my shoulders.' I saw
that this order was my death-signal; but as in order to execute it the
trooper had to sheathe his sword and unhook his carbine, while all this
time the corporal never ceased thrusting at me, leaning right over his
horse's neck, I determined on a desperate action, which would be either
my salvation or my ruin. Keeping my eye fixed on the Spaniard, and
seeing in his that he was on the point of again stooping over his horse
to reach me, I did not move until the very instant when he was lowering
the upper part of his body towards me; then I took a pace to the right,
and leaning quickly over to that side, I avoided my adversary's blow,
and plunged half my sword-blade into his left flank. With a fearful yell
the corporal fell back on the croup of his horse; he would probably have
fallen to the ground if the trooper behind him had not caught him in his
arms. My rapid movement in stooping had caused the despatch which I was
carrying to fall out of the pocket of my pelisse. I picked it up
quickly, and at once hastened to the end of the lane where the vines
began. There I turned round and saw the carabineers busy round their
wounded corporal, and apparently much embarrassed with him and with
their horses in the steep and narrow passage.
[Illustration: Marbot's fight with the Carabineers in the alley]
This fight took less time than I have taken to relate it. Finding myself
rid, at least for the moment, of my enemies, I went through the vines
and reached the edge of the hill. Then I considered that it would be
impossible for me to accomplish my errand and reach the Emperor at
Aranda. I resolved, therefore, to return to Marshal Lannes, regaining
first the place where I had left M. Tassin and his picket of infantry. I
did not hope to find them still there; but at any rate the army which I
had left the day before was in that direction. I looked for my soldier
in vain, but I saw something that was of more use to me--a spring of
clear water. I halted there a moment, and, tearing off a corner of my
shirt, I made a compress which I fastened over my wound with my
handkerchief. The blood spurting from my forehead had stained the
despatches which I held in my hand, but I was too much occupied with my
awkward position to mind that.
The agitations of the past night, my long walk over the stony paths in
boots and spurs, the fight in which I had just been engaged, the pain in
my head, and the loss of blood had exhausted my strength. I had taken no
food since leaving Tudela, and here I had nothing but water to refresh
myself with. I drank long draughts of it, and should have rested longer
by the spring had I not perceived three of the Spanish carabineers
riding out of Agreda and coming towards me through the vines. If they
had been sharp enough to dismount and take off their long boots, they
would probably have succeeded in reaching me; but their horses, unable
to pass between the vine stocks, ascended the steep and rocky paths with
difficulty. Indeed, when they reached the upper end of the vineyards
they found themselves brought up by the great rocks, on the top of which
I had taken refuge, and unable to climb any farther. Then the troopers,
passing along the bottom of the rocks, marched parallel with me a long
musket-shot off. They called to me to surrender, saying that as soldiers
they would treat me as a prisoner of war, while if the peasants caught
me I should infallibly be murdered. This reasoning was sound, and I
admit that if I had not been charged with despatches for the Emperor, I
was so exhausted that I should perhaps have surrendered.
However, wishing to preserve to the best of my ability the precious
charge which had been entrusted to me, I marched on without answering.
Then the three troopers, taking their carbines, opened fire upon me.
Their bullets struck the rocks at my feet but none touched me, the
distance being too great for a correct aim. I was alarmed, not at the
fire, but at the notion that the reports would probably attract the
peasants who would be going to their work in the morning, and I quite
expected to be attacked by these fierce mountaineers. My presentiment
seemed to be verified, for I perceived some fifteen men half a league
away in the valley advancing towards me at a run. They held in their
hands something that flashed in the sun. I made no doubt that they were
peasants armed with their spades, and that it was the iron of these that
shone thus. I gave myself up for lost, and in my despair I was on the
point of letting myself slide down over the rocks on the north side of
the hill to the torrent, crossing it as best I could, and hiding myself
in some chasm of the great mountains which arose on the farther side of
the gorge. Then, if I was not discovered, and if I still had the
strength, I should set out when night came in the direction of Taragona.
This plan, though offering many chances of failure, was my last hope.
Just as I was about to put it into execution, I perceived that the three
carabineers had given up firing on me, and gone forward to reconnoitre
the group which I had taken for peasants. At their approach the iron
instruments which I had taken for spades or mattocks were lowered, and I
had the inexpressible joy of seeing a volley fired at the Spanish
carabineers. Instantly turning, they took flight towards Agreda, as it
seemed, with two of their number wounded. 'The newcomers, then, are
French!' I exclaimed. 'Here goes to meet them!' and, regaining a little
strength from the joy of being delivered, I descended, leaning on my
sword. The French had caught sight of me; they climbed the hill, and I
found myself in the arms of the brave Lieutenant Tassin.
This providential rescue had come about as follows. The soldier who had
deserted me while I was engaged with the carabineers in the streets of
Agreda had quickly reached the vines; thence, leaping across the vine
stocks, ditches, rocks, and hedges, he had very quickly run the distance
which lay between him and the place where we had left M. Tassin's
picket. The detachment was on the point of starting for Taragona, and
was eating its soup, when my Norman came up all out of breath. Not
wishing, however, to lose a mouthful, he seated himself by a cooking-pot
and began to make a very tranquil breakfast, without saying a word about
what had happened at Agreda. By great good luck he was noticed by M.
Tassin, who, surprised at seeing him returned, asked him where he had
quitted the officer whom he had been told off to escort. 'Good Lord,
sir,' replied the Norman, 'I left him in that big village with his head
half split open, and fighting with Spanish troopers, and they were
cutting away at him with their swords like anything.' At these words
Lieutenant Tassin ordered his detachment to arms, picked the fifteen
most active, and went off at the double towards Agreda. The little troop
had gone some way when they heard shots, and inferred from them that I
was still alive but in urgent need of succour. Stimulated by the hope of
saving me, the brave fellows doubled their pace, and finally perceived
me on the ridge of the hill, serving as a mark for three Spanish
troopers.
M. Tassin and his men were tired, and I was at the end of my strength.
We halted, therefore, for a little, and meanwhile you may imagine that I
expressed my warmest gratitude to the lieutenant and his men, who were
almost as glad as I was. We returned to the bivouac where M. Tassin had
left the rest of his people. The _cantinière_ of the company was there
with her mule carrying two skins of wine, bread, and ham. I bought the
lot and gave them to the soldiers, and we breakfasted, as I was very
glad to do, the two hussars whom I had left there the night before
sharing in the meal. One of these mounted the monk's mule and lent me
his horse, and so we set out for Taragona. I was in horrible pain,
because the blood had hardened over my wound. At Taragona I rejoined
Lannes' advance guard: the general in command had my wound dressed, and
gave me a horse and an escort of two hussars. I reached Tudela at
midnight, and was at once received by the marshal, who, though ill
himself, seemed much touched by my misfortune. It was necessary,
however, that the despatch about the battle of Tudela should be promptly
forwarded to the Emperor, who must be impatiently awaiting news from the
army on the Ebro. Enlightened by what had befallen me in the mountains,
the marshal consented that the officer bearing it should go by Miranda
and Burgos, where the presence of French troops on the roads made the
way perfectly safe. I should have liked very much to be the bearer, but
I was in such pain and so tired that it would have been physically
impossible for me to ride hard. The marshal therefore entrusted the duty
to his brother-in-law, Major Guéhéneuc. I handed him the despatches
stained with my blood. Major Saint-Mars, the secretary, wished to
re-copy them and change the envelope. 'No, no,' cried the marshal, 'the
Emperor ought to see how valiantly Captain Marbot has defended them.' So
he sent off the packet just as it was, adding a note to explain the
reason of the delay, eulogising me, and asking for a reward to
Lieutenant Tassin and his men, who had hastened so zealously to my
succour, without reckoning the danger to which they might have been
exposed if the enemy had been in force.
The Emperor did, as a matter of fact, a little while after, grant the
Cross both to M. Tassin and to his sergeant, and a gratuity of 100
francs to each of the men who had accompanied them. As for the Norman
soldier, he was tried by court martial for deserting his post in the
presence of the enemy, and condemned to drag a shot for two years, and
to finish his time of service in a pioneer company.
_EYLAU. THE MARE LISETTE_
GENERAL MARBOT, one of Napoleon's most distinguished soldiers, thus
describes his adventures at the battle of Eylau. 'To enable you to
understand my story, I must go back to the autumn of 1805, when the
officers of the Grand Army, among their preparations for the battle of
Austerlitz, were completing their outfits. I had two good horses, the
third, for whom I was looking, my charger, was to be better still. It
was a difficult thing to find, for though horses were far less dear than
now, their price was pretty high, and I had not much money; but chance
served me admirably. I met a learned German, Herr von Aister, whom I had
known when he was a professor at Sorèze. He had become tutor to the
children of a rich Swiss banker, M. Scherer, established at Paris in
partnership with M. Finguerlin. He informed me that M. Finguerlin, a
wealthy man, living in fine style, had a large stud, in the first rank
of which figured a lovely mare, called Lisette, easy in her paces, as
light as a deer, and so well broken that a child could lead her. But
this mare, when she was ridden, had a terrible fault, and fortunately a
rare one: she bit like a bulldog, and furiously attacked people whom she
disliked, which decided M. Finguerlin to sell her. She was bought for
Mme. de Lauriston whose husband, one of the Emperor's aides-de-camp, had
written to her to get his campaigning outfit ready. When selling the
mare M. Finguerlin had forgotten to mention her fault, and that very
evening a groom was found disembowelled at her feet. Mme. de Lauriston,
reasonably alarmed, brought an action to cancel the bargain; not only
did she get her verdict, but, in order to prevent further disasters, the
police ordered that a written statement should be placed in Lisette's
stall to inform purchasers of her ferocity, and that any bargain with
regard to her should be void unless the purchaser declared in writing
that his attention had been called to the notice. You may suppose that
with such a character as this the mare was not easy to dispose of, and
thus Herr von Aister informed me that her owner had decided to let her
go for what anyone would give. I offered 1,000 francs, and M. Finguerlin
delivered Lisette to me, though she had cost him 5,000. This animal gave
me a good deal of trouble for some months. It took four or five men to
saddle her, and you could only bridle her by covering her eyes and
fastening all four legs; but once you were on her back, you found her a
really incomparable mount.
'However, since while in my possession she had already bitten several
people, and had not spared me, I was thinking of parting with her. But I
had meanwhile engaged in my service Francis Woirland, a man who was
afraid of nothing, and he, before going near Lisette, whose bad
character had been mentioned to him, armed himself with a good hot roast
leg of mutton. When the animal flew at him to bite him, he held out the
mutton; she seized it in her teeth, and burning her gums, palate, and
tongue, gave a scream, let the mutton drop, and from that moment was
perfectly submissive to Woirland, and did not venture to attack him
again. I employed the same method with a like result. Lisette became as
docile as a dog, and allowed me and my servant to approach her freely.
She even became a little more tractable towards the stablemen of the
staff, whom she saw every day, but woe to the strangers who passed near
her! I could quote twenty instances of her ferocity, but I will confine
myself to one. While Marshal Augereau was staying at the château of
Bellevue, near Berlin, the servants of the staff, having observed that
when they went to dinner someone stole the sacks of corn that were left
in the stable, got Woirland to unfasten Lisette and leave her near the
door. The thief arrived, slipped into the stable, and was in the act of
carrying off a sack, when the mare seized him by the nape of the neck,
dragged him into the middle of the yard, and trampled on him till she
broke two of his ribs. At the shrieks of the thief people ran up, but
Lisette would not let him go till my servant and I compelled her, for in
her fury she would have flown at anyone else. She had become still more
vicious ever since the Saxon hussar officer, of whom I have told you,
had treacherously laid open her shoulder with a sabre-cut on the
battlefield of Jena.
'Such was the mare which I was riding at Eylau at the moment when the
fragments of Augereau's army corps, shattered by a hail of musketry and
cannon-balls, were trying to rally near the great cemetery. You will
remember how the 14th of the line had remained alone on a hillock,
which it could not quit except by the Emperor's order. The snow had
ceased for the moment; we could see how the intrepid regiment,
surrounded by the enemy, was waving its eagle in the air to show that it
still held its ground and asked for support. The Emperor, touched by the
grand devotion of these brave men, resolved to try to save them, and
ordered Augereau to send an officer to them with orders to leave the
hillock, form a small square, and make their way towards us, while a
brigade of cavalry should march in their direction and assist their
efforts. This was before Murat's great charge. It was almost impossible
to carry out the Emperor's wishes, because a swarm of Cossacks was
between us and the 14th, and it was clear that any officer who was sent
towards the unfortunate regiment would be killed or captured before he
could get to it. But the order was positive, and the marshal had to
comply.
[Illustration: Lisette catches the thief in the stable]
'It was customary in the Imperial army for the aides-de-camp to place
themselves in file a few paces from their general, and for the one who
was in front to go on duty first: then, when he had performed his
mission, to return and place himself last, in order that each might
carry orders in his turn, and dangers might be shared equally. A brave
captain of engineers named Froissard, who, though not an aide-de-camp,
was on the marshal's staff, happened to be nearest to him, and was
bidden to carry the order to the 14th. M. Froissard galloped off; we
lost sight of him in the midst of the Cossacks, and never saw him again
nor heard what had become of him. The marshal, seeing that the 14th did
not move, sent an officer named David; he had the same fate as
Froissard: we never heard of him again. Probably both were killed and
stripped, and could not be recognised among the many corpses which
covered the ground. For the third time the marshal called, "The officer
for duty." It was my turn.
'Seeing the son of his old friend, and I venture to say his favourite
aide-de-camp, come up, the kind marshal's face changed and his eyes
filled with tears, for he could not hide from himself that he was
sending me to almost certain death. But the Emperor must be obeyed. I
was a soldier; it was impossible to make one of my comrades go in my
place, nor would I have allowed it; it would have been disgracing me. So
I dashed off. But though ready to sacrifice my life I felt bound to take
all necessary precautions to save it. I had observed that the two
officers who went before me had gone with swords drawn, which led me to
think that they had purposed to defend themselves against any Cossacks
who might attack them on the way. Such defence, I thought, was
ill-considered, since it must have compelled them to halt in order to
fight a multitude of enemies, who would overwhelm them in the end. So I
went otherwise to work, and leaving my sword in the scabbard, I regarded
myself as a horseman who is trying to win a steeplechase, and goes as
quickly as possible and by the shortest line towards the appointed goal,
without troubling himself with what is to right or left of his path.
Now, as my goal was the hillock occupied by the 14th, I resolved to get
there without taking any notice of the Cossacks, whom in thought I
abolished. This plan answered perfectly. Lisette, lighter than a swallow
and flying rather than running, devoured the intervening space, leaping
the piles of dead men and horses, the ditches, the broken gun-carriages,
the half-extinguished bivouac fires. Thousands of Cossacks swarmed over
the plain. The first who saw me acted like sportsmen who, when beating,
start a hare, and announce its presence to each other by shouts of "Your
side! Your side!" but none of the Cossacks tried to stop me, first, on
account of the extreme rapidity of my pace, and also probably because,
their numbers being so great, each thought that I could not avoid his
comrades farther on; so that I escaped them all, and reached the 14th
regiment without either myself or my excellent mare having received the
slightest scratch.
[Illustration: 'I regarded myself as a horseman who is trying to win a
steeplechase']
'I found the 14th formed in square on the top of the hillock, but as the
slope was very slight the enemy's cavalry had been able to deliver
several charges. These had been vigorously repulsed, and the French
regiment was surrounded by a circle of dead horses and dragoons, which
formed a kind of rampart, making the position by this time almost
inaccessible to cavalry; as I found, for in spite of the aid of our
men, I had much difficulty in passing over this horrible entrenchment.
At last I was in the square. Since Colonel Savary's death at the passage
of the Wkra, the 14th had been commanded by a major. While I imparted to
this officer, under a hail of balls, the order to quit his position and
try to rejoin his corps, he pointed out to me that the enemy's artillery
had been firing on the 14th for an hour, and had caused it such loss
that the handful of soldiers which remained would inevitably be
exterminated as they went down into the plain, and that, moreover, there
would not be time to prepare to execute such a movement, since a Russian
column was marching on him, and was not more than a hundred paces away.
"I see no means of saving the regiment," said the major; "return to the
Emperor, bid him farewell from the 14th of the line, which has
faithfully executed his orders, and bear to him the eagle which he gave
us, and which we can defend no longer: it would add too much to the pain
of death to see it fall into the hands of the enemy." Then the major
handed me his eagle, saluted for the last time by the glorious fragment
of the intrepid regiment with cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" they were
going to die for him. It was the _Cæsar morituri te salutant_ of
Tacitus,[32] but in this case the cry was uttered by heroes. The infantry
eagles were very heavy, and their weight was increased by a stout oak
pole on the top of which they were fixed. The length of the pole
embarrassed me much, and as the stick without the eagle could not
constitute a trophy for the enemy, I resolved with the major's consent
to break it and only carry off the eagle. But at the moment when I was
leaning forward from my saddle in order to get a better purchase to
separate the eagle from the pole, one of the numerous cannon-balls which
the Russians were sending at us went through the hinder peak of my hat,
less than an inch from my head. The shock was all the more terrible
since my hat, being fastened on by a strong leather strap under the
chin, offered more resistance to the blow. I seemed to be blotted out of
existence, but I did not fall from my horse; blood flowed from my nose,
my ears, and even my eyes; nevertheless I still could hear and see, and
I preserved all my intellectual faculties, although my limbs were
paralysed to such an extent that I could not move a single finger.
'Meanwhile the column of Russian infantry which we had just perceived
was mounting the hill; they were grenadiers wearing mitre-shaped caps
with metal ornaments. Soaked with spirits, and in vastly superior
numbers, these men hurled themselves furiously on the feeble remains of
the unfortunate 14th, whose soldiers had for several days been living
only on potatoes and melted snow; that day they had not had time to
prepare even this wretched meal. Still our brave Frenchmen made a
valiant defence with their bayonets, and when the square had been
broken, they held together in groups and sustained the unequal fight for
a long time.
'During this terrible struggle several of our men, in order not to be
struck from behind, set their backs against my mare's flanks, she,
contrary to her practice, remaining perfectly quiet. If I had been able
to move I should have urged her forward to get away from this field of
slaughter. But it was absolutely impossible for me to press my legs so
as to make the animal I rode understand my wish. My position was the
more frightful since, as I have said, I retained the power of sight and
thought. Not only were they fighting all round me, which exposed me to
bayonet-thrusts, but a Russian officer with a hideous countenance kept
making efforts to run me through. As the crowd of combatants prevented
him from reaching me, he pointed me out to the soldiers around him, and
they, taking me for the commander of the French, as I was the only
mounted man, kept firing at me over their comrades' heads, so that
bullets were constantly whistling past my ear. One of them would
certainly have taken away the small amount of life that was still in me
had not a terrible incident led to my escape from the _mêlée_.
[Illustration: Lisette carries off the Russian officer]
'Among the Frenchmen who had got their flanks against my mare's near
flank was a quartermaster-sergeant, whom I knew from having frequently
seen him at the marshal's, making copies for him of the "morning
states." This man, having been attacked and wounded by several of the
enemy, fell under Lisette's belly, and was seizing my leg to pull
himself up, when a Russian grenadier, too drunk to stand steady, wishing
to finish him by a thrust in the breast, lost his balance, and the point
of his bayonet went astray into my cloak, which at that moment was
puffed out by the wind. Seeing that I did not fall, the Russian left the
sergeant and aimed a great number of blows at me. These were at first
fruitless, but one at last reached me, piercing my left arm, and I felt
with a kind of horrible pleasure my blood flowing hot. The Russian
grenadier with redoubled fury made another thrust at me, but, stumbling
with the force which he put into it, drove his bayonet into my mare's
thigh. Her ferocious instincts being restored by the pain, she sprang at
the Russian, and at one mouthful tore off his nose, lips, eyebrows, and
all the skin of his face, making of him a living death's-head, dripping
with blood. Then hurling herself with fury among the combatants, kicking
and biting, Lisette upset everything that she met on her road. The
officer who had made so many attempts to strike me tried to hold her by
the bridle; she seized him by his belly, and carrying him off with ease,
she bore him out of the crush to the foot of the hillock, where, having
torn out his entrails and mashed his body under her feet, she left him
dying on the snow. Then, taking the road by which she had come, she made
her way at full gallop towards the cemetery of Eylau. Thanks to the
hussar's saddle on which I was sitting, I kept my seat. But a new danger
awaited me. The snow had begun to fall again, and great flakes obscured
the daylight when, having arrived close to Eylau, I found myself in
front of a battalion of the Old Guard, who, unable to see clearly at a
distance, took me for an enemy's officer leading a charge of cavalry.
The whole battalion at once opened fire on me; my cloak and my saddle
were riddled, but I was not wounded nor was my mare. She continued her
rapid course, and went through the three ranks of the battalion as
easily as a snake through a hedge. But this last spurt had exhausted
Lisette's strength; she had lost much blood, for one of the large veins
in her thigh had been divided, and the poor animal collapsed suddenly
and fell on one side, rolling me over on the other.
'Stretched on the snow among the piles of dead and dying, unable to move
in any way, I gradually and without pain lost consciousness. I felt as
if I was being gently rocked to sleep. At last I fainted quite away
without being revived by the mighty clatter which Murat's ninety
squadrons advancing to the charge must have made in passing close to me
and perhaps over me. I judge that my swoon lasted four hours, and when I
came to my senses I found myself in this horrible position. I was
completely naked, having nothing on but my hat and my right boot. A man
of the transport corps, thinking me dead, had stripped me in the usual
fashion, and wishing to pull off the only boot that remained, was
dragging me by one leg with his foot against my body. The jerks which
the man gave me no doubt had restored me to my senses. I succeeded in
sitting up and spitting out the clots of blood from my throat. The shock
caused by the wind of the ball had produced such an extravasation of
blood, that my face, shoulders, and chest were black, while the rest of
my body was stained red by the blood from my wound. My hat and my hair
were full of bloodstained snow, and as I rolled my haggard eyes I must
have been horrible to see. Anyhow, the transport man looked the other
way, and went off with my property without my being able to say a single
word to him, so utterly prostrate was I. But I had recovered my mental
faculties, and my thoughts turned towards God and my mother.
'The setting sun cast some feeble rays through the clouds. I took what I
believed to be a last farewell of it. "If," thought I, "I had only not
been stripped, some one of the numerous people who pass near me would
notice the gold lace on my pelisse, and, recognising that I am a
marshal's aide-de-camp, would perhaps have carried me to the ambulance.
But seeing me naked, they do not distinguish me from the corpses with
which I am surrounded, and, indeed, there soon will be no difference
between them and me. I cannot call help, and the approaching night will
take away all hope of succour. The cold is increasing: shall I be able
to bear it till to-morrow, seeing that I feel my naked limbs stiffening
already?" So I made up my mind to die, for if I had been saved by a
miracle in the midst of the terrible _mêlée_ between the Russians and
the 14th, could I expect that there would be a second miracle to extract
me from my present horrible position? The second miracle did take place
in the following manner. Marshal Augereau had a valet named Pierre
Dannel, a very intelligent and very faithful fellow, but somewhat given
to arguing. Now it happened during our stay at La Houssaye that Dannel,
having answered his master, got dismissed. In despair, he begged me to
plead for him. This I did so zealously that I succeeded in getting him
taken back into favour. From that time the valet had been devotedly
attached to me. The outfit having been all left behind at Landsberg, he
had started all out of his own head on the day of battle to bring
provisions to his master. He had placed these in a very light waggon
which could go everywhere, and contained the articles which the marshal
most frequently required. This little waggon was driven by a soldier
belonging to the same company of the transport corps as the man who had
just stripped me. This latter, with my property in his hands, passed
near the waggon, which was standing at the side of the cemetery, and,
recognising the driver, his old comrade, he hailed him, and showed him
the splendid booty which he had just taken from a dead man.
'Now you must know that when we were in cantonments on the Vistula the
marshal happened to send Dannel to Warsaw for provisions, and I
commissioned him to get the trimming of black astrachan taken from my
pelisse, and have it replaced by grey, this having recently been adopted
by Prince Berthier's aides-de-camp, who set the fashion in the army. Up
to now, I was the only one of Augereau's officers who had grey
astrachan. Dannel, who was present when the transport man made his
display, quickly recognised my pelisse, which made him look more closely
at the other effects of the alleged dead man. Among these he found my
watch, which had belonged to my father and was marked with his cypher.
The valet had no longer any doubt that I had been killed, and while
deploring my loss, he wished to see me for the last time. Guided by the
transport man he reached me and found me living. Great was the joy of
this worthy man, to whom I certainly owed my life. He made haste to
fetch my servant and some orderlies, and had me carried to a barn, where
he rubbed my body with rum. Meanwhile someone went to fetch Dr. Raymond,
who came at length, dressed the wound in my arm, and declared that the
release of blood due to it would be the saving of me.
[Illustration: 'Guided by the transport man he reached me and found me
living']
'My brother and my comrades were quickly round me; something was given
to the transport soldier who had taken my clothes, which he returned
very willingly, but as they were saturated with water and with blood,
Marshal Augereau had me wrapped in things belonging to himself. The
Emperor had given the marshal leave to go to Landsberg, but as his wound
forbad him to ride, his aides-de-camp had procured a sledge, on which
the body of a carriage had been placed. The marshal, who could not make
up his mind to leave me, had me fastened up beside him, for I was too
weak to sit upright.
'Before I was removed from the field of battle I had seen my poor
Lisette near me. The cold had caused the blood from her wound to clot,
and prevented the loss from being too great. The creature had got on to
her legs and was eating the straw which the soldiers had used the night
before for their bivouacs. My servant, who was very fond of Lisette, had
noticed her when he was helping to remove me, and cutting up into
bandages the shirt and hood of a dead soldier, he wrapped her leg with
them, and thus made her able to walk to Landsberg. The officer in
command of the small garrison there had had the forethought to get
quarters ready for the wounded, so the staff found places in a large and
good inn.
'In this way, instead of passing the night without help, stretched naked
on the snow, I lay on a good bed surrounded by the attention of my
brother, my comrades, and the kind Dr. Raymond. The doctor had been
obliged to cut off the boot which the transport man had not been able to
pull off, and which had become all the more difficult to remove owing to
the swelling of my foot. You will see presently that this very nearly
cost me my leg, and perhaps my life.
'We stayed thirty-six hours at Landsberg. This rest, and the good care
taken of me, restored me to the use of speech and senses, and when on
the second day after the battle Marshal Augereau started for Warsaw I
was able to be carried in the sledge. The journey lasted eight days.
Gradually I recovered strength, but as strength returned I began to feel
a sensation of icy cold in my right foot. At Warsaw I was lodged in the
house that had been taken for the marshal, which suited me the better
that I was not able to leave my bed. Yet the wound in my arm was doing
well, the extravasated blood was becoming absorbed, my skin was
recovering its natural colour. The doctor knew not to what he could
ascribe my inability to rise, till, hearing me complaining of my leg, he
examined it, and found that my foot was gangrened. An accident of my
early days was the cause of this new trouble. At Sorèze I had my right
foot wounded by the unbuttoned foil of a schoolfellow with whom I was
fencing. It seemed that the muscles of the part had become sensitive,
and had suffered much from cold while I was lying unconscious on the
field of Eylau; thence had resulted a swelling which explained the
difficulty experienced by the soldier in dragging off my right boot. The
foot was frost-bitten, and as it had not been treated in time, gangrene
had appeared in the site of the old wound from the foil. The place was
covered with an eschar as large as a five-franc piece. The doctor
turned pale when he saw the foot: then, making four servants hold me,
and taking his knife, he lifted the eschar, and dug the mortified flesh
from my foot just as one cuts the damaged part out of an apple. The pain
was great, but I did not complain. It was otherwise, however, when the
knife reached the living flesh, and laid bare the muscles and bones till
one could see them moving. Then the doctor, standing on a chair, soaked
a sponge in hot sweetened wine, and let it fall drop by drop into the
hole which he had just dug in my foot. The pain became unbearable.
Still, for eight days I had to undergo this torture morning and evening,
but my leg was saved.
'Nowadays, when promotions and decorations are bestowed so lavishly,
some reward would certainly be given to an officer who had braved danger
as I had done in reaching the 14th regiment; but under the Empire a
devoted act of that kind was thought so natural that I did not receive
the cross, nor did it ever occur to me to ask for it. A long rest having
been ordered for the cure of Marshal Augereau's wound, the Emperor wrote
to bid him return for treatment to France, and sent to Italy for
Masséna, to whom my brother, Bro, and several of my comrades were
attached. Augereau took me with him, as well as Dr. Raymond and his
secretary. I had to be lifted in and out of the carriage; otherwise I
found my health coming back as I got away from those icy regions towards
a milder climate. My mare passed the winter in the stables of M. de
Launay, head of the forage department. Our road lay through Silesia. So
long as we were in that horrible Poland, it required twelve, sometimes
sixteen, horses to draw the carriage at a walk through the bogs and
quagmires; but in Germany we found at length civilisation and real
roads.
'After a halt at Dresden, and ten or twelve days' stay at Frankfort, we
reached Paris about March 15. I walked very lame, wore my arm in a
sling, and still felt the terrible shaking caused by the wind of the
cannon-ball; but the joy of seeing my mother again, and her kind care of
me, together with the sweet influences of the spring, completed my cure.
Before leaving Warsaw I had meant to throw away the hat which the ball
had pierced, but the marshal kept it as a curiosity and gave it to my
mother. It still exists in my possession, and should be kept as a family
relic.'
FOOTNOTE:
[32] As a matter of fact, Suetonius, 'The destined to die salute thee.'
_HOW MARBOT CROSSED THE DANUBE_
AFTER crossing the Traun, burning the bridge at Mauthhausen, and passing
the Enns, the army advanced to Mölk, without knowing what had become of
General Hiller. Some spies assured us that the archduke had crossed the
Danube and joined him, and that we should on the morrow meet the whole
Austrian army, strongly posted in front of Saint-Pölten. In that case,
we must make ready to fight a great battle; but if it were otherwise, we
had to march quickly on Vienna in order to get there before the enemy
could reach it by the other bank. For want of positive information the
Emperor was very undecided. The question to be solved was, Had General
Hiller crossed the Danube, or was he still in front of us, masked by a
swarm of light cavalry, which, always flying, never let us get near
enough to take a prisoner from whom one might get some enlightenment?
Still knowing nothing for certain, we reached, on May 7, the pretty
little town of Mölk, standing on the bank of the Danube, and overhung by
an immense rock, on the summit of which rises a Benedictine convent,
said to be the finest and richest in Christendom. From the rooms of the
monastery a wide view is obtained over both banks of the Danube. There
the Emperor and many marshals, including Lannes, took up their quarters,
while our staff lodged with the parish priest. Much rain had fallen
during the week, and it had not ceased for twenty-four hours, and still
was falling, so that the Danube and its tributaries were over their
banks. That night, as my comrades and I, delighted at being sheltered
from the bad weather, were having a merry supper with the parson, a
jolly fellow, who gave us an excellent meal, the aide-de-camp on duty
with the marshal came to tell me that I was wanted, and must go up to
the convent that moment. I was so comfortable where I was that I found
it annoying to have to leave a good supper and good quarters to go and
get wet again, had but I to obey.
All the passages and lower rooms of the monastery were full of soldiers,
forgetting the fatigues of the previous days in the monks' good wine. On
reaching the dwelling-rooms, I saw that I had been sent for about some
serious matter, for generals, chamberlains, orderly officers, said to me
repeatedly, 'The Emperor has sent for you.' Some added, 'It is probably
to give you your commission as major.' This I did not believe, for I did
not think I was yet of sufficient importance to the sovereign for him to
send for me at such an hour to give me my commission with his own hands.
I was shown into a vast and handsome gallery, with a balcony looking
over the Danube; there I found the Emperor at dinner with several
marshals and the abbot of the convent, who has the title of bishop. On
seeing me, the Emperor left the table, and went towards the balcony,
followed by Lannes. I heard him say in a low tone, 'The execution of
this plan is almost impossible; it would be sending a brave officer for
no purpose to almost certain death.' 'He will go, sir,' replied the
marshal; 'I am certain he will go, at any rate we can but propose it to
him.' Then, taking me by the hand, the marshal opened the window of the
balcony over the Danube. The river at this moment, trebled in volume by
the strong flood, was nearly a league wide; it was lashed by a fierce
wind, and we could hear the waves roaring. It was pitch-dark, and the
rain fell in torrents, but we could see on the other side a long line of
bivouac fires. Napoleon, Marshal Lannes, and I, being alone on the
balcony, the marshal said, 'On the other side of the river, you see an
Austrian camp. Now, the Emperor is keenly desirous to know whether
General Hiller's corps is there, or still on this bank. In order to make
sure he wants a stout-hearted man, bold enough to cross the Danube, and
bring away some soldier of the enemy's, and I have assured him that you
will go.' Then Napoleon said to me, 'Take notice that I am not giving
you an order; I am only expressing a wish. I am aware that the
enterprise is as dangerous as it can be, and you can decline it without
any fear of displeasing me. Go, and think it over for a few moments in
the next room; come back and tell us frankly your decision.'
I admit that when I heard Marshal Lannes' proposal I had broken out all
over in a cold sweat; but at the same moment, a feeling, which I cannot
define, but in which a love of glory and of my country was mingled,
perhaps, with a noble pride, raised my ardour to the highest point, and
I said to myself, 'The Emperor has here an army of 150,000 devoted
warriors, besides 25,000 men of his guard, all selected from the
bravest. He is surrounded with aides-de-camp and orderly officers, and
yet when an expedition is on foot, requiring intelligence no less than
boldness, it is I whom the Emperor and Marshal Lannes choose.' 'I will
go, sir,' I cried without hesitation. 'I will go; and if I perish, I
leave my mother to your Majesty's care.' The Emperor pulled my ear to
mark his satisfaction; the marshal shook my hand, 'I was quite right to
tell your Majesty that he would go. There's what you may call a brave
soldier.'
[Illustration: '"I will go, sir," I cried']
My expedition being thus decided on, I had to think about the means of
executing it. The Emperor called General Bertrand, his aide-de-camp,
General Dorsenne, of the guard, and the commandant of the imperial
head-quarters, and ordered them to put at my disposal whatever I might
require. At my request an infantry picket went into the town to find the
burgomaster, the syndic of the boatmen, and five of his best hands. A
corporal and five grenadiers of the old guard who could all speak
German, and had still to earn their decoration, were also summoned, and
voluntarily agreed to go with me. The Emperor had them brought in first,
and promised that on their return they should receive the Cross at once.
The brave men replied by a 'Vive l'Empereur!' and went to get ready. As
for the five boatmen, on its being explained to them through the
interpreter that they had to take a boat across the Danube, they fell on
their knees and began to weep. The syndic declared that they might just
as well be shot at once, as sent to certain death. The expedition was
absolutely impossible, not only from the strength of the current, but
because the tributaries had brought into the Danube a great quantity of
fir trees recently cut down in the mountains, which could not be avoided
in the dark, and would certainly come against the boat and sink it.
Besides, how could one land on the opposite bank among willows which
would scuttle the boat, and with a flood of unknown extent? The syndic
concluded, then, that the operation was physically impossible. In vain
did the Emperor tempt them with an offer of 6,000 francs per man; even
this could not persuade them, though, as they said, they were poor
boatmen with families, and this sum would be a fortune to them. But, as
I have already said, some lives must be sacrificed to save those of the
greater number, and the knowledge of this makes commanders sometimes
pitiless. The Emperor was inflexible, and the grenadiers received orders
to take the poor men, whether they would or not, and we went down to the
town.
The corporal who had been assigned to me was an intelligent man. Taking
him for my interpreter, I charged him as we went along to tell the
syndic of the boatmen that as he had got to come along with us, he had
better in his own interest show us his best boat, and point out
everything that we should require for her fitting. The poor man obeyed;
so we got an excellent vessel, and we took all that we wanted from the
others. We had two anchors, but as I did not think we should be able to
make use of them, I had sewn to the end of each cable a piece of canvas
with a large stone wrapped in it. I had seen in the south of France the
fishermen use an apparatus of this kind to hold their boats by throwing
the cord over the willows at the water's edge. I put on a cap, the
grenadiers took their forage caps, we had provisions, ropes, axes, saws,
a ladder,--everything, in short, which I could think of to take.
Our preparations ended, I was going to give the signal to start, when
the five boatmen implored me with tears to let the soldiers escort them
to their houses, to take perhaps the last farewell of their wives and
children; but, fearing that a tender scene of this kind would further
reduce their small stock of courage, I refused. Then the syndic said,
'Well, as we have only a short time to live, allow us five minutes to
commend our souls to God, and do you do the same, for you also are going
to your death.' They all fell on their knees, the grenadiers and I
following their example, which seemed to please the worthy people much.
When their prayer was over, I gave each man a glass of the monks'
excellent wine, and we pushed out into the stream.
I had bidden the grenadiers follow in silence all the orders of the
syndic who was steering; the current was too strong for us to cross over
straight from Mölk: we went up, therefore, along the bank under sail for
more than a league, and although the wind and the waves made the boat
jump, this part was accomplished without accident. But when the time
came to take to our oars and row out from the land, the mast, on being
lowered, fell over to one side, and the sail, dragging in the water,
offered a strong resistance to the current and nearly capsized us. The
master ordered the ropes to be cut and the masts to be sent overboard:
but the boatmen, losing their heads, began to pray without stirring.
Then the corporal, drawing his sword, said, 'You can pray and work too;
obey at once, or I will kill you.' Compelled to choose between possible
and certain death, the poor fellows took up their hatchets, and with the
help of the grenadiers, the mast was promptly cut away and sent
floating. It was high time, for hardly were we free from this dangerous
burden when we felt a fearful shock. A pine-stem borne down by the
stream had struck the boat. We all shuddered, but luckily the planks
were not driven in this time. Would the boat, however, resist more
shocks of this kind? We could not see the stems, and only knew that they
were near by the heavier tumble of the waves. Several touched us, but no
serious accident resulted. Meantime the current bore us along, and as
our oars could make very little way against it to give us the necessary
slant, I feared for a moment that it would sweep us below the enemy's
camp, and that my expedition would fail. By dint of hard rowing,
however, we had got three-quarters of the way over, when I saw an
immense black mass looming over the water. Then a sharp scratching was
heard, branches caught us in the face, and the boat stopped. To our
questions the owner replied that we were on an island covered with
willows and poplars, of which the flood had nearly reached the top. We
had to grope about with our hatchets to clear a passage through the
branches, and when we had succeeded in passing the obstacle, we found
the stream much less furious than in the middle of the river, and
finally reached the left bank in front of the Austrian camp. This shore
was bordered with very thick trees, which, overhanging the bank like a
dome, made the approach difficult no doubt, but at the same time
concealed our boat from the camp. The whole shore was lighted up by the
bivouac fires, while we remained in the shadow thrown by the branches of
the willows. I let the boat float downwards, looking for a suitable
landing-place. Presently I perceived that a sloping path had been made
down the bank by the enemy to allow the men and horses to get to the
water. The corporal adroitly threw into the willows one of the stones
that I had made ready, the cord caught in a tree, and the boat brought
up against the land a foot or two from the slope. It must have been just
about midnight. The Austrians, having the swollen Danube between them
and the French, felt themselves so secure that except the sentry the
whole camp was asleep.
It is usual in war for the guns and the sentinels always to face towards
the enemy, however far off he may be. A battery placed in advance of the
camp was therefore turned towards the river, and sentries were walking
on the top of the bank. The trees prevented them from seeing the extreme
edge, while from the boat I could see through the branches a great part
of the bivouac. So far my mission had been more successful than I had
ventured to hope, but in order to make the success complete I had to
bring away a prisoner, and to execute such an operation fifty paces away
from several thousand enemies, whom a single cry would rouse, seemed
very difficult. Still, I had to do something. I made the five sailors
lie down at the bottom of the boat under guard of two grenadiers,
another grenadier I posted at the bow of the boat which was close to the
bank, and myself disembarked, sword in hand, followed by the corporal
and two grenadiers. The boat was a few feet from dry land; we had to
walk in the water, but at last we were on the slope. We went up, and I
was making ready to rush on the nearest sentry, disarm him, gag him, and
drag him off to the boat, when the ring of metal and the sound of
singing in a low voice fell on my ears. A man, carrying a great tin
pail, was coming to draw water, humming a song as he went; we quickly
went down again to the river to hide under the branches, and as the
Austrian stooped to fill his pail my grenadiers seized him by the
throat, put a handkerchief full of wet sand over his mouth, and placing
their sword-points against his body threatened him with death if he
resisted or uttered a sound. Utterly bewildered, the man obeyed, and let
us take him to the boat; we hoisted him into the hands of the grenadiers
posted there, who made him lie down beside the sailors. While this
Austrian was lying captured, I saw by his clothes that he was not
strictly speaking a soldier, but an officer's servant. I should have
preferred to catch a combatant, who could have given me more precise
information; but I was going to content myself with this capture for
want of a better, when I saw at top of the slope two soldiers carrying a
cauldron between them, on a pole. They were only a few paces off. It was
impossible for us to re-embark without being seen. I therefore signed to
my grenadiers to hide themselves again, and as soon as the two Austrians
stooped to fill their vessel, powerful arms seized them from behind, and
plunged their heads under water. We had to stupefy them a little, since
they had their swords, and I feared that they might resist. Then they
were picked up in turn, their mouths covered with a handkerchief full of
sand, and sword-points against their breasts constrained them to follow
us. They were shipped as the servant had been, and my men and I got on
board again.
[Illustration: 'We had to saw the rope']
So far all had gone well. I made the sailors get up and take their oars,
and ordered the corporal to cast loose the rope which held us to the
bank. It was, however, so wet, and the knot had been drawn so tight by
the force of the stream, that it was impossible to unfasten. We had to
saw the rope, which took us some minutes. Meanwhile, the rope, shaking
with our efforts, imparted its movement to the branches of the willow
round which it was wrapped, and the rustling became loud enough to
attract the notice of the sentry. He drew near, unable to see the boat,
but perceiving that the agitation of the branches increased, he called
out, 'Who goes there?' No answer. Further challenge from the sentry. We
held our tongues, and worked away. I was in deadly fear; after facing so
many dangers, it would have been too cruel if we were wrecked in sight
of port. At last, the rope was cut and the boat pushed off. But hardly
was it clear of the overhanging willows than the light of the bivouac
fires made it visible to the sentry, who, shouting, 'To arms,' fired at
us. No one was hit but at the sound the whole camp was astir in a
moment, and the gunners, whose pieces were ready loaded and trained on
the river, honoured my boat with some cannon-shots. At the report my
heart leapt for joy, for I knew that the Emperor and marshal would hear
it. I turned my eyes towards the convent, with its lighted windows, of
which I had, in spite of the distance, never lost sight. Probably all
were open at this moment, but in one only could I perceive any increase
of brilliancy; it was the great balcony window, which was as large as
the doorway of a church, and sent from afar a flood of light over the
stream. Evidently it had just been opened at the thunder of the cannon,
and I said to myself, 'The Emperor and the marshals are doubtless on the
balcony; they know that I have reached the enemy's camp, and are making
vows for my safe return.' This thought raised my courage, and I heeded
the cannon-balls not a bit. Indeed, they were not very dangerous, for
the stream swept us along at such a pace that the gunners could not aim
with any accuracy, and we must have been very unlucky to get hit. One
shot would have done for us, but all fell harmless into the Danube. Soon
I was out of range, and could reckon a successful issue to my
enterprise. Still, all danger was not yet at an end; We had still to
cross among the floating pine-stems, and more than once we struck on
submerged islands, and were delayed by the branches of the poplars. At
last we reached the right bank, more than two leagues below Mölk, and a
new terror assailed me. I could see bivouac fires, and had no means of
learning whether they belonged to a French regiment. The enemy had
troops on both banks, and I knew that on the right bank Marshal Lannes'
outposts were not far from Mölk, facing an Austrian corps, posted at
Saint-Pölten.
Our army would doubtless go forward at daybreak, but was it already
occupying this place? And were the fires that I saw those of friends or
enemies? I was afraid that the current had taken me too far down, but
the problem was solved by French cavalry trumpets sounding the reveillé.
Our uncertainty being at an end, we rowed with all our strength to the
shore, where in the dawning light we could see a village. As we drew
near, the report of a carbine was heard, and a bullet whistled by our
ears. It was evident that the French sentries took us for a hostile
crew. I had not foreseen this possibility, and hardly knew how we were
to succeed in getting recognised, till the happy thought struck me of
making my six grenadiers shout, 'Vive l'Empereur Napoléon!' This was, of
course, no certain evidence that we were French, but it would attract
the attention of the officers, who would have no fear of our small
numbers, and would no doubt prevent the men from firing on us before
they knew whether we were French or Austrians. A few moments later I
came ashore, and I was received by Colonel Gautrin and the 9th Hussars,
forming part of Lannes' division. If we had landed half a league lower
down we should have tumbled into the enemy's pickets. The colonel lent
me a horse, and gave me several wagons, in which I placed the
grenadiers, the boatmen, and the prisoners, and the little cavalcade
went off towards Mölk. As we went along, the corporal, at my orders,
questioned the three Austrians, and I learnt with satisfaction that the
camp whence I had brought them away belonged to the very division,
General Killer's, the position of which the Emperor was so anxious to
learn. There was, therefore, no further doubt that that general had
joined the archduke on the other side of the Danube. There was no
longer any question of a battle on the road which we held, and Napoleon,
having only the enemy's cavalry in front of him, could in perfect safety
push his troops forward towards Vienna, from which we were but three
easy marches distant. With this information I galloped forward, in order
to bring it to the Emperor with the least possible delay.
When I reached the gate of the monastery, it was broad day. I found the
approach blocked by the whole population of the little town of Mölk, and
heard among the crowd the cries of the wives, children, and friends of
the sailors whom I had carried off. In a moment I was surrounded by
them, and was able to calm their anxiety by saying, in very bad German,
'Your friends are alive, and you will see them in a few moments.' A
great cry of joy went up from the crowd, bringing out the officer in
command of the guard at the gate. On seeing me he ran off in pursuance
of orders to warn the aides-de-camp to let the Emperor know of my
return. In an instant the whole palace was up. The good Marshal Lannes
came to me, embraced me cordially, and carried me straight off to the
Emperor, crying out, 'Here he is, sir; I knew he would come back. He has
brought three prisoners from General Hiller's division.' Napoleon
received me warmly, and though I was wet and muddy all over, he laid his
hand on my shoulder, and did not forget to give his greatest sign of
satisfaction by pinching my ear. I leave you to imagine how I was
questioned! The Emperor wanted to know every incident of the adventure
in detail, and when I had finished my story said, 'I am very well
pleased with you, "Major" Marbot.' These words were equivalent to a
commission, and my joy was full. At that moment, a chamberlain announced
that breakfast was served, and as I was calculating on having to wait in
the gallery until the Emperor had finished, he pointed with his finger
towards the dining-room, and said, 'You will breakfast with me.' As this
honour had never been paid to any officer of my rank, I was the more
flattered. During breakfast I learnt that the Emperor and the marshal
had not been to bed all night, and that when they heard the cannon on
the opposite bank they had all rushed on to the balcony. The Emperor
made me tell again the way in which I had surprised the three prisoners,
and laughed much at the fright and surprise which they must have felt.
At last, the arrival of the wagons was announced, but they had much
difficulty in making their way through the crowd, so eager were the
people to see the boatmen. Napoleon, thinking this very natural, gave
orders to open the gates, and let everybody come into the court. Soon
after, the grenadiers, the boatmen, and the prisoners were led into the
gallery. The Emperor, through his interpreter, first questioned the
three Austrian soldiers, and learning with satisfaction that not only
General Hiller's corps, but the whole of the archduke's army, were on
the other bank, he told Berthier to give the order for the troops to
march at once on Saint-Pölten. Then, calling up the corporal and the
five soldiers, he fastened the Cross on their breast, appointed them
knights of the Empire, and gave them an annuity of 1,200 francs apiece.
All the veterans wept for joy. Next came the boatmen's turn. The Emperor
told them that, as the danger they had run was a good deal more than he
had expected, it was only fair that he should increase their reward; so,
instead of the 6,000 francs promised, 12,000 in gold were given to them
on the spot. Nothing could express their delight; they kissed the hands
of the Emperor and all present, crying, 'Now we are rich!' Napoleon
laughingly asked the syndic if he would go the same journey for the same
price the next night. But the man answered that, having escaped by
miracle what seemed certain death, he would not undertake such a journey
again even if his lordship, the abbot of Mölk, would give him the
monastery and all its possessions. The boatmen withdrew, blessing the
generosity of the French Emperor, and the grenadiers, eager to show off
their decoration before their comrades, were about to go off with their
three prisoners, when Napoleon perceived that the Austrian servant was
weeping bitterly. He reassured him as to his safety, but the poor lad
replied, sobbing, that he knew the French treated their prisoners well,
but that, as he had on him a belt, containing nearly all his captain's
money, he was afraid that the officer would accuse him of deserting in
order to rob him, and he was heart-broken at the thought. Touched by the
worthy fellow's distress, the Emperor told him that he was free, and as
soon as we were before Vienna, he would be passed through the outposts,
and be able to return to his master. Then, taking a rouleau of 1,000
francs, he put it in the man's hand, saying, 'One must honour goodness
wherever it is shown.' Lastly, the Emperor gave some pieces of gold to
each of the other two prisoners, and ordered that they too should be
sent back to the Austrian outposts, so that they might forget the fright
which we had caused them, and that it might not be said that any
soldiers, even enemies, had spoken to the Emperor of the French without
receiving some benefit.
_THE PITEOUS DEATH OF GASTON, SON OF THE COUNT OF FOIX_
MORE than five hundred years ago, on St. Catherine's Day, 1388, Master
Jean Froissart, a priest of Hainault, rode into the little town of
Orthez. He was in search of information about battles and tournaments,
for he was writing his famous 'History and Chronicle.' To get news of
all kinds he rode gaily about, with a white greyhound in a leash, and
carrying a novel which he had begun for the entertainment of ladies and
princes. Arriving at Orthez (where, long afterwards, the Duke of
Wellington fought the French on the borders of Spain), Master Froissart
alighted at the hotel with the sign of the Moon. Meanwhile a knight who
had travelled with Froissart went up to the castle, and paid his court
to Gaston Phoebus, Count of Foix. He found the Count in the gallery of
the palace just after dinner, for this prince always went to bed at
midday and took supper at midnight. He was a great and powerful noble,
of stately and beautiful presence, though now he was nearly sixty years
old. A wise knight he was, bold in enterprise, and of good counsel.
Never did he suffer any unbeliever in his company, and he was very
pious, every day making many and long prayers, and giving alms to the
poor folk at his gate. He took much delight in minstrelsy, and at his
midnight supper songs and virelays were chanted to him. Till about three
o'clock in the morning he listened while Master Froissart read aloud his
poems, tales, or histories, while the courtiers yawned, no doubt, and
wished for bedtime. But it was the good Count's manner to turn night
into day. He was sometimes melancholy, and, as is told in the story of
Orthon, men believed that he saw and knew events far distant, but in
what manner none could tell. This great prince dwelt at peace while the
wars of France, England, Portugal, and Spain raged outside his
dominions. Rich, powerful, handsome, and deeply religious, he seemed to
have everything that could make him happy, but he had no son and heir;
his lands, on his death, would go to a distant cousin. Nor did the lady
his wife live with the Count of Foix. Concerning this, and the early
death of the Count's one son, Gaston, Master Froissart was very curious,
but he found that people did not care to speak of the matter. At length
an old squire told him the story of the death of Gaston.
The Countess of Foix was the sister of the King of Navarre, and between
the Count her husband, and the King her brother, a quarrel arose on a
question of money. The Count therefore sent his wife to her brother at
Pampeluna, that she might arrange the matter; but the end of it was that
she stayed in Navarre, and did not return to her lord. Meanwhile her son
Gaston grew up at Orthez, and married a daughter of the Count of
Armagnac, being now a lad of sixteen, a good squire, and in all things
very like his father. He had a desire to see his mother, and so rode
into Navarre, hoping to bring home his mother, the Countess of Foix. But
she would not leave Navarre for all that he could say, and the day came
when he and the young squires of his company must return. Then the King
of Navarre led him apart into a secret chamber, and there gave him a
little purse. Now the purse was full of a powder of such sort that no
living creature could taste of it and live, but must die without remedy.
'Gaston, fair nephew,' said the King, 'you see how your father, the
Count, holds your mother in bitter hate--a sore grief to me and to you
also. Now to change all this, and bring your father and mother back to
their ancient love, you must watch your chance and sprinkle a little of
this powder on any food that your father is about to eat, taking good
care that no man sees you. And the powder is a charm so strong that your
father, as soon as he has tasted it, will desire nothing so much as to
be friends with your mother again, and never will they leave each other.
But you must take heed that no man knows of this purpose, or all is
lost.'
The young Count, believing, in his innocence, what his uncle said, made
answer that he would gladly do as he was bidden. Then he rode back to
Orthez, and showed his father all the presents and jewels that had been
given to him in Navarre, except the little purse.
Now it was the custom of the young Count to be much in the company of
his brother by another mother, and, as they played together one day,
this boy, named Yvain, caught hold of the little purse which Gaston
wore about his neck under his coat, and asked him what it was. But
Gaston made no answer. Three days later the lads quarrelled over a
stroke at tennis, and Gaston struck Yvain a blow. Yvain ran weeping to
his father, the Count, who asked what ailed him.
[Illustration: 'The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand']
'Gaston struck me,' said he, 'but it is Gaston, not I, who deserves a
blow.'
'What has he done?' asked the Count.
'Ever since he came from his mother's in Navarre he carries about his
neck a little purse full of a powder. But I only know that he says you
and his mother will soon be good friends once more.'
'Ha!' cried the Count, 'do you be silent.'
That day at dinner, as Gaston served the meats, for this was his duty,
the Count called to him, seized his coat, opened it, and, with his
knife, cut the purse from the boy's neck. Gaston said no word, but grew
pale and trembled. The Count opened the purse, spread the powder on a
piece of bread, and threw it to a dog. No sooner had the dog eaten the
bread than his eyes turned round, and he fell dead.
[Illustration: Gaston in prison]
The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand, and would have slain his son
as a traitor, but the knights and esquires, kneeling, prayed him to hold
his hand.
'Perchance,' said they, 'Gaston knew not the nature of that which was in
the purse, and is guiltless in this matter.'
'So be it,' said the Count. 'Hold him prisoner in the tower at your own
peril.'
Then he seized all the companions and friends of Gaston, for they must
have known, he said, that his son carried a purse secretly. Fifteen of
the fairest and noblest of the boys he put to death with horrible
tortures, but they knew nothing and could tell nothing. Then he called
together all his nobles and bishops, and told them that Gaston also must
die. But they prayed for his life, because they loved him dearly, and he
was the heir of all the Count's lands. So the Count decided to keep
Gaston in prison for some months, and then send him to travel for two or
three years. The Pope sent a cardinal to the Count, bidding him spare
Gaston, but, before the Cardinal reached Orthez, Gaston was dead.
One day the servant who took meat and drink into the boy's dark dungeon
saw that he had not tasted food for many days. All the dishes lay full
of mouldering meat in a row along the wall. Then the servant ran and
warned the Count that Gaston was starving himself to death. The Count
was trimming his nails with a little knife, and he sped in great anger
to the dungeon.
'Traitor, why dost thou not eat?' he cried, dealt the boy a cuff, and
rushed out again, and so went to his chamber.
But the point of the little knife, which was in his hand, had cut a vein
in Gaston's neck, and, being weak with hunger and grief, Gaston died,
for the vein could not be staunched. Then the Count made great lament,
and had his head shaven, and wore mourning for many days.
Thus it chanced that the Count of Foix lived without an heir, turning
night into day, praying much, and listening to minstrels, giving alms,
and hearkening to strange messages of death and war that were borne to
him how no man knew. And his brother, Pierre, was a good knight and wise
by day, yet at night madness fell on him, and he raved, beating the air
with a naked sword. And this had been his manner ever since he fought
with and slew a huge bear on the hills. Now when his wife saw that bear
brought home dead she fainted, and in three days she fled with her
children, and came back no more. For her father had once pursued that
bear, which cried to him: 'Thou huntest me who wish thee no harm, but
thou shalt die an ill death.' He then left off pursuing the bear; but
the Count's brother slew the beast on another day, and thereafter he
went mad in the night, though by day he was wise enough.
These tales were told to Master Froissart by the old squire at Orthez.
_ROLF STAKE_[33]
There was once a king in Denmark named Rolf Stake; right famous is he
among the kings of yore, foremost for liberality, daring, and courtesy.
Of his courtesy one proof celebrated in story is this.
A poor little boy named Vögg came into King Rolf's hall: the King was
then young and slender of build. Vögg went near and looked up at him.
Then said the King: 'What wouldst thou say, boy, that thou lookest at me
so?'
Vögg answered: 'When I was at home, I heard tell that King Rolf at
Hleidr was the tallest man in Northland; but now here sits in the high
seat a thin stake, and they call him their king.'
Then answered the King: 'Thou, boy, hast given me a name to be known
by--Rolf Stake to wit. 'Tis custom to follow a naming with a gift. But
now I see that thou hast not with the naming any gift to give me such as
would beseem me to accept, wherefore he of us who hath must give to the
other.' With that the King drew a gold ring from his own hand and gave
it to him.
Then said Vögg: 'Blessed above all kings be thou who givest! And by this
vow I bind me to be that man's bane who shall be thine.'
Then said the King with a laugh: 'With small gain is Vögg fain.'
Further, this proof is told of Rolf Stake's daring.
There ruled over Upsala a king named Adils, who had to wife Yrsa, Rolf
Stake's mother. He was at war with Ali, the king who then ruled Norway.
They appointed to meet in battle upon the ice of the lake called Venir.
King Adils sent a message to Rolf Stake, his stepson, that he should
come to help him, and promised pay to all his force so long as they
should be on the campaign, but the King himself was to receive for his
own three costly things from Sweden, whatsoever he should choose. King
Rolf could not go himself by reason of a war that he had against the
Saxons; but he sent to Adils his twelve Berserks, of whom were Bödvar
Bjarki, Hjalti Stoutheart, Whiteserk Bold, Vött, Vidseti, and the
brothers Svipdag and Beigud.
In the battle then fought fell King Ali and a great part of his host.
And King Adils took from the dead prince the helmet Battleboar and his
horse Raven. Then the Berserks of Rolf Stake asked for their wage, three
pounds of gold apiece; and further they asked to carry to Rolf Stake
those costly things which they in his behalf should choose. These were
the helmet Battleboar, and the corslet Finnsleif, which no weapon could
pierce, and the gold ring called Sviagriss, an heirloom from Adils'
forefathers. But the King denied them all the costly things, nor did he
even pay their wage.
[Illustration: 'But now here sits in the high seat a thin stake']
The Berserks went away ill-content with their lot, and told Rolf Stake
what had been done.
At once he started for Upsala, and when he came with his ships into the
river Fyri he then rode to Upsala, and with him his twelve Berserks,
without any truce guaranteed. Yrsa, his mother, welcomed him, and led
him, not to the King's hall, but to a lodging. There fires were lighted
for them and ale given them to drink.
[Illustration:
'He fleeth not the flame
Who leapeth o'er the same']
Then some men of King Adils came in and threw billets of wood on the
fire, and made such a blaze that it scorched the clothes of Rolf's
company. And they said: 'Is it true that Rolf Stake and his Berserks
flee neither fire nor iron?' Then up leapt Rolf and all his twelve, and
he crying,
'Heap we yet higher
Adils' house-fire,'
took his shield and cast it on the fire, and leapt thereover, crying yet
again,
'He fleeth not the flame
Who leapeth o'er the same.'
Likewise one after the other did all his men. Then they seized those who
had heaped up the fire, and cast them thereon.
And now came Yrsa and gave to Rolf Stake a deer's horn filled with gold,
and therewith the ring Sviagriss, and bade them ride away to their
fleet. They leapt on their horses and rode down to Fyris-field. Soon
they saw that King Adils rode after them with his force fully armed,
purposing to slay them. Whereupon Rolf Stake, plunging his right hand
into the horn, took of the gold and sowed it all over the path. But when
the Swedes saw that, they leapt from their saddles and gathered each
what he could get; but King Adils bade them ride on, and himself rode at
speed. Slungnir his horse was named, of all horses the fleetest.
Then Rolf Stake, when he saw that King Adils rode near him, took the
ring Sviagriss and threw it to him, and bade him accept the gift. King
Adils rode to the ring, and lifting it on his lowered spear-point slid
it up along the shaft. Then did Rolf Stake turn him back, and, seeing
how he louted low, cried: 'Now have I made Sweden's greatest grovel
swine-wise.'
So they parted.
For this reason gold is by poets called 'the seed of Stake' or 'of
Fyris-field.'
FOOTNOTE:
[33] From Snorri's _Edda_, cap. 44.
_THE WRECK OF THE 'WAGER'_
THE Honourable John Byron, grandfather of the poet, was a celebrated
British Admiral who in almost all his voyages fell in with such rough
weather that his sailors nicknamed him 'Foul-weather Jack.'
When he was seventeen years old he served as midshipman in the 'Wager,'
a vessel attached to the squadron under the command of Commodore Anson
which sailed out to the Spanish Settlements in the Pacific in 1740.
From the set-out the expedition was unfortunate. Almost all the ships
were ill-fitted and ill-provisioned for so long a voyage. Moreover they
were delayed until long after the proper season for their departure was
past, which was regarded by the soldiers and sailors as an evil omen.
This neglect affected the 'Wager' more than any other ship, as she was
an old East Indiaman, and had been bought into the service for the
voyage, and fitted out for it as a man-of-war.
Besides this, when under sail she listed to one side, as she was
top-laden with heavy military gear and stores for the use of the other
vessels, while the lower holds were filled with light merchandise for
bartering with the Indians.
Her crew were men who had been pressed on their return from long
voyages, and the marines a small troop of invalids from the Chelsea
Hospital, who were all alike very miserably depressed at the prospect of
the long voyage which lay before them.
Even Captain Kid, under whose command the 'Wager' sailed out of port,
when on his death-bed shortly after, foretold her ill-success.
Upon his death Captain Cheap took command, and was able to keep with the
squadron until they were about to enter the Straits la Marie, where the
wind shifted to the south, and with the turn of the tide the 'Wager'
was separated from the other ships, and very narrowly escaped being
wrecked off Staten Island.
[Illustration: 'ONE MAN . . . STALKED ABOUT THE DECK AND FLOURISHED A
CUTLASS . . . SHOUTING THAT HE WAS "KING OF THE COUNTRY"']
However, she regained her station with the rest of the fleet until a few
days later, when they were caught by a deep roll of a hollow sea, and
lost their mizzen mast, and all the windward chain plates were broken.
They tried to rig up a substitute for the mizzen mast, but failed, as
hard westerly gales set in with a tremendous short chopping swell, which
raised the waves to a mountainous height, while from time to time a
heavy sea broke over the ship. The boats on the davits were cast from
their lashings, and filled with water, and the ship in all parts was
soon in a most shattered and crazy state.
They had now lost sight of the squadron, and from the numbers of birds,
and the drifting seaweed in the waters, they found they were being borne
on to a lee shore. The heavy clouds that lowered above them, or the
blinding sleet and snow, hid the sun and prevented the officers from
taking sights; and at night no moon or stars by which they could steer
their course were visible in the wild gloom through which they tossed.
When the officers at last found they were out of their bearings, they
tried to persuade the captain to alter the course, but this he refused
to do, as he believed he was making directly for the Island of Socoro,
which was the place arranged for the squadron to meet, and whence it was
intended they should make their first attack upon the Spaniards.
At this time, when all but twelve men on the 'Wager' were disabled by
fatigue or sickness, there loomed against the dull clouds a yet heavier
cloud, which was that of mountainous masses of land. Then Captain Cheap
at last realised their danger, and gave orders to wear ship to the
southward, hoping that they might crowd her off the land.
But the fury of the gale increased as night fell upon them, while to add
to their dismay, as each sail was set with infinite labour, it was set
only to be blown or rent immediately from the yard.
At four o'clock in the morning the ship struck, then again for the
second time more violently; and presently she lay helpless on her beam
ends--while the sea every now and then broke over her.
Everyone who could move rushed to the quarter-deck, but those who were
dying of scurvy and who could not leave their hammocks were drowned in
them.
In the uncertain light of dawn they could see nothing around them but
leaden breakers from whose foam-crested manes the wind swept the
blinding spray. The ship lay in this terrible plight for some little
time, while every soul on board counted each moment as his last.
In this scene of wild disorder the men lost all reason and restraint,
some gave themselves up to death like logs, and were rolled hither and
thither with each jerk and roll of the shivering ship.
One man in the exaltation of his despair stalked about the deck, and
flourished a cutlass over his head, and struck at anyone who came near
him with it--meanwhile shouting that he was the 'king of the country.'
Another, and a brave man, was so overcome by the fury of the seething
waters, that he tried to throw himself from the rails at the
quarter-deck, and to end in death a scene he felt too shocking to look
upon.
The man at the helm still kept his post, though both rudder and tiller
had been carried away; and applied himself to his duty with the same
respect and coolness as though the ship were in the greatest safety.
Then Mr. Jones, the mate, spoke to the men, saying, 'My friends! have
you never seen a ship amongst breakers before? Lend a hand, boys, and
lay on to the sheets and braces. I have no fear but that we shall stick
her near enough to the land to save our lives.'
Although he said these gallant words without hope of saving a single
soul, he gave courage to many of the men, and they set to work in
earnest.
They steered as best they could by the sheets and braces, and presently
ran her in between an opening in the breakers, and soon found themselves
wedged fast between two great rocks.
With the break of day the weather cleared sufficiently to give them a
glimpse of the land. They then set to work to get out the boats. The
first one that was launched was so overladen by those anxious to save
themselves, that they were almost swamped before they reached the shore.
On the day before the ship was wrecked, the captain had had his shoulder
dislocated by a fall, and was lying in his berth when John Byron, whose
duty it was to keep him informed of all that passed on deck, went to ask
if he would not like to land. But the captain refused to leave the ship
until everyone else had gone.
Throughout the ship, the scene was now greatly changed. The men who but
a few moments before had been on their knees praying for mercy, when
they found themselves not in immediate danger, became very riotous,
rushed to the cabins and stores, and broke open every chest and box they
could find, as well as casks of wine and brandy. And by drinking it some
of them were rendered so helpless that they were drowned on board by the
seas that continually swept over them.
The boatswain and five other men refused to leave the ship while there
was any liquor to be got; then at last the captain consented to be
helped from his bed, and to be taken on shore.
* * * * *
Although they were thankful to escape from the wreck, when they reached
the land they found themselves in a scene desolate enough to quell the
bravest soul.
The bay in which they had been cast away was open to the full force of
the ocean, and was formed by rocky headlands and cliffs with here and
there a stretch of beach, while rising abruptly from the sea a
rock-bound steep frowned above them, which they afterwards named Mount
Misery. Stretching back from the beach lay stagnant lagoons and dreary
flats of morass and swamp, the edges of which were drained by the roots
of heavy forest trees whose impenetrable gloom clothed the intervening
country and hillsides.
And out before them in the tempestuous waters the wreck lay, from whose
stores must come their only present chance of life.
With nightfall presently at hand, though they were cold and wet and
hungry, they had to try to find a shelter, and at last chanced upon an
Indian hut at a little distance from the beach. Into this poor refuge
the men packed themselves in a voluntary imprisonment, while, to add to
their distress, they were afraid of being attacked by Indians.
One of the officers died in this miserable place during the night, and
of those left outside who were unable from want of room to press in, two
more perished from cold.
The next morning found them cramped with starvation and cold, with no
food but some fragments of biscuit, a solitary seagull someone had
killed, and the stalks of wild celery that grew upon the beach. This
they made into soup, and served as far as it would go to the hundred and
forty men who clamoured for food.
The men who had remained on the wreck were now anxious to be brought on
shore, and repeatedly made signals to that effect; but the sea was
running high and it was not possible at once to set out to their relief.
In their rage at the delay they fired one of the quarter-deck guns upon
the camp, while on board they destroyed everything they could lay hands
on. In his brutality and greed for spoil, a man named James Mitchell
murdered one of their number. When at last they were brought to land
they came dressed in laced clothes and officers' suits which they had
put on over their own dirty clothes.
These men Captain Cheap instantly had stripped of their finery and arms,
and enforced the most strict discipline upon them and all the crew.
In a few days they had a shelter made with boats turned keel upwards,
and placed on props, while the sides were lined with canvas and boughs.
Then followed five weary months, during which these hunger-driven men
roamed the wretched island rocks both night and day, searching for
shell-fish for food--men who were even thankful at the times when they
were able to kill and eat the carrion crows that fed upon the flesh of
their drowned comrades cast up by the tide. Some Indians surprised them
by a visit, and stayed for several days, and with them they were able to
barter cloth and beads for some dogs, and these they killed and ate.
The Indians were very short and black, and had long coarse hair that
hung over their faces, and were almost without clothing of any kind.
The shipwrecked men grew more and more discontented as the months went
by, and several of them threatened to take the life of the captain,
whose strict discipline and guard over the stores made them very angry.
James Mitchell, who had murdered a man on the wreck, and had since
committed another murder on Mount Misery, where his victim was found
shockingly stabbed and mangled, was amongst this set. They had
determined to leave the others, and on the night before their departure
had placed a barrel of gunpowder close to the captain's hut, intending
to blow it up, but were dissuaded from doing this by one of their
number. After wandering about the island for some time they went up one
of the lagoons on a punt they had made, and were never heard of again.
Captain Cheap was very jealous of his authority, and hasty in suspecting
both officers and men of a desire to mutiny, and this suspicion on his
part led to the unfortunate shooting by him of a midshipman named Mr.
Cozens, whom he heard one day disputing with the purser as to the
disposal of some stores he was at the time receiving from the wreck. The
captain already had a personal dislike to Mr. Cozens, and hearing high
words immediately rushed out of his hut and shot him. Mr. Cozens did not
die until several days after, but the captain would not allow him to be
attended to by the surgeon, or to have any care from the other men,
though they begged to be allowed to carry him to their tent, but ordered
that he should be left upon the ground, under a bit of canvas thrown
over some bushes, until he died. This inhumanity on the part of Captain
Cheap much embittered the men against him.
[Illustration: The Captain shoots Mr. Cozens]
Their numbers were now lessened, chiefly by famine, to one hundred
souls; the weather was still tempestuous and rainy, and the difficulty
of finding food daily increased.
They had saved the long-boat from the wreck, and about this time John
Bulkely, who had been a gunner on the 'Wager,' formed a plan of trying
to make the voyage home through the Straits of Magellan. The plan was
proposed to the captain, and though he thought it wiser to pretend to
fall in with it, he had no intention of doing so. And when Bulkely and
his followers suggested that there should be some restrictions on his
command, or that at least he should do nothing without consulting his
officers, the captain refused to consent to this; whereupon they
imprisoned him, intending to take him to England on the charge of having
murdered Mr. Cozens.
But when the boats were ready for sailing they found there would not be
enough room for everybody. So the captain, Mr. Hamilton, and the doctor
were left on the island.
John Byron did not know they were going to do this until the last
moment. There were eighty-one men who left the island, who were
distributed in the long-boat, the cutter, and the barge.
After they had been out about two days it was thought necessary to send
back to the old station for some spare canvas. John Byron was sent back
with the barge on this errand. When he was well away from the long-boat
he told those with him he did not mean to return, but to rejoin Captain
Cheap; and they agreed to do so too.
Although they were welcomed by those left on the island, there was
little food for so many mouths, as almost everything had been carried
off by the voyagers, and for a considerable time they were forced to
live upon a kind of seaweed called slaugh, which with the stalks of wild
celery they fried in the tallow of some candles they had saved.
This poor food reduced them to a terrible condition of weakness.
At last a really fair day broke upon them, when they went out to the
remains of the wreck, and had the good fortune to hook up out of the
bottom, three casks of beef which they brought safely to shore. The good
food gave them renewed strength and energy, and again they became very
anxious to leave the island.
Accordingly they launched both boats on December 15. The captain,
Lieutenant Hamilton, and John Byron were in the barge with nine men, and
Mr. Campbell in the yawl with six. And thus they set out on their
journey northward.
Then followed weary days, during which they rowed over high seas, and
weary nights of exposure and cold, when they landed on some barren shore
for rest and to wait for daylight.
On Christmas Eve they found themselves tossing on a wide bay, and
unable by the force of the currents to double the rocky headlands that
lay in front of them. Unable, too, by the fury of the breakers to make
the land or to find harbour, they were forced to lie outside all that
night upon their oars.
They were so hungry then that they ate their shoes, which were made of
raw sealskin.
On Christmas Day some of them landed, and had the good fortune to kill a
seal. Though the two men who were left in each boat to take care of it
could see their companions on shore eating seal, they were unable to
have any themselves, as again when night came on the wind blew very
hard, and the mighty breakers beat with pulse-like regularity on the
shore.
John Byron, who had fallen into a comfortless sleep in the boat, was
suddenly awakened by a shriek, and saw the yawl turned bottom upwards
and go down.
One man was drowned, the other was thrown up by the breakers on the
beach and saved by the people there.
At this place Mr. Hamilton, who was with the shore party, shot at a
large sea-lion, which he hit with two balls; and when the brute
presently charged at him with open mouth, he thrust his bayonet down its
throat, as well as a great part of the barrel of his gun. But the
sea-lion bit this in two with the greatest ease, and in spite of all its
wounds, and all other efforts to kill it, got away.
As they had lost the yawl there was not enough of room to take all the
men away from this place, therefore four of the marines agreed to remain
and to try to make their way on foot to a more habitable country.
The captain gave them guns and food, and as the boat put off, they stood
upon the beach and gave three cheers, and shouted 'God bless the King.'
The others made another attempt to double the cape, but the wind, the
sea, and currents were too strong for them, and again they failed. So
disheartened were they now, that caring little for life, they agreed to
return to their original station on Wager's Island, and to end their
days in miserable existence there.
They went back to the place where they had left the four marines in
order to try to get some seal for their return passage and to take these
men back with them, but when they searched all traces of them had gone.
It was here that the surgeon found in a curious cave the bodies of
several Indians that were stretched out on a kind of platform. The
flesh on the bodies had become perfectly dry and hard, and it was
thought that it must be the kind of burial given to the great men or
Caciques of the Indians.
After a terrible journey back to Wager's Island they reached it alive,
though again worn out by hunger and fatigue.
The first thing they did on reaching their old station was to bury the
corpse of the man who had been murdered on Mount Misery by James
Mitchell, for the men thought that all their misfortunes had arisen from
the neglect of this proper duty to the dead, and they were sure that the
restless spirit of this person haunted the waters around them at night,
as they heard strange and unearthly cries from the sea. And one night,
in bright moonlight, they saw and heard something which looked like a
human being swimming near the shore.
[Illustration: Mr. Hamilton's fight with the sea-lion]
Inconsistent as this may seem, they were soon so terribly driven by
hunger that the last dreadful suggestion for food was beginning to be
whispered amongst them, when fortunately some Indians from the island of
Chiloc appeared. It was supposed they had heard of the wreck from those
first Indians who had visited them, and had come to collect old iron
and nails, which they value very much.
They were able to persuade the Cacique, who was a Christian named
Martini, to promise to show them the safest and best way to some of the
Spanish Settlements. Once more the barge was launched, with the fifteen
souls on board who now remained on the island of the shipwrecked crew.
They followed their Indian guide by day for some time, during which
their sufferings were so terrible that it was no unusual thing for one
of their number to fall back dying from the oars, meanwhile beseeching
his comrades for two or three mouthfuls of food which they had not.
Captain Cheap, who was always well provided with seal by the Indians,
again showed how regardless he could be of the sufferings of others, and
often though he could have relieved his men by giving up a small portion
of his own food when he heard their heartrending appeals for it, let
them die at their posts unheedful of their want and misery.
They were rather taken in by their Christian Indian Martini. He made
them row the heavy barge a very long way up a river and then deserted
them for several days. They found he wished to secure the barge here,
which was to be a part of his reward, and which was too heavy to be
carried over the rocks of the headlands in the way they carried their
own canoes--and by which they escaped the heavy seas that ran round
those places.
However, the Cacique returned again, and after a time he consented to
take the captain with John Byron to row his canoe on to another part of
the coast where there were more Indians.
They reached this camp late one evening, and while the captain was at
once taken by Martini to a wigwam, Byron was left outside to shift for
himself as best he could. He was so exhausted that all he could do was
to creep into the shelter of a wigwam, and chance what fate might bring
him.
These wigwams were built of branches of trees placed in a circle, which
are bound at the top by a kind of creeper called supple-jack. The frame
of the wigwam is covered with boughs and bark. The fire is lit in the
very centre, round which the Indians lie. As there is no outlet for the
smoke, it is not a very comfortable place to sleep in.
There were only two Indian women in the wigwam into which John Byron
crept, who were very astonished to see him. However, they were kind to
him and made up a good fire, and presently, when he made them understand
that he was hungry, they gave him some fish to eat. But when he had
finished it he was still so hungry that he made signs for more. Then
they went out into the night, taking their dogs with them, and came back
in an hour or two shivering and with water dripping from their hair.
They had caught two more fish, which after they had cooked slightly they
gave him to eat.
These people live only on what they can take from the sea, and train
their dogs to dive for fish and their women for sea-eggs. While
collecting these the women stay under water a wonderfully long time;
they have really the hardest work to do, as they have to provide food
for their husbands and children. They are not allowed to touch any food
themselves until the husband is satisfied, when he gives them a very
small portion, generally that which he does not care to eat himself.
Martini then told them that they would have to return in the canoe by
which they had come to their companions, and that the Indians they were
leaving would join them in a few days, after which they would all set
out together on the journey northwards. They found Mr. Elliot, the
surgeon, very ill, and Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Campbell were almost
starved, having had only a few sea-eggs to eat since they had left.
About the middle of March they re-embarked with the other Indians, and
soon afterwards Mr. Elliot died. He had been one of the strongest of the
party, and one of the most useful and self-denying, and had never spared
himself in trying to provide food for the others. He was also one of the
best shots of the party.
Most of them were now reduced to rags and without shoes, and when they
had to cross the stony headlands and swamps, and to carry heavy burdens,
their feet were often terribly torn.
The Cacique had now become a very hard master to all but the captain,
and forced them to row like galley slaves when they were in the boats.
Indeed, the captain seemed to encourage the Indian in this conduct. He
had become more selfish and cunning in keeping all the food he could lay
hands on for himself, and was accustomed to sleep with his head pillowed
on a dirty piece of canvas in which he wrapped portions of seal or
sea-eggs. Thorough cleanliness had become an impossibility to them: they
were now terribly emaciated and covered by vermin. The captain
particularly was a most shocking sight. His legs had become tremendously
swelled, probably from the disease known as 'beri-beri,' while his body
was almost a skeleton, his beard had grown very long, and his face was
covered with train oil and dirt.
When at last they were within a few miles of the island of Chiloc, they
found they had to cross a most dangerous bay. After waiting for two days
for fair weather they started, although the Cacique even then seemed
terrified, and there was every reason for it, as the sea ran so strong
and their boat was most crazy, the bottom plank having opened, and
ceaseless bailing had to be carried on all the time. It was early in
June when they reached this place.
[Illustration: The Cacique fires off the gun]
Directly the Cacique landed he buried all the things he had brought from
the wreck, for he knew that the Spaniards would take everything from
him.
That same evening, as they drew near to a settlement of Chiloc Indians
the Cacique asked them to load their one remaining gun with the last
charge of powder, and to show him how to fire it off. Holding the gun
as far away from his head as he could he fired, and fell back into the
bottom of the canoe.
When the Chiloc Indians found out who they were, they brought fish and
potatoes for them to eat, and this was the nicest meal they had had for
more than a year.
These Indians are very strong and nice-looking people; they are
extremely neat in their dress. The men wear what is called a puncho,
which is a square piece of cloth in stripes of different colours, with a
slit in the centre wide enough to put their heads through, and it hangs
from their shoulders.
After a little time the shipwrecked men were sent on by these people to
the Spaniards at Castro. There they were met by a number of soldiers,
with three or four officers, who surrounded them fiercely as though they
were a most formidable enemy instead of the four poor helpless creatures
left of the fifteen men that had set out from Wager's Island.
Though they had had much better food since they had been with the kindly
Indians, they were so weak that they could hardly walk up the hill to
the shed in which they were to be lodged.
Numbers of people came to look at them in this place, as though they
were wild beasts or curiosities; and when they heard they had been
starved for more than a year, they brought quantities of chicken and all
kinds of good things for them to eat.
John Byron then began to feel more comfortable. He was always ready to
make a meal, and used to carry food in his pockets so that he need not
wait a second for it if he felt hungry. Even the captain owned that he
ate so much that he felt quite ashamed of himself.
In a little time an old Jesuit priest came to see them. He did not come
because he was sorry for them, but because he had heard from the Indian
Cacique that they had things of great value about them. The priest began
by producing a bottle of brandy, and gave them all some to open their
hearts.
Captain Cheap told him he had nothing, not remembering that Martini had
seen his gold repeater watch; but at the same time he said that Mr.
Campbell had a silver watch, which he at once ordered him to make a
present of to the priest.
Soon after the Spanish governor sent for them to be brought to Chaco,
where they were very well treated by the people. Whilst here John Byron
was asked to marry the niece of a very rich old priest.
The lady made the suggestion through her uncle, saying that first she
wished him to be converted, and then he might marry her.
When the old priest made the offer, he took John Byron into a room where
there were several large chests full of clothes. Taking from one of them
a large piece of linen, he told him it should be made up into shirts for
him at once if he would marry the lady.
The thought of new shirts was a great temptation to John Byron, as he
had only the one in which he had lived ever since he had been wrecked.
However, he denied himself this luxury, and excused himself for not
being able to accept the honour of the lady's hand.
On _this_ occasion he managed to speak Spanish sufficiently well to make
himself understood.
In January 1742 they were sent on to Valparaiso as English prisoners.
Only Captain Cheap and Mr. Campbell were recognised as officers, as they
had saved their commissions, and they were sent to St. Jago, while John
Byron and Mr. Hamilton were kept in prison. However, when they were
released they were permitted to rejoin the others at St. Jago, and found
them living with a Scotch physician named Don Patricio Gedd.
When Dr. Gedd heard of the four English prisoners, he had begged the
President to allow them to live at his house.
This was granted, and during the two years they lived there with him, he
treated them most hospitably, and would hear of no return being made for
his kindness.
Mr. Campbell changed his religion while they were at St. Jago, and left
his companions.
At the end of two years the President sent for them, and told them that
they were at liberty to leave the country in a French ship bound for
Spain.
Accordingly, in the end of December 1744, they sailed in the frigate
bound for Conception, where she was to join three more French ships that
were homeward bound.
On October 27 they reached Cape Ortegal, and after lying at anchor there
for several days they were taken to Landernan, where they lived on
parole for three months, until an order came from the Court of Spain to
allow them to return home by the first ship that sailed. After arranging
with the captain of a Dutch lugger to land them at Dover they embarked
in her and had a very uncomfortable passage.
[Illustration: Byron rides past the turnpikes]
When they got well up Channel they found the Dutchman had no intention
of landing them at Dover, as he was making his way up off the coast of
France. In the midst of their indignation at this breach of faith, an
English man-of-war appeared to windward, and bore down upon them. This
was the 'Squirrel,' commanded by Captain Masterton. He at once sent them
off in one of his cutters, and they arrived at Dover that afternoon.
They agreed to start for London the next morning. Captain Cheap and Mr.
Hamilton were to drive in a post-chaise, and John Byron was to ride. But
when they came to divide the little money they had left, it was found
there would be barely enough to pay for horses. There was not a farthing
left for John Byron to buy any food he might want on the way, nothing
even to pay for the turnpikes. However, he boldly cheated these by
riding as hard as he could through them all, and paid no attention to
the shouts of the men when they tried to stop him. The want of food he
had to put up with.
When he got to the Borough he took a coach and drove to Marlborough
Street, where his people had lived before he left England. But when he
came to the house he found it shut up. He had been away for five years,
and had not heard a word from home all that time, therefore he was at a
loss to know what to do for a few minutes until he remembered a linen
draper's shop near by which his family had used. He drove there, and
told them who he was. They paid his coachman for him, and told him that
his sister was married to Lord Carlisle, and was living in Soho Square.
He went at once to her house; but the porter would not admit him for a
long time. He was strangely dressed; half in Spanish, and half in French
clothing, and besides, he wore very large and very mud-bespattered
boots. The porter was about to shut the door in his face when John Byron
persuaded him to let him in.
Then at last his troubles were over. His sister was delighted to see
him, and at once gave him money with which to buy new clothes. And until
he looked like an Englishman again, he did not feel he had come to the
end of all the strange scenes and adventures that he had experienced for
more than five years.
_PETER WILLIAMSON_[34]
I WAS born in Hirulay, in the county of Aberdeen. My parents, though not
rich, were respectable, and so long as I was under their care all went
well with me. Unhappily, I was sent to stay with an aunt at Aberdeen,
where, at eight years old, when playing on the quay, I was noticed as a
strong, active little fellow by two men belonging to a vessel in the
harbour. Now this vessel was in the employ of certain merchants of
Aberdeen, who used her for the villainous purpose of kidnapping--that
is, stealing young children from their parents, and selling them as
slaves in the plantations abroad.
These impious monsters, marking me out for their prey, tempted me on
board the ship, which I had no sooner entered than they led me between
the decks to some other boys whom they had kidnapped in like manner. Not
understanding what a fate was in store for me, I passed the time in
childish amusement with the other lads in the steerage, for we were
never allowed to go on deck while the vessel stayed in the harbour,
which it did till they had imprisoned as many luckless boys as they
needed.
Then the ship set sail for America. I cannot remember much of the
voyage, being a mere child at the time, but I shall never forget what
happened when it was nearly ended. We had reached the American coast
when a hard gale of wind sprang up from the south-east, and about
midnight the ship struck on a sandbank off Cape May, near Delaware. To
the terror of all on board, it was soon almost full of water. The boat
was then hoisted out, and the captain and his fellow-villains, the crew,
got into it, leaving me and my deluded companions, as they supposed, to
perish. The cries, shrieks, and tears of a throng of children had no
effect on these merciless wretches.
But happily for us the wind abated, and the ship being on a sandbank,
which did not give way to let her deeper, we lay here till morning, when
the captain, unwilling to lose all his cargo, sent some of the crew in a
boat to the ship's side to bring us ashore. A sort of camp was made, and
here we stayed till we were taken in by a vessel bound to Philadelphia.
[Illustration: THE INDIAN THREATENS PETER WILLIAMSON]
At Philadelphia people soon came to buy us. We were sold for 16_l._
apiece. I never knew what became of my unhappy companions, but I was
sold for seven years to one of my countrymen, Hugh Wilson, who in his
youth had suffered the same fate as myself in being kidnapped from his
home.
Happy was my lot in falling into his power, for he was a humane, worthy
man. Having no children of his own, and pitying my sad condition, he
took great care of me till I was fit for business, and at twelve years
old set me about little things till I could manage harder work.
Meanwhile, seeing my fellow-servants often reading and writing, I felt a
strong desire to learn, and told my master that I should be glad to
serve a year longer than the bond obliged me if he would let me go to
school. To this he readily agreed, and I went every winter for five
years, also learning as much as I could from my fellow-servants.
With this good master I stayed till I was seventeen years old, when he
died, leaving me a sum of money, about 120_l._ sterling, his best horse,
and all his wearing apparel.
I now maintained myself by working about the country, for anyone who
would employ me, for nearly seven years, when I determined to settle
down. I applied to the daughter of a prosperous planter, and found my
suit was acceptable both to her and her father, so we married. My
father-in-law wishing to establish us comfortably, gave me a tract of
land which lay, unhappily for me, as it has since proved, on the
frontiers of Pennsylvania. It contained about two hundred acres, with a
good house and barn.
I was now happy in my home with a good wife; but my peace did not last
long, for about 1754 the Indians in the French interest, who had
formerly been very troublesome in our province, began to renew their old
practices. Even many of the Indians whom we supposed to be in the
English interest joined the plundering bands; it was no wonder, for the
French did their utmost, to win them over, promising to pay 15_l._ for
every scalp of an Englishman!
Hardly a day passed but some unhappy family fell a victim to French
bribery and savage cruelty. As for me, though now in comfortable
circumstances, with an affectionate and amiable wife, it was not long
before I suddenly became the most pitiable of mankind. I can never bear
to think of the last time I saw my dear wife, on the fatal 2nd of
October, 1754. That day she had left home to visit some of her
relations, and, no one being in the house but myself, I stayed up later
than usual, expecting her return. How great was my terror when, at
eleven o'clock at night, I heard the dismal war-whoop of the savages,
and, flying to the window, saw a band of them outside, about twelve in
number.
They made several attempts to get in, and I asked them what they wanted.
They paid no attention, but went on beating at the door, trying to get
it open. Then, having my gun loaded in my hand, I threatened them with
death if they would not go away. But one of them, who could speak a
little English, called out in return that if I did not come out they
would burn me alive in the house. They told me further--what I had
already found out--that they were no friends to the English, but that if
I would surrender myself prisoner they would not kill me.
My horror was beyond all words. I could not depend on the promises of
such creatures, but I must either accept their offer or be burnt alive.
Accordingly I went out of my house with my gun in my hand, not knowing
what I did or that I still held it. Immediately, like so many tigers,
they rushed on me and disarmed me. Having me now completely in their
power, the merciless villains bound me to a tree near the door, and then
went into the house and plundered what they could. Numbers of things
which they were unable to carry away were set fire to with the house and
consumed before my eyes. Then they set fire to my barn, stable, and
outhouses, where I had about two hundred bushels of wheat, and cows,
sheep, and horses. My agony as I watched all this havoc it is impossible
to describe.
When the terrible business was over, one of the monsters came to me, a
tomahawk in his hand, threatening me with a cruel death if I would not
consent to go with them. I was forced to agree, promising to do all that
was in my power for them, and trusting to Providence to deliver me out
of their hands. On this they untied me, and gave me a great load to
carry on my back, under which I travelled all that night with them, full
of the most terrible fear lest my unhappy wife should likewise have
fallen into their clutches. At daybreak my master ordered me to lay down
my load, when, tying my hands round a tree with a small cord, they
forced the blood out of my finger ends. They then kindled a fire near
the tree to which I was bound, which redoubled my agony, for I thought
they were going to sacrifice me there.
[Illustration: 'ANOTHER PARTY OF INDIANS ARRIVED, BRINGING TWENTY SCALPS
AND THREE PRISONERS']
When the fire was made, they danced round me after their manner, with
all kinds of antics, whooping and crying out in the most horrible
fashion. Then they took the burning coals and sticks, flaming with fire
at the ends; and held them near my face, head, hands and feet, with
fiendish delight, at the same time threatening to burn me entirely if I
called out or made the least noise. So, tortured as I was, I could make
no sign of distress but shedding silent tears, which, when they saw,
they took fresh coals, and held them near my eyes, telling me my face
was wet, and they would dry it for me. I have often wondered how I
endured these tortures; but at last they were satisfied, and sat down
round the fire and roasted the meat which they had brought from my
dwelling!
When they had prepared it they offered some to me, and though it may be
imagined that I had not much heart to eat, I was forced to seem pleased,
lest if I refused it they should again begin to torture me. What I could
not eat I contrived to get between the bark and the tree--my foes having
unbound my hands till they supposed I had eaten all they gave me. But
then they bound me as before, and so I continued all day. When the sun
was set they put out the fire, and covered the ashes with leaves, as is
their custom, that the white people may find no signs of their having
been there.
Travelling thence, by the river, for about six miles, I being loaded
heavily, we reached a spot near the Blue Hills, where the savages hid
their plunder under logs of wood. Thence, shocking to relate, they went
to a neighbouring house, that of Jacob Snider, his wife, five children,
and a young man, a servant. They soon forced their way into the unhappy
man's dwelling, slew the whole family, and set fire to the house.
The servant's life was spared for a time, since they thought he might be
of use to them, and forthwith loaded him with plunder. But he could not
bear the cruel treatment that we suffered; and though I tried to console
him with a hope of deliverance, he continued to sob and moan. One of the
savages, seeing this, instantly came up, struck him to the ground, and
slew him.
The family of John Adams next suffered. All were here put to death
except Adams himself, a good old man, whom they loaded with plunder, and
day after day continued to treat with the most shocking cruelty,
painting him all over with various colours, plucking the white hairs
from his beard, and telling him he was a fool for living so long, and
many other tortures which he bore with wonderful composure, praying to
God.
One night after he had been tortured, when he and I were sitting
together, pitying each other's misfortunes, another party of Indians
arrived, bringing twenty scalps and three prisoners, who gave us
terrible accounts of what tragedies had passed in their parts, on which
I cannot bear to dwell.
These three prisoners contrived to escape, but unhappily, not knowing
the country, they were recaptured and brought back. They were then all
put to death, with terrible tortures.
A great snow now falling, the savages began to be afraid that the white
people would follow their tracks upon it and find out their skulking
retreats, and this caused them to make their way to their winter
quarters, about two hundred miles further from any plantations or
English inhabitants. There, after a long and tedious journey, in which I
was almost starved, I arrived with this villainous crew. The place where
we had to stay, in their tongue, was called Alamingo, and there I found
a number of wigwams full of Indian women and children. Dancing, singing,
and shooting were their general amusements, and they told what successes
they had had in their expeditions, in which I found myself part of their
theme. The severity of the cold increasing, they stripped me of my own
clothes and gave me what they usually wear themselves--a blanket, a
piece of coarse cloth, and a pair of shoes made of deer-skin.
The better sort of Indians have shirts of the finest linen they can get;
and with these some wear ruffles, but they never put them on till they
have painted them different colours, and do not take them off to wash,
but wear them till they fall into pieces. They are very proud, and
delight in trinkets, such as silver plates round their wrists and necks,
with several strings of _wampum_, which is made of cotton, interwoven
with pebbles, cockle-shells, &c. From their ears and noses they have
rings and beads, which hang dangling an inch or two.
The hair of their heads is managed in different ways: some pluck out and
destroy all except a lock hanging from the crown of the head, which they
interweave with wampum and feathers. But the women wear it very long,
twisted down their backs, with beads, feathers, and wampum, and on their
heads they carry little coronets of brass or copper.
No people have a greater love of liberty or affection for their
relations, yet they are the most revengeful race on earth, and inhumanly
cruel. They generally avoid open fighting in war, yet they are brave
when taken, enduring death or torture with wonderful courage. Nor would
they at any time commit such outrages as they do, if they were not
tempted by drink and money by those who call themselves civilised.
At Alamingo I was kept nearly two months, till the snow was off the
ground--a long time to be among such creatures! I was too far from any
plantations or white people to try to escape; besides, the bitter cold
made my limbs quite benumbed. But I contrived to defend myself more or
less against the weather by building a little wigwam with the bark of
the trees, covering it with earth, which made it resemble a cave, and
keeping a good fire always near the door.
Seeing me outwardly submissive, the savages sometimes gave me a little
meat, but my chief food was Indian corn. Having liberty to go about was,
indeed, more than I had expected; but they knew well it was impossible
for me to escape.
At length they prepared for another expedition against the planters and
white people, but before they set out they were joined by many other
Indians from Fort Duquesne, well stored with powder and ball that they
had received from the French.
As soon as the snow was quite gone, so that no trace of their footsteps
could be found, they set out on their journey towards Pennsylvania, to
the number of nearly a hundred and fifty. Their wives and children were
left behind in the wigwams. My duty was to carry whatever they entrusted
to me; but they never gave me a gun. For several days we were almost
famished for want of proper provisions: I had nothing but a few stalks
of Indian corn, which I was glad to eat dry, and the Indians themselves
did not fare much better.
When we again reached the Blue Hills, a council of war was held, and we
agreed to divide into companies of about twenty men each, after which
every captain marched with his party where he thought proper. I still
belonged to my old masters, but was left behind on the mountains with
ten Indians, to stay till the rest returned, as they did not think it
safe to carry me nearer to the plantations.
Here being left, I began to meditate on my escape, for I knew the
country round very well, having often hunted there. The third day after
the great body of the Indians quitted us my keepers visited the
mountains in search of game, leaving me bound in such a way that I could
not get free. When they returned at night they unbound me, and we all
sat down to supper together, feasting on two polecats which they had
killed. Then, being greatly tired with their day's excursion, they lay
down to rest as usual.
Seeing them apparently fast asleep, I tried different ways of finding
out whether it was a pretence to see what I should do. But after making
a noise and walking about, sometimes touching them with my feet, I found
that they really slept. My heart exulted at the hope of freedom, but it
sank again when I thought how easily I might be recaptured. I resolved,
if possible, to get one of their guns, and if discovered to die in
self-defence rather than be taken; and I tried several times to take one
from under their heads, where they always secure them. But in vain; I
could not have done so without rousing them.
So, trusting myself to the divine protection, I set out defenceless.
Such was my terror, however, that at first I halted every four or five
yards, looking fearfully towards the spot where I had left the Indians,
lest they should wake and miss me. But when I was about two hundred
yards off I mended my pace, and made all the haste I could to the foot
of the mountains.
Suddenly I was struck with the greatest terror and dismay, hearing
behind me the fearful cries and howlings of the savages, far worse than
the roaring of lions or the shrieking of hyænas; and I knew that they
had missed me. The more my dread increased the faster I hurried, scarce
knowing where I trod, sometimes falling and bruising myself, cutting my
feet against the stones, yet, faint and maimed as I was, rushing on
through the woods. I fled till daybreak, then crept into a hollow tree,
where I lay concealed, thanking God for so far having favoured my
escape. I had nothing to eat but a little corn.
But my repose did not last long, for in a few hours I heard the voices
of the savages near the tree in which I was hid threatening me with what
they would do if they caught me, which I already guessed too well.
However, at last they left the spot where I heard them, and I stayed in
my shelter the rest of that day without any fresh alarms.
At night I ventured out again, trembling at every bush I passed, and
thinking each twig that touched me a savage. The next day I concealed
myself in the same manner, and at night travelled forward, keeping off
the main road, used by the Indians, as much as possible, which made my
journey far longer, and more painful than I can express.
But how shall I describe my terror when, on the fourth night, a party of
Indians lying round a small fire which I had not seen, hearing the
rustling I made among the leaves, started from the ground, seizing their
arms, and ran out into the wood? I did not know in my agony of fear
whether to stand still or rush on. I expected nothing but a terrible
death; but at that very moment a troop of swine made towards the place
where the savages were. They, seeing the hogs, guessed that their alarm
had been caused by them, and returned merrily to their fire and lay down
to sleep again. As soon as this happened I pursued my way more
cautiously and silently, but in a cold perspiration with terror at the
peril I had just escaped. Bruised, cut, and shaken, I still held on my
path till break of day, when I lay down under a huge log, and slept
undisturbed till noon. Then, getting up, I climbed a great hill, and,
scanning the country round, I saw, to my unspeakable joy, some
habitations of white people, about ten miles distant.
My pleasure was somewhat damped by not being able to get among them that
night. But they were too far off; therefore, when evening fell, I again
commended myself to Heaven, and lay down, utterly exhausted. In the
morning, as soon as I woke, I made towards the nearest of the cleared
lands which I had seen the day before; and that afternoon I reached the
house of John Bull, an old acquaintance. I knocked at the door, and his
wife, who opened it, seeing me in such a frightful condition, flew from
me like lightning, screaming, into the house.
This alarmed the whole family, who immediately seized their arms, and I
was soon greeted by the master with his gun in his hand. But when I made
myself known--for at first he took me for an Indian--he and all his
family welcomed me with great joy at finding me alive; since they had
been told I was murdered by the savages some months ago.
No longer able to bear up, I fainted and fell to the ground. When they
had recovered me, seeing my weak and famished state, they gave me some
food, but let me at first partake of it very sparingly. Then for two
days and nights they made me welcome, and did their utmost to bring back
my strength, with the kindest hospitality. Finding myself once more able
to ride, I borrowed a horse and some clothes of these good people, and
set out for my father-in-law's house in Chester county, about a hundred
and forty miles away. I reached it on January 4, 1755; but none of the
family could believe their eyes when they saw me, having lost all hope
on hearing that I had fallen a prey to the Indians.
They received me with great joy; but when I asked for my dear wife I
found she had been dead two months, and this fatal news greatly lessened
the delight I felt at my deliverance.
FOOTNOTE:
[34] Glasgow, 1758. Written by himself.
_A WONDERFUL VOYAGE_
THIS is a story of a man who, when in command of his ships and when
everything went prosperously with him, was so overbearing and cruel that
some of his men, in desperation at the treatment they received, mutinied
against him. But the story shows another side of his character in
adversity which it is impossible not to admire.
In 1787 Captain Bligh was sent from England to Otaheite in charge of the
'Bounty,' a ship which had been specially fitted out to carry young
plants of the breadfruit tree, for transplantation to the West Indies.
'The breadfruit grows on a spreading tree, about the size of a large
apple tree; the fruit is round, and has a thick tough rind. It is
gathered when it is full-grown, and while it is still green and hard; it
is then baked in an oven until the rind is black and scorched. This is
scraped off, and the inside is soft and white like the crumb of a penny
loaf.'
The Otaheitans use no other bread but the fruit kind. It is, therefore,
little wonder that the West Indian planters were anxious to grow this
valuable fruit in their own islands, as, if it flourished there, food
would be provided with little trouble for their servants and slaves.
In the passage to Otaheite, Captain Bligh had several disturbances with
his men. He had an extremely irritable temper, and would often fly into
a passion and make most terrible accusations, and use most terrible
language to his officers and sailors.
On one occasion he ordered the crew to eat some decayed pumpkins,
instead of their allowance of cheese, which he said they had stolen from
the ship's stores.
The pumpkin was to be given to the men at the rate of one pound of
pumpkin to two pounds of biscuits.
The men did not like accepting the substitute on these terms. When the
captain heard this, he was infuriated, and ordered the first man of
each mess to be called by name, at the same time saying to them, 'I'll
see who will dare refuse the pumpkin or anything else I may order to be
served out.' Then, after swearing at them in a shocking way, he ended by
saying, 'I'll make you eat grass, or anything else you can catch before
I have done with you,' and threatened to flog the first man who dared to
complain again.
While they were at Otaheite several of the sailors were flogged for
small offences, or without reason, and on the other hand, during the
seven months they stayed at the island, both officers and men were
allowed to spend a great deal of time on shore, and were given the
greatest possible liberty.
Therefore, when the breadfruit plants were collected, and they weighed
anchor on April 4 in 1787, it is not unlikely they were loth to return
to the strict discipline of the ship, and to leave an island so lovely,
and where it was possible to live in the greatest luxury without any
kind of labour.
From the time they sailed until April 27, Christian, the third officer,
had been in constant hot water with Captain Bligh. On the afternoon of
that day, when the captain came on deck, he missed some cocoanuts that
had been heaped up between the guns. He said at once that they had been
stolen, and that it could not have happened without the officers knowing
of it. When they told him they had not seen any of the crew touch them,
he cried, 'Then you must have taken them yourselves!' After this he
questioned them separately; when he came to Christian, he answered, 'I
do not know, sir, but I hope you do not think me so mean as to be guilty
of stealing yours.'
The captain swore terribly, and said, 'You must have stolen them from
me, or you would be able to give a better account of them!' He turned to
the others with much more abuse, and saying, 'D--n you! you scoundrels,
you are all thieves alike, and combine with the men to rob me. I suppose
you'll steal my yams next, but I'll sweat you for it, you rascals! I'll
make half of you jump overboard before you get through Endeavour
Straits!'
Then he turned to the clerk, giving the order to 'stop the villains'
grog, and to give them but half a pound of yams to-morrow: if they steal
_them_, I'll reduce them to a quarter.'
That night Christian, who was hardly less passionate and resentful than
the captain, told two of the midshipmen, Stewart and Hayward, that he
intended to leave the ship on a raft, as he could no longer endure the
captain's suspicion and insults. He was very angry and excited, and
made some preparations for carrying out his plan, though these had to be
done with the greatest secrecy and care.
It was his duty to take the morning watch, which is from four to eight
o'clock, and this time he thought would he a good opportunity to make
his escape. He had only just fallen into a restless slumber when he was
called to take his turn.
[Illustration: The captain guarded by the mutineers]
He got up with his brain still alert with the sense of injury and wrong,
and most curiously alive to seize any opportunity which might lead to an
escape from so galling a service.
On reaching the deck, he found the mate of the watch had fallen asleep,
and that the other midshipman was not to be seen.
Then he made a sudden determination to seize the ship, and rushing down
the gangway ladder, whispered his intention to Matthew Quintal and Isaac
Martin, seamen, both of whom had been flogged. They readily agreed to
join him, and several others of the watch were found to be quite as
willing.
Someone went to the armourer for the keys of the arm chest, telling him
they wanted to fire at a shark alongside.
Christian then armed those men whom he thought he could trust, and
putting a guard at the officers' cabins, went himself with three other
men to the captain's cabin.
It was just before sunrise when they dragged him from his bed, and tying
his hands behind his back, threatened him with instant death if he
should call for help or offer any kind of resistance. He was taken up to
the quarter deck in his nightclothes, and made to stand against the
mizzen mast with four men to guard him.
Christian then gave orders to lower the boat in which he intended to
cast them adrift, and one by one the men were allowed to come up the
hatchways, and made to go over the side of the ship into it. Meanwhile
no heed was given to the remonstrances, reasoning, and prayers of the
captain, saving threats of death unless he was quiet.
Some twine, canvas, sails, a small cask of water, and a quadrant and
compass were put into the boat, also some bread and a small quantity of
rum and wines. When this was done the officers were brought up one by
one and forced over the side. There was a great deal of rough joking at
the captain's expense, who was still made to stand by the mizzen-mast,
and much bad language was used by everybody.
When all the officers were out of the ship, Christian said, 'Come,
Captain Bligh, your officers and men are now in the boat, and you must
go with them; if you make the least resistance you will be instantly put
to death.'
He was lowered over the side with his hands still fastened behind his
back, and directly after the boat was veered astern with a rope.
Someone with a little pity for them threw in some pieces of pork and
some clothes, as well as two or three cutlasses; these were the only
arms given.
There were altogether nineteen men in this pitiful strait. Although much
of the conduct of the mutineers is easily understood with regard to the
captain, the wholesale crime of thrusting so many innocent persons out
on to the mercy of the winds and waves, or out to the death from hunger
and thirst which they must have believed would inevitably overtake them,
is incomprehensible.
As the 'Bounty' sailed away, leaving them to their fate, those in the
boat cast anxious looks to the captain as wondering what should then be
done. At a time when his mind must have been full of the injury he had
received, and the loss of his ship at a moment when his plans were so
flourishing and he had every reason to congratulate himself as to the
ultimate success of the undertaking, it is much in his favour that he
seems to have realised their unfortunate position and to have been
determined to make the best of it.
[Illustration: THE SAVAGES ATTACK THE BOAT]
His first care was to see how much food they had. On examining it they
found there was a hundred and fifty pounds of bread, thirty-two pounds
of pork, six quarts of rum, six bottles of wine, and twenty-eight
gallons of water.
As they were so near Tofoa they determined to put in there for a supply
of breadfruit and water, so that they might keep their other provisions.
But after rowing along the coast for some time, they only discovered
some cocoanut trees on the top of a stony cliff, against which the sea
beat furiously. After several attempts they succeeded in getting about
twenty nuts. The second day they failed to get anything at all.
However, some natives came down to the boat and made inquiries about the
ship; but the captain unfortunately told the men to say she had been
lost, and that only they were saved.
This proved most disastrous; for the treacherous natives, finding they
were defenceless, at first brought them presents of breadfruit,
plantains and cocoanuts, rendering them all more hopeful and cheerful by
their kindness. But towards night their numbers increased in a most
alarming manner, and soon the whole beach was lined by them.
Presently they began knocking stones together, by which the men knew
they intended to make an attack upon them. They made haste to get all
the things into the boat, and all but one, named John Norton, succeeded
in reaching it. The natives rushed upon this poor man and stoned him to
death.
Those in the boat put to sea with all haste, but were again terribly
alarmed to find themselves followed by natives in canoes from which they
renewed the attack.
Many of the sailors were a good deal hurt by stones, and they had no
means at all with which to protect themselves. At last they threw some
clothes overboard; these tempted the enemy to stop to pick them up, and
as soon as night came on they gave up the chase and returned to the
shore.
All the men now begged Captain Bligh to take them towards England; but
he told them there could be no hope of relief until they reached Timor,
a distance of full twelve hundred leagues; and that, if they wished to
reach it, they would have to content themselves with one ounce of
bread and a quarter of a pint of water a day. They all readily agreed to
this allowance of food, and made a most solemn oath not to depart from
their promise to be satisfied with the small quantity. This was about
May 2. After the compact was made, the boat was put in order, the men
divided into watches, and they bore away under a reefed lug-foresail.
A fiery sun rose on the 3rd, which is commonly a sign of rough weather,
and filled the almost hopeless derelicts with a new terror.
In an hour or two it blew very hard, and the sea ran so high that their
sail was becalmed between the waves; they did not dare to set it when on
the top of the sea, for the water rushed in over the stern of the boat,
and they were obliged to bale with all their might.
The bread was in bags, and in the greatest danger of being spoiled by
the wet. They were obliged to throw some rope and the spare sails
overboard, as well as all the clothes but what they wore, to lighten the
boat, then the carpenter's tool-chest was cleared and the bread put into
it.
They were all very wet and cold, and a teaspoonful of rum was served to
each man, with a quarter of a breadfruit which was so bad that it could
hardly be eaten; but the captain was determined at all risks to keep to
the compact they had entered into, and to make their provisions last
eight weeks.
In the afternoon the sea ran even higher, and at night it became very
cold; but still they did not dare to leave off baling for an instant,
though their legs and arms were numb with fatigue and wet.
In the morning a teaspoonful of rum was served to all, and five small
cocoanuts divided for their dinner, and everyone was satisfied.
When the gale had subsided they examined the bread, and found a great
deal of it had become mouldy and rotten; but even this was carefully
kept and used. The boat was now near some islands, but they were afraid
to go on shore, as the natives might attack them; while being in sight
of land, where they might replenish their poor stock of provisions and
rest themselves, added to their misery. One morning they hooked a fish,
and were overjoyed at their good fortune; but in trying to get it into
the boat it was lost, and again they had to content themselves with the
damaged bread and small allowance of water for their supper.
They were dreadfully cramped for room, and were obliged to manage so
that half their number should lie down in the bottom of the boat or upon
a chest, while the others sat up and kept watch: their limbs became so
stiff from being constantly wet, and from want of space to stretch them
in, that after a few hours' sleep they were hardly able to move.
About May 7 they passed what the captain supposed must be the Fiji
Islands, and two large canoes put off and followed them for some time,
but in the afternoon they gave up the chase. It rained heavily that day,
and everyone in the boat did his best to catch some water, and they
succeeded in increasing their stock to thirty-four gallons, besides
having had enough to drink for the first time since they had been east
adrift; but the rain made them very cold and miserable, and as they had
no dry things their shiverings were terrible.
The next morning they had an ounce and a half of pork, a teaspoonful of
rum, half a pint of cocoanut milk, and an ounce of bread for breakfast,
which was quite a large meal for them. The rum, though (or because) in
such small quantities, is said to have been of the greatest service to
them.
Through fifteen weary days and nights of ceaseless rain they toiled,
sometimes through fierce storms of thunder and lightning, and before
terrific seas lashed into foam and fury by swift and sudden squalls,
with only their miserable pittance of bread and water to keep body and
soul together. Now and then a little rum was given after any extra
fatigue of baling, but only at the times set apart for meals.
In this rain and storm the little sleep they got only added to their
discomfort, save for the brief forgetfulness it brought; for they had to
lie down in water in the bottom of the boat, and with no covering but
the streaming clouds above them.
The captain then advised them to wring their clothes through sea-water,
which they found made them feel much warmer for a time.
On May 17 everyone was ill and complaining of great pain, and begging
for more food; but the captain refused to increase their allowance,
though he gave them all a small quantity of rum.
Until the 24th they flew before the wild seas that swept over stem and
stern of their boat, and kept them constantly baling.
Some of them now looked more than half dead from starvation, but no one
suffered from thirst, as they had absorbed so much water through the
skin.
A fine morning dawned on the 25th, when they saw the sun for the first
time for fifteen days, and were able to eat their scanty allowance in
more comfort and warmth. In the afternoon there were numbers of birds
called boobies and noddies near, which are never seen far from land.
The captain took this opportunity to look at the state of their bread,
and found if they did not exceed their allowance there was enough to
last for twenty-nine days, when they hoped to reach Timor. That
afternoon some noddies came so near the boat that one was caught. These
birds are about the size of a small pigeon; it was divided into eighteen
parts and given by lot. The men were much amused when they saw the beak
and claws fall to the lot of the captain. The bird was eaten, bones and
all, with bread and water, for dinner.
Now they were in calmer seas they were overtaken by a new trouble. The
heat of the sun became so great that many of them were overcome by
faintness, and lay in the bottom of the boat in an apathetic state all
day, only rousing themselves towards evening, when the catching of birds
was attempted.
On the morning of the 28th the sound of breakers could be heard plainly;
they had reached the Great Barrier Beef, which runs up much of the east
coast of Australia.
After some little time a passage nearly a quarter of a mile in width was
discovered through the reef, and they were carried by a strong current
into the peaceful waters which lie within the Barrier.
For a little time they were so overjoyed that their past troubles were
forgotten. The dull blue-grey lines of the mainland, with its white
patches of glaring sandhills, could be seen in the distance, and that
afternoon they landed on an island.
They found the rocks around it were covered with oysters and huge clams,
which could easily be got at low tide. Some of their party sent out to
reconnoitre returned greatly pleased at having found plenty of fresh
water.
A fire was made by help of a small magnifying-glass. Among the things
thrown into the boat from the ship was a small copper pot; and thus with
a mixture of oysters, bread, and pork a stew was made, and everyone had
plenty to eat.
The day after they landed was the 29th of May, the anniversary of the
restoration of King Charles II., and as the captain thought it applied
to their own renewed health and strength, he named it Restoration
Island.
After a few days' rest, which did much to revive the men, and when they
had filled all their vessels with water and had gathered a large supply
of oysters, they were ready to go on again.
As they were about to start everybody was ordered to attend prayers, and
as they were embarking about twenty naked savages came running and
shouting towards them, each carrying a long barbed spear, but the
English made all haste to put to sea.
For several days they sailed over the lake-like stillness of the Barrier
reef-bound waters, and past the bold desolations of the Queensland
coast, every headland and bay there bearing the names Cook gave them
only a few years before, and which still tell us by that nomenclature
each its own story of disappointment and hope.
Still making way to the north, they passed many more islands and keys,
the onward passage growing hot and hotter, until on June 3, when they
doubled Cape York, the peninsula which is all but unique in its
northward bend, they were again in the open sea.
By this time many of them were ill with malaria, then for the first time
some of the wine which they had with them was used.
But the little boat still bravely made its way with its crew, whose
faces were so hollow and ghastly that they looked like a crew of
spectres, sailing beneath the scorching sun that beat down from the pale
blue of the cloudless sky upon a sea hardly less blue in its greater
depths. Only the hope that they would soon reach Timor seemed to rouse
them from a state of babbling delirium or fitful slumber.
On the 11th the captain told them they had passed the meridian of the
east of Timor; and at three o'clock on the next morning they sighted the
land.
It was on Sunday, June 14, when they arrived at Company Bay, and were
received with every kindness by the people.
Thus ended one of the most remarkable voyages that has ever been made.
They had been sent out with provisions only sufficient for their number
for _five_ days, and Captain Bligh had, by his careful calculation, and
determination to give each man only that equal portion they had agreed
to accept, made it last for _fifty_ days, during which time they had
come three thousand six hundred and eighteen nautical miles.
There had been days when the men were so hunger-driven that they had
besought him with pitiful prayers for more to eat, and when it was his
painful duty to refuse it; and times, as they passed those islands where
plentiful food could be got, when he had to turn a deaf ear to their
longings to land. He had to endure the need of food, the cramped
position, the uneasy slumber, as did his men; as well as the more
perfect knowledge of their dangers. There had been days and nights while
he worked out their bearings when he had to be propped up as he took the
stars or sun.
It was, therefore, Captain Bligh's good seamanship, his strict
discipline and fairness in the method of giving food and wine to those
who were sick, that enabled them to land at Timor with the whole of
their number alive, with the exception of the one man who was stoned to
death by the savages at Tofoa.
_THE PITCAIRN ISLANDERS_
IT will be remembered that nothing had been heard of the 'Bounty' since
she was seen off Point Venus on the morning of September 22, 1789.
In 1809, just twenty years after, when Captain Folger, of the American
ship 'Topaz,' landed at Pitcairn Island, one of the most remote of the
islands in the Pacific, he found there a solitary Englishman and five
Otaheitan women and nineteen children. The man, who gave his name as
Alexander Smith, said he was the only remaining person of the nine who
had escaped in the 'Bounty.'
Although this information was given to the Admiralty shortly after, it
was not until the year 1814, when the 'Briton,' under the command of Sir
Thomas Staines, and the 'Tagus,' under that of Captain Pipon, were
cruising in the Pacific, that one day on which the ships were sailing in
the same direction about six leagues apart, both commanders were greatly
surprised to see an island in lat. 24° 40' and long. 130° 24' W.
They were puzzled to know what it could be, as Pitcairn Island (named
after a son of Major Pitcairn who was lost in the 'Aurora'), the only
one known in the neighbourhood, was marked on their charts as in long.
133° 24' W., more than three degrees out.
They thought they had made a new discovery, and as they ran in for the
land they were astonished to see some neatly-built huts surrounded by
gardens and plantations.
Some people were seen coming down the cliff with canoes on their
shoulders. Presently one was launched and made off through the heavy
surf towards the ships. They were more surprised than ever when one of
the young men in it cried out in English as they came alongside, 'Won't
you heave us a rope, now?'
He sprang up the side of the ship swiftly. When on deck he told Sir
Thomas Staines and Captain Pipon, when they asked him who he was, that
his name was Thursday October Christian, and that he was the son of the
late Fletcher Christian by an Otaheitan mother; that he was the first
born on the island, and his name was given him as he had been born on a
Thursday in October. He was now twenty-four years of age, and had a fine
muscular figure, dark hair, and a brownish complexion, and 'in his
good-natured and benevolent countenance he had all the features of an
honest English face.' He wore no clothing except a small piece of cloth
about his loins and a straw hat trimmed with cock's feathers. He spoke
English correctly and pleasantly both as to grammar and pronunciation.
He also told them he was married to a woman much older than himself, one
of those who had come with his father from Otaheite. His companion was a
fine boy of about seventeen or eighteen years, named George Young, son
of Young the midshipman.
[Illustration: The Pitcairn islanders on board the English frigate]
The islanders were much surprised at the many things new to them in the
ship, at the guns, and everything around them. They were greatly
entertained at the sight of a little dog. 'Oh, what a pretty little
thing it is!' exclaimed Young. 'I know it is a dog, for I have heard of
such an animal.'
The young men told the captains of many of the events that had happened
among the first settlers; but said that John Adams, now an old man,
could tell them much more. He was the only surviving Englishman that
came away in the 'Bounty,' and at that time he was called Alexander
Smith.
The captains determined to go on shore to see Adams, and to hear from
him the true story of Christian's fate, and of that of his companions.
Adams, who had been concealed since the arrival of the ships, when he
found that the two captains had landed and were not armed, and that they
did not intend to take him prisoner, came to the beach to meet them, and
brought his wife with him, who was a very old woman and nearly blind.
After so many years the sight of the King's uniform no doubt brought
back the scene of the 'Bounty' to Adams, for at first he was very
nervous and ill at ease.
However, when Sir Thomas Staines assured him they were not there with
any intention of taking him away, that they were not even aware that
such a person as himself existed, he regained confidence, and then told
them he had taken the name of John Adams since the sole care of the
women and children on the island had fallen upon him. He pretended he
had not taken any great share in the mutiny, that he was sick in bed
when it took place, and that he had been roused up and compelled to take
a musket in his hand. He said he was now ready and willing to go back to
England in one of the ships.
When the islanders heard him say this, all the women and children wept
bitterly, and the young men stood motionless and absorbed in grief. When
the officers again assured them that he should on no account be
molested, the people were overcome with joy and gratitude. Adams then
told them of the fate of the 'Bounty' and of the rest of the mutineers.
* * * * *
It is easy to suppose that when Christian sailed for the last time from
Otaheite his mind was full of misgiving; that he bitterly repented the
rash act by which the ship had fallen into his hands and by which in all
probability nineteen men had lost their lives, and also the wrecked and
criminal lives of his followers. The picture of the derelict crew in
their little boat was ever in his mind as he had last seen them watching
with despairing eyes their ship sail away; and again as distance blurred
all form, and it lay a blot on the sunny waters, immediately before it
was hidden by the horizon line.
That blot became ever blacker and heavier to his mental vision as one by
one his projects failed. A sullen and morose outcast for ever from
civilisation, he sailed out into the unknown seas with his little band
of desperate followers, to find if possible some solitary island, some
unknown spot, where they might be lost for ever from the world.
Curiously, the place which he pictured, the object for which he sought,
was soon after given to him to find.
Its steep cliffs rise from the sea precipitously, and beyond and above
them a ridge of rocky hills runs from north to south, from which, again,
two mountainous peaks of a thousand feet and more in height stand up
like sentinels.
At a little distance from the coast-line a white wall of surf lashes
itself into fury, and breaks everlastingly over the hidden reefs that
raise so formidable a guard around the island as to render safe landing
impossible save only at particular places and times.
Encouraged by this forbidding coast-line, after they had sailed all
round the island they effected a landing, and finding it uninhabited,
they decided to make it their home. The 'Bounty' was run into an inlet
between the cliffs, and after she had been dismantled and her materials
used for building houses, in 1790 they burnt her, as they feared she
might attract the notice of any ship that should chance to pass.
The first thing they did after their arrival was to divide the land into
nine equal parts, giving none to the Otaheitan men, who it is said had
been carried off from their own island by force. At first they were
kindly treated by the white men; but afterwards they made them their
slaves.
When they had been on the island a few weeks Christian became more
gloomy and taciturn, and his conduct to the others grew more overbearing
and unreasonable day by day.
Fear entered into his soul, and he looked with dislike and suspicion
upon all around him, shunned their companionship and sought a place
where he could be alone with his dark thoughts. Up at the extreme end of
the ridge of hills that runs across the island the almost inaccessible
cave may still be seen to which he carried a store of provisions and
ammunition, and thus shut himself off from the others, and with only the
sound of the roaring breakers as they beat on the shore below to disturb
his solitude, the madman dwelt alone with his terrible history of the
past.
[Illustration: 'THE MADMAN DWELT ALONE']
One story is that in a fit of maniacal insanity he flung himself over
the rocks into the sea. Another that he was shot by one of the mutineers
whilst digging in a plantation.
The accounts are contradictory. But whether from suicide or murder, his
death happened within a year after he landed at Pitcairn Island.
For about two years, while they all worked at the building of the houses
and at cultivating the ground, the Otaheitan men toiled without a
murmur. But when Williams, who had lost his wife, insisted that he would
take one of theirs or leave the island in one of the 'Bounty's' boats,
the other Englishmen, who did not want to part with him, compelled one
of the Otaheitans to give his wife to him.
From this time the Otaheitans became discontented, until the man whose
wife had been taken away was murdered in the woods; then things went on
more quietly for a year or two longer, when two of the most desperate
and cruel of the mutineers, Quintal and M'Koy, at last drove them to
form a plot to destroy their oppressors. A day was fixed by them to
attack and put to death all the Englishmen when they were at work in the
yam plots.
They killed Martin and Brown, one with a maul, the other with a musket,
while Adams made his escape, though he was wounded in the shoulder by a
bullet.
Young, who was a great favourite with the women, was hidden by them
during the attack, while M'Koy and Quintal fled to the woods.
That night all the native men were murdered by the widows of the
Europeans. This happened in 1793. From that time till 1798 the colonists
went on quietly, until M'Koy, who had once been employed in a Scotch
distillery, and had for some time been making experiments on the _ti_
root, succeeded in extracting from it an intoxicating liquor.
After this Quintal also gave his whole time to making the spirit, and in
consequence the two men were constantly drunk, and in one of his fits of
delirium M'Koy threw himself from a cliff, and was instantly killed.
Quintal became more and more unmanageable, and frequently threatened
to destroy Adams and Young--who, knowing that he would carry out his
threat, determined to kill him. This they did by felling him with an axe
as they would an ox.
Thus it was that at last only two men were left on the island, Adams and
Young. The latter, who was of a quiet and studious nature, resolved to
have prayers every morning and evening, and regular services on Sunday,
and to teach the children, of whom there were nineteen, several of them
then being between the ages of seven and nine years. Young, however, did
not live long, but died of asthma about a year after the murder of
Quintal.
[Illustration: Old John Adams teaches the children]
In their beautiful island of the sea, where the lordly banyans grow, and
where the feathery cocoanut palms stand boldly along the cliffs, or here
and there fringe the rocky beach--for in this temperate climate just
without the tropics there are but few trees and vegetables that will not
grow--there, unknown for many years to the world, and far away from its
busy jar and fret, the simple and kindly natures that these children of
Pitcairn Island must have inherited from their Otaheitan mothers were
trained to an almost perfect sense of duty and piety by old John Adams.
With a Bible and Prayer-book to aid him he persevered with his
self-imposed task. It was a task that must often have cost him much
labour and patient study, for though he could read he was not able to
write until he was a very old man.
Though in the eyes of the law his crime can never be wiped out, in the
eyes of humanity, his sincere repentance and long and tender devotion to
his charge--a charge that ended only on the day of his death--will for
ever render the last of the mutineers a character to be remembered with
admiration and respect.
_A RELATION OF THREE YEARS' SUFFERING OF ROBERT EVERARD UPON THE ISLAND
OF ASSADA, NEAR MADAGASCAR, IN A VOYAGE TO INDIA, IN THE YEAR 1686_[35]
WHEN I was a boy, my father, Mr. William Everard, apprenticed me to the
captain of a ship bound for Bombay in India, and thence to Madagascar,
for blacks. I left London on August 5, 1686, and after different
adventures on the voyage, of which I need not here speak, our ship
reached Madagascar.
The King of Madagascar received us kindly enough, and promised in about
a month to furnish the captain with as many negroes as he desired. This
satisfied us very well, and, mooring the ship, we stayed some days,
trading with the negroes for rice and hens and bananas.
Now one day the supercargo and six of the men and myself went ashore,
taking guns and powder, and knives and scissors to trade with, and the
ship's dog went with us. And, carrying our chest of goods to the house
of one of the natives, we traded, and the negroes brought us such things
as they had in exchange.
But presently we heard a great noise, and a crowd began to gather, so
that we thought the King was coming. But, alas! we soon found that the
people of the town had risen against us, and ten or twelve broke in with
their lances, and killed five of the boat's crew and the man who took
care of the boat! The supercargo, running out of the house to get to the
King, was thrust through by one of these murderous natives, and died
immediately. I myself, being knocked down by the fall of the others, lay
among the dead like one dead.
When the blacks took them up, however, they saw I was alive, and did not
kill me in cold blood, but carried me to the King's house, which was
just by the house where they had killed our men, whose bodies I saw
them carrying down to fling into the sea as I looked out at the King's
door.
He bade me sit down, and ordered the women to bring me some boiled rice
on a plantain leaf, but in my terrible condition I could not eat. At
night the King's men showed me my lodging in a small hut among the
slaves, where I remained till the morning.
[Illustration: Death of the supercargo]
That morning our ship sailed. All the night as she lay there she had
kept firing her great guns, and one shot came into the middle of the
King's house, and went through it.
But when she had sailed I saw some of the blacks with bottles of wine
taken out of the great cabin, which I myself had filled the morning I
went ashore. They had also the captain's sword and the ship's compass,
and some great pieces of the flag tied round their waists. So I asked
those negroes who understood a little English if they had killed any on
board. They said 'Yes,' and told me that the blacks in a canoe that went
to our ship to trade had lances hidden, and fell upon the captain and
the mate, who suspected nothing, and killed them and some others of our
men, but the rest had time to arm themselves, and so drove the blacks
away.
I asked them also why they killed our men, and they told the King, who
answered that an English ship had been before, and played the rogue with
them, and killed some of the natives, and they had therefore taken
revenge.
After this the King went to visit his towns, and bid me go along with
him; and I went first to one place and then another, to be shown to the
people. But the women when they saw me shrieked and ran away in a
fright--never having seen a white man, and thinking I was a spirit.
Then the King and his army went to the other side of the island, and
carried me with them and our dog, and there he began mustering together
a greater army, taking more men out of every town he visited. As soon as
the women saw the King and his army coming, they got their sticks and
came dancing for joy. And when he came into a town a mat was laid on the
ground for him to sit on. When he sat down the wife of the chief of the
town came out with some white stuff upon a stone, and dipped her finger
in it, and put one spot on the King's forehead, and one on each cheek,
and one on his chin; and so they did to his four wives who went with
him. Then, when the women had done spotting them, the captain of the
town and all his men came before the King, some with great calabashes
full of liquor, and he bid the captain get his men ready to go along
with the army, which was done in a day's time. Thus he went from town to
town.
The dog belonging to our ship went too, and when he saw any hogs, he ran
and barked at them till the negroes came and killed them with their
lances. And sometimes he would fetch a young pig and bring it to me.
It was six or seven weeks before they reached the town of the enemy, and
rushed into it, firing and striking with their lances, and killing or
taking prisoners all who did not run away. Then marching further up the
country they met with the enemy's whole army; and for about a month they
fought with them day after day, our side nearly always getting the
better of it.
When as many prisoners had been taken as the King needed for slaves, we
marched back again through the towns, and the people brought great
parcels of rice made up in plantain leaves, and pots of boiled fish for
the King and his men to eat with their rice. They used to sit four, and
six, or eight together; they also gave me some by myself, on a plantain
leaf. This they did at every town where the King came. But as I was
coming back with them I was taken lightheaded, so that sometimes I fell
down, and could not stir without extreme pain.
About a week after we reached our own town the King asked me if I could
make powder. I told him 'No;' he then asked if I could make shot. I said
'Yes;' and he told his men to fetch some lead, and clay for the moulds,
and as well as I could I made three or four hundred shot. The King was
pleased with these, and while I was making them I had victuals given me,
and some of their best drink.
But afterwards the King bid me go about the island with some of his men
to find flint stones; and when I could find none he took no more notice
of me, but turned me out of his house, and would not let me come into it
any more. Then I had to seek for my own food to save myself from being
starved, and it pleased God that I found such food as the natives
eat--yams and potatoes, which I dug out of the earth with a piece of
sharp stone, having neither knife nor any other tool. And I made fire as
the natives did, rubbing together two pieces of stick, and roasted my
yams, and gathered bananas and oranges and other fruit. Then sometimes I
caught fish with a small, sharp-pointed stick, and crabs, and now and
then a turtle. I also found turtles' eggs. I used to keep yams and
potatoes by me to serve five or six days, and when they were gone I
hunted for more.
My lodging was under a tree on the hard ground, where I slept for two
years and nine months and sometimes in the year it would rain for three
months together, or only become fine for an hour or so--yet for all that
I lay under the tree still. I always had a fire on each side of me to
keep me warm, because I had no covering but the branches and leaves of
the tree. Sometimes in the night I crept outside the cottage of one of
the natives for shelter, but I was forced to be gone before they were up
for fear they would do me harm.
When I wanted water I went almost a mile for a drink, and had nothing to
bring back a little water in to keep by me and drink whenever I was
thirsty. Also, I had to see that there were no blacks near the water,
lest they should set upon me.
Two years after I had come to the country I suffered terrible pain with
sores that broke out upon me, but finding some honey in a rock by the
seaside, I made a kind of salve which gave me a little ease. But now the
time of my worst distress was drawing to an end.
For when I had been three years in the island there came Arabs to buy
negroes, and I pleaded with them to take me away, telling them how it
was that I, an English boy, was left in this condition. Then the chief
merchant of the Arabs said he could not carry me away without the King's
leave, for it would spoil their trade; but he would try to get me clear,
and as long as the Arabian vessel lay there I might come to his house
and get food and drink.
About six weeks after the merchant sent for me, and told me he had
bought me of the King for twenty dollars, and that he would carry me to
my own country people again.
The ship lay there about ten weeks, and when they had got all their
negroes we sailed from Madagascar. But all the history of my voyaging
with the Arabs, who treated me with much kindness, and sold me at last
to Englishmen, would be too long to relate. When I first saw my own
countrymen I had forgotten English, so that I could only speak to them
in the language of Madagascar; but by the time I had been among them six
or seven days my English came back, and I could tell them my story.
At last I was taken on board an English ship called the 'Diana,' and,
sailing in this, I reached Yarmouth and afterwards Blackwall, where I
met my father, to the great joy of us both. Thus I conclude my
narrative, with humble thanks to God for His wonderful preservation of
me through so many hardships and dangers.
FOOTNOTE:
[35] Taken from the Churchill Collection, 1732. Written by himself.
_THE FIGHT AT SVOLDER ISLAND_ (A.D. 1000)
OLAF TRYGGVASON, King of Norway, had sailed with a large fleet eastwards
to Wendland, passing through the Danish king's dominion without his
goodwill, and was now returning thence. He sailed with a light breeze
and fair weather for Denmark, the smaller ships going before, and the
larger ships following behind because they needed more wind.
At an island off Wendland were gathered many great chiefs: the island is
called Svolder. In this fleet was Sweyn, King of the Danes, who had many
charges against King Olaf--one being that Olaf had taken to wife Sweyn's
sister without his leave; another that he had established himself in
Norway, a land tributary to Sweyn and subdued by King Harold his father.
Earl Sigvaldi was there with the Danish king because he was his earl.
And in this combined fleet was a mighty chief, Olaf the Swede, King of
the Swedes, who deemed he had to avenge on King Olaf of Norway great
dishonour; for he had broken betrothals with, and smitten with his
glove, Olaf the Swede's mother. This same woman Sigridr Sweyn, the
Danish king, had now to wife, and she was strongly urging on Sweyn to do
King Olaf hurt or dishonour. With this fleet, too, was Earl Eric,
Hacon's son, who deemed he had very great charges against King Olaf and
his men, because they had been present at the slaying of his father,
Earl Hacon, and had driven out of the land all his sons; and Olaf had
established himself in the kingdom afterwards.
These chiefs had an overwhelming host, and lay in a harbour on the inner
side of the island; but King Olaf's ships were sailing past outside, and
the chiefs were on the high ground of the island, and saw where the
fleet was sailing from the east. They saw that the small craft sailed in
front.
Soon they saw a ship large and splendid. Then said King Sweyn: 'Get we
to our ships with all speed; there sails Long Snake from the east.'
Answered Earl Eric: 'Bide we awhile, sire; they have more big ships than
Long Snake alone.'
And so it was. This ship belonged to Styrkar of Gimsa.
Now saw they yet another ship, large and well-equipped, a ship with a
figure-head.
Said King Sweyn: 'Now here will be sailing Long Snake; and take we heed
that we be not too late in meeting them.'
Then answered Earl Eric: 'That will not be Long Snake; few of their big
ships have passed as yet; there are many more to come.'
And it was even as the Earl said.
Now sailed a ship with striped sails, a long-ship built for speed, and
much larger than the others that had gone by. And when King Sweyn saw
that this ship had no figure-head on her, then stood he up and said,
laughing the while: 'Olaf Tryggvason is afraid now; he dares not to sail
with his dragon's head; go we and attack him.'
Answered then Earl Eric: 'That is not Olaf Tryggvason. I know the ship,
for I have often seen it; it belongs to Erling Skjalgsson. And 'tis
better that we go astern of him to this battle. Brave wights are on
board there, as we shall surely know if we meet Olaf Tryggvason. Better
is a gap in the King's fleet than a ship thus well-manned.'
Then said Olaf, the Swedish king, to the Earl: 'We ought not to fear
joining battle with Olaf, though he have many ships. And it is great
shame and disgrace for men to hear in other lands, if we lie by with an
overwhelming host while he sails the high road of the seas outside.'
Earl Eric answered: 'Sire, let this swift long-ship pass if she will. I
can tell you good tidings: that Olaf Tryggvason has not sailed by us,
and this day you will have the chance of fighting with him. There are
here now many chiefs, and I expect of this bout that we shall all have
plenty of work.'
Still they said, when this long-ship and many craft had gone by: 'That
must have been Long Snake. And Earl Eric,' said the Danes, 'will never
fight to avenge his father if he do not so now.'
The Earl answered much in wrath, and said that the Danes would not be
found less loath to fight than himself and his men.
They waited not long ere three ships came sailing, whereof one, by far
the largest, bore a golden dragon's head. Then all said that the Earl
had spoken truth, and there now was Long Snake.
Earl Eric answered: 'That is not Long Snake.' But he bade them attack if
they would.
And at once Sigvaldi took his long-ship and rowed out to the ships,
holding up a white shield; they, on the other hand, lowered their sails
and waited. But that large ship was the Crane, steered by Thorkell
Dydrill, the King's kinsman. They asked of Sigvaldi what tidings he had
to tell them. He declared he could tell them tidings of Sweyn, the
Danish king, which it were right Olaf Tryggvason should know--he was
setting a snare for him if he were not on his guard. Then Thorkell and
his men let their ship float, and waited for the King.
Then saw King Sweyn four ships of great size sailing, and one by far the
largest, and on it a dragon's head conspicuous, all of gold. And they
all at once said: 'A wondrous big ship and a beautiful one is the Long
Snake. There will be no long-ship in the world to match her for beauty,
and much glory is there in causing to be made such a treasure.'
Then said Sweyn, the Danish king, out loud: 'The Long Snake shall bear
me; I shall steer it this evening before set of sun.'
Whereat Earl Eric said, but so that few men heard: 'Though Olaf
Tryggvason had no more ships than may now be seen, never will Danish
king steer this ship if they two and their forces have dealings
together.'
Sigvaldi, when he saw where the ships were sailing, bade Thorkell
Dydrill draw his ship under the island; but Thorkell said the wind sat
better for them to sail out at sea than to keep under the land with
large ships and light breeze. But they gathered them under the island,
these last four, because they saw some of their ships rowing under the
island, and suspected that there might be some new tidings; so they
tacked and stood in close to the island, and lowered their sails and
took to their oars. The large ship of this group was named Short Snake.
And now the chiefs saw three very large ships sailing, and a fourth last
of all. Then said Earl Eric to King Sweyn and to Olaf, the Swedish king:
'Now stand ye up and to your ships; none will now deny that Long Snake
sails by, and there ye may meet Olaf Tryggvason.'
Whereat silence fell on the chiefs, and none spake; and great fear was
on the crews, and many a one there dreaded his bane.
Olaf Tryggvason saw where his men had laid them under the island, and,
feeling sure that they must have heard some tidings, he also turned
these ships inwards to the island, and they lowered sail. Earl Sigvaldi
steered his ship inwards along the island to meet the fleet of the other
kings that was coming out from the harbour inside. Therefore sang
Stefnir about Sigvaldi, the foul traitor who drew Tryggvason into a
trap.
[Illustration: 'None will now deny that "Long Snake" sails by']
Sweyn, the Danish king, and Olaf, the Swedish king, and Earl Eric had
made this agreement between them, that, if they slew Olaf Tryggvason, he
of them who should be nearest at the time should own the ship and all
the share of booty taken in the battle; but of the realm of the Norse
king they should each have a third.
Then saw Olaf Tryggvason and all his men that they were betrayed, for lo
the whole sea about them was covered with ships; but Olaf had a small
force, as his fleet had sailed on before him. And now lay in his place
each one of those three chiefs, Sweyn, King of Danes, with his force;
Olaf, King of Swedes, with his host; while in the third place Earl Eric
set his men in array.
[Illustration: KING OLAF LEAPS OVERBOARD]
Then talked with King Olaf a wise man, Thorkell Dydrill, and said: 'Here
are overwhelming odds to fight against. Hoist we our sails, and sail we
after our fleet out to sea; for in no man is it cowardice to know his
own measure.'
King Olaf answered with loud voice: 'Bind we our ships together with
ropes, and let men don their war apparel and draw their swords; my men
must not think of flight.'
And Olaf Tryggvason asked his men: 'Who is chief over this force that
lies here nearest to us?'
They answered:
'We think it be Sweyn, King of Danes.'
Then said King Olaf: 'We need not fear that force; never did Danes win
victory in battle when fighting on shipboard against Norsemen.'
Again asked King Olaf: 'Who lies there out beyond with so many ships?'
He was told that it was Olaf Ericsson, King of Swedes.
Then answered King Olaf: 'We need not fear Swedish horse-eaters;[36] they
will be more eager to lick up what is in their sacrificial bowls than to
board Long Snake under our weapons.'
And yet again asked King Olaf Tryggvason: 'Who owns those large ships
that lie out beyond the other squadrons?'
He was told that it was Earl Eric, Hacon's son, with the Iron Earn, of
all ships the largest.
Then said King Olaf: 'Many high-born men are arrayed against us in that
host, and with that force we may expect a stubborn battle: they are
Norsemen as are we, and have often seen bloody swords and exchange of
blows, and they will think they meet their match in us, as in truth they
do.'
So these four chiefs, two kings and two earls, joined battle with Olaf
Tryggvason. Sigvaldi indeed took little part in the fight, but Skuli
Thorsteinsson in his short poem says that Sigvaldi was there. Very sharp
and bloody was this contest, and the Danes fell most because they were
nearest the Norsemen. Soon they did not hold their ground, but withdrew
out of shot range; and this fleet, as Olaf had said, came off with no
glory. But none the less the battle raged fierce and long, and numbers
fell on either side--of the Swedes, however, most--till it came about
that Olaf the Swede saw this to be the best counsel for himself and his
fleet, to make as if they shunned the fight. And so he bade his ships
drop away sternwards; and then Earl Eric lay broadside on.
King Olaf Tryggvason had laid the Long Snake between Short Snake and the
Crane, and the smallest ships outside them. But Earl Eric, as each of
these was disabled, caused it to be cut away, and pressed on to those
that were behind. Now, when the small ships of King Olaf were cleared,
the men leapt from them and went up on the larger ships. There was in
this bout much loss of life in either party; but ever, as men fell in
Earl Eric's ships, others took their place, Swedes and Danes; whereas
none took the place of the men who fell on Olaf's side. All his ships
were cleared presently except Long Snake; this held out because it was
highest inboard and best manned. And while there were men to do so, they
had gone thither aboard, and though some of the crew had perished, the
ship had maintained its full numbers. But when Short Snake and Crane
were disabled, then Earl Eric had them cut away, and thereafter Iron Ram
lay broadside to broadside with Long Snake.
This battle was so stubborn as to stir wonder, first for the brave
attack, but still more for the defence. When ships made at the Snake
from all sides yet the defenders so hasted to meet them that they even
stepped over the bulwarks into the sea and sank with their weapons,
heedless of all else save, as in a land fight, to press ever forwards.
The men fell there first in the ship's waist, where the board was
lowest, while forward about the prow and aft in the space next the poop
they held out longest. And when Earl Eric saw that the Snake was
defenceless amidships he boarded it with fifteen men. But when Wolf the
Red and other forecastlemen saw that, then they advanced from the
forecastle and charged so fiercely on where the Earl was that he had to
fall back to his ship. And when he came on board the Ram the Earl roused
his men to attack bravely; and they boarded the Snake a second time with
a large force.
By this time Wolf and all the forecastlemen had come to the poop, and
all the foreship was disabled, Earl Eric's force attacking King Olaf's
on every side. Earl Eric with his men then charged aft on the space next
the poop, and a stubborn resistance was there. King Olaf had been all
that day on the poop of the Snake; he bare a golden shield and helm,
heavy ring-mail, strong so that nought could pierce it, though 'tis
said that there was no stint of missiles showered on the poop, for all
men knew the King, as his armour was easily recognised and he stood high
on the stern-castle. And by him stood Kolbjorn, his marshal, clad in
armour like to the King's.
Now, this battle went as might be looked for when brave men on both
sides met: those lost who were fewer in numbers. And when all King
Olaf's force had fallen, then leapt he overboard himself, holding his
shield above his head; and so did Kolbjorn, his marshal, but his shield
was under him on the sea, and he could not manage to dive, wherefore the
men who were in the small ships took him, but he received quarter from
the Earl. And after this all leapt overboard who yet lived; but most of
these were wounded, and those who received quarter were taken as they
swam: these were Thorkell Netja, Karlshead, Thorstein, and Einar
Bowstring-shaker.
But after the battle was ended Earl Eric took for his own Long Snake and
the other ships of King Olaf, and the weapons of many men who had
wielded them manfully to the death.
Most famous has been this battle in Northland; first by reason of the
brave defence, next for the attack and victory, wherein that ship was
overcome on the deep sea which all had deemed invincible, but chiefly
because there fell a chief famous beyond any of the Danish tongue. So
greatly did men admire King Olaf and seek his friendship, that many
would not hear of his being dead, but declared that he was yet alive in
Wendland or in the south region. And about that many stories have been
made.
FOOTNOTE:
[36] The Swedes were still heathens, and ate horses, meat then forbidden
to Christians.
_THE DEATH OF HACON THE GOOD_ (A.D. 961)
[Eric Bloodaxe, Harold Fairhair's favourite son,
ruled Norway for a year or so after his father's
death. Then he and his queen Gunnhilda became so
hated by the people that they welcomed as king his
brother Hacon, who returned from England, where he
had been brought up. Eric was forced to flee. For
some time he was in Northumberland; he fell in the
west while freebooting, about A.D. 950. Gunnhilda
and her sons went to Denmark; they made many
attempts to recover Norway; the issue of the last
is here told.]
KING HACON, Athelstan's foster-son, long ruled over Norway; but in the
latter part of his life Eric's sons came to Norway, and strove with him
for the kingdom. They had battles together, wherein Hacon ever won the
victory. The last battle was fought in Hordaland, on Stord Island, at
Fitjar: there Hacon won the victory, but also got his death-wound.
And this battle came about in this wise. Gunnhilda's sons sailed
northward from Denmark, taking the outer way, nor came they to land
oftener than for men to get knowledge of their goings, while they also
got knowledge of the public banquets given to King Hacon. They had ships
well-found in men and weapons; and in their company was a mighty viking
named Eyvind Skreyja; he was a brother of Queen Gunnhilda.
Hacon was at a banquet at Fitjar on Stord Island when they came thither;
but he and all his men were unaware of their coming till the ships were
sailing up from the south and had now gotten close to the island. King
Hacon was even then sitting at table.
Now came a rumour to the King's guard that ships were seen sailing;
wherefore some who were keenest of sight went out to look. And each said
to his fellows that this would be an enemy, and each bade other to tell
the King; but for this task none was found save Eyvind Finnsson, who was
nicknamed Skald-spoiler.
He went in before the King, and spake thus: 'Fleeting hour is short,
sire, but meal-time long.'
Said the King: 'Skald, what news?'
Eyvind answered:
'Vengers ('tis said) of Bloodaxe crave
The battle-shock of belted glaive;
Our sitting-time is done.
Hard task, but 'tis thine honour, King,
I seek, who here war tidings bring.
Arm swiftly, every one!'
Then answered the King: 'Eyvind, thou art a brave wight and a wise; thou
wouldst not tell war tidings unless they were true.' Whereupon all said
that this was true, that ships were sailing that way, and within short
space of the island. And at once the tables were taken up, and the King
went out to see the fleet.
But when he had seen it he called to him his counsellors, and asked what
should be done.
'Here be sailing many ships from the south: we have a force small but
goodly. Now, I wish not to lead my best friends into overwhelming
danger; but surely would be willing to flee, if wise men should not deem
that this were great shame or folly.'
Then made answer each to other that everyone would rather fall dead
across his fellow than flee before Danes.
Whereat the King said: 'Well spoken for heroes as ye are! And let each
take his weapons, nor care how many Danes there be to one Norseman.'
Thereafter the King took his shield, and donned his coat of ring-mail,
and girded him with the sword Millstone-biter, and set a golden helm on
his head. Then did he marshal his force, putting together his bodyguard
and the guests of the feast.
Gunnhilda's sons now came up on land, and they likewise marshalled their
force, and it was by far the larger. The day was hot and sunny; so King
Hacon slipped off his mail coat and raised his helm, and egged on his
men to the onset laughing, and thus cheered his warriors by his blithe
bearing. Then the fight began, and it was most stubborn. When the
missiles were all thrown, King Hacon drew sword and stood in front under
the banner, and hewed right and left; never did he miss, or, if he
missed his man, the sword bit another.
Eyvind Skreyja went fiercely forward in the battle, challenging the
Norsemen's courage. And chiefly pressed he on where Hacon's banner was,
crying, 'Where is the Norsemen's king? Why doth he hide him? Why dares
he not come forth and show himself? Who can point me to him?'
[Illustration: Hacon casts his shield away]
Then answered King Hacon: 'Hold thou on forward, if thou wilt find the
Norsemen's king.'
And Hacon cast his shield by his side, and gripped his sword's mid-hilt
with both hands, and ran forth from under the banner.
But Thoralf Skumsson said, 'Suffer me, sire, to go against Eyvind.'
The King answered: 'Me he wished to find; wherefore me he shall first
meet.' But when the King came where Eyvind was, he hewed on either side
of him, and then, with Millstone-biter in both hands, hewed at Eyvind's
head, and clove him through helm and head right down to the shoulders.
This battle was not good for men weak in strength, weapons, or courage.
Nor was it long after the fall of Eyvind Skreyja ere the whole Danish
force turned and fled to their ships. Great numbers fell on the side of
Eric's sons; but they themselves escaped.
King Hacon's men followed them far that day, and slew all whom they
might; but the King bade his swift ship be launched, and rowed
northwards along the coast, meaning to seek his house at Alrekstead, for
he had gotten a wound by an arrow that pierced his arm while he drove
before him the flying foe. And he lost so much blood that he swooned
away. And when he came to the place called Hacon's Stone (it was where
he was born), there he stayed for the night, bidding his land tent be
set up and himself be carried ashore.
And as soon as King Hacon knew that his wound was mortal, he called to
him his counsellors, and talked at large with his friends about those
things that had been done in his days. And of this he then repented,
that he had done much against God and Christian men's laws during his
rule.
His friends offered to convey his body westwards to England, and bury it
there in Church ground.
But the King answered: 'Of this I am not worthy; I lived as heathen men
live, so, too, shall ye bury me.'
He bewailed the quarrels of himself and his kin; and having but one
daughter, a child, and no son, he sent a letter to Gunnhilda's sons,
wherein it was written that he gave to his kinsman Harold Grayfell his
guard and his kingdom.
After this King Hacon died: he had ruled Norway for twenty-six years. He
was mourned both by friends and foes. As Eyvind Skald-spoiler says:
'The King is born in blessed day
Such love who gains:
Of his fair age ever and aye
Good fame remains.'
His men carried his body to Soeheim in North Hordaland, and raised a
mound over it.
_PRINCE CHARLIE'S WAR_
I
THE BOYHOOD OF PRINCE CHARLIE
IN 1734 the city of Gaeta, in the kingdom of Naples, was held by an
Austrian force, and was besieged by a mixed army of French, Walloons,
Spaniards, and Italians, commanded by the Duke of Liria. Don Carlos, a
Spanish prince, was doing his best, by their aid, to conquer the kingdom
of Naples for himself. There is now no kingdom of Naples: there are no
Austrian forces in Italy, and there is certainly, in all the armies of
Europe, no such officer as was fighting under the Duke of Liria. This
officer, in the uniform of a general of artillery, was a slim,
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of thirteen. He seemed to take a pleasure in
the sound of the balls that rained about the trenches. When the Duke of
Liria's quarters had been destroyed by five cannon shots, this very
young officer was seen to enter the house, and the duke entreated, but
scarcely commanded, him to leave. The boy might be heard shouting to the
men of his very mixed force in all their various languages. He was the
darling of the camp, and the favourite of the men, for his courage and
pleasant manners.
This pretty boy with a taste for danger, Charles Edward Stuart, was
called by his friends 'the Prince of Wales.' He was, indeed, the eldest
son of James VIII. of Scotland and Third of England, known to his
enemies as 'the Pretender.' James, again, was the son of James II., and
was a mere baby when, in 1688, his father fled from England before the
Prince of Orange.
The child (the son of James II.) grew up in France: he charged the
English armies in Flanders, and fought not without distinction. He
invaded Scotland in 1715, where he failed, and now, for many years, he
had lived in Rome, a pensioner of the Pope. James was an unfortunate
prince, but is so far to be praised that he would not change his creed
to win a crown. He was a devout Catholic--his enemies said 'a bigoted
Papist'--he was the child of bad luck from his cradle; he had borne many
disappointments, and he was never the man to win back a kingdom by the
sword. He had married a Polish princess, of the gallant House of
Sobieski, and at Gaeta his eldest son, though only a boy, showed that he
had the courage of the Sobieskis and the charm of the Stuarts. The spies
of the English Government confessed that the boy was more dangerous than
the man, Prince Charles than King James.
[Illustration: 'IN THE BORGHESE GARDENS PRACTISED THAT ROYAL GAME OF
GOLF']
While Charles, at Gaeta, was learning the art of war, and causing his
cousin, the Duke of Liria, to pass some of the uneasiest moments of his
life, at home in Rome his younger brother Henry, Duke of York, aged
nine, was so indignant with his parents for not allowing him to go to
the war with his brother, that he flung away his little sword in a
temper. From their cradle these boys had thought and heard of little
else but the past glories of their race; it was the dream of their lives
to be restored to their own country. In all he did, the thought was
always uppermost with Charles. On the way from Gaeta to Naples, leaning
over the ship's side, the young Prince lost his hat; immediately a boat
was lowered in the hope of saving it, but Charles stopped the sailors,
saying with a peculiar smile, 'I shall be obliged before long to go and
fetch myself a hat in England.'
Every thought, every study, every sport that occupied the next few years
of Charles' life in Rome, had the same end, namely, preparing himself in
every way for the task of regaining his kingdom. Long days of rowing on
the lake of Albano, and boar-hunting at Cisterna, made him strong and
active. He would often make marches in shoes without stockings,
hardening his feet for the part he played afterwards on many a long
tramp in the Highlands. Instead of enjoying the ordinary effeminate
pleasures of the Roman nobility, he shot and hunted; and in the Borghese
Gardens practised that royal game of golf, which his ancestors had
played long before on the links at St. Andrews and the North Inch of
Perth. His more serious studies were, perhaps, less ardently pursued.
Though no prince ever used a sword more gallantly and to more purpose,
it cannot be denied that he habitually spelled it 'sord,' and though no
son ever wrote more dutiful and affectionate letters to a father, he
seldom got nearer the correct spelling of his parent's name than 'Gems.
In lonely parts of Rome the handsome lad and his melancholy father might
often have been seen talking eagerly and confidentially, planning,
and for ever planning, that long-talked-of descent upon their lost
kingdom.
If his thoughts turned constantly to Britain, many hearts in that
country were thinking of him with anxious prayers and hopes. In England,
in out-of-the-way manor-houses and parsonages, old-fashioned,
high-church squires and clergymen still secretly toasted the exiled
family. But in the fifty years that had passed since the Revolution, men
had got used to peace and the blessings of a settled government.
Jacobitism in England was a sentiment, hereditary in certain Tory
families; it was not a passion to stir the hearts of the people and
engage them in civil strife. It was very different with the Scots. The
Stuarts were, after all, their old race of kings; once they were removed
and unfortunate, their tyranny was forgotten, and the old national
feeling centred round them. The pride of the people had suffered at the
Union (1707); the old Scots nobility felt that they had lost in
importance; the people resented the enforcement of new taxes. The
Presbyterians of the trading classes were Whigs; but the persecuted
Episcopalians and Catholics, with the mob of Edinburgh, were for 'the
auld Stuarts back again.' This feeling against the present Government
and attachment to the exiled family were especially strong among the
fierce and faithful people of the Highlands. Among families of
distinction, like the Camerons of Lochiel, the Oliphants of Gask, and
many others, Jacobitism formed part of the religion of gallant,
simple-minded gentlemen and of high-spirited, devoted women. In many a
sheiling and farmhouse old broadswords and muskets, well-hidden from the
keen eye of the Government soldiers, were carefully cherished against
the brave day when 'the king should have his own again.'
In 1744 that day seemed to have dawned to which Charles had all his life
been looking forward. France, at war with England, was preparing an
invasion of that country, and was glad enough to use the claims of the
Stuarts for her own purposes. A fleet was actually on the point of
starting, and Charles, in the highest spirits, was already on shipboard,
but the English admiral was alert. A storm worked havoc among the French
ships, and it suited the French Government to give up the expedition.
Desperate with disappointment, Charles proposed to his father's friend,
the exiled Lord Marischall, to sail for Scotland by himself in a
herring-boat, and was hurt and indignant when the old soldier refused to
sanction such an audacious plan.
Charles had seen enough of hanging about foreign courts and depending
on their wavoring policy; he was determined to strike a blow for
himself. In Paris he was surrounded by restless spirits like his own;
Scots and Irish officers in the French service, and heart-broken exiles
like old Tullibardine, eager for any chance that would restore them to
their own country. Even prudent men of business lent themselves to
Charles's plans. His bankers in Paris advanced him 180,000 livres for
the purchase of arms, and of two Scottish merchants at Nantes, Walsh and
Routledge, one undertook to convey him to Scotland in a brig of eighteen
guns, the 'Doutelle,' while the other chartered a French man-of-war, the
'Elizabeth,' to be the convoy, and to carry arms and ammunition. To
provide these Charles had pawned his jewels, jewels which 'on _this_
side I could only wear with a very sad heart,' he wrote to his father;
for the same purpose he would gladly have pawned his shirt. On June 22
he started from the mouth of the Loire in all haste and secrecy, only
writing for his father's blessing and sanction when he knew it would be
too late for any attempt to be made to stop him. The companions of his
voyage were the old Marquis of Tullibardine, who had been deprived of
his dukedom of Athol in the '15; the Prince's tutor and cousin, Sir
Thomas Sheridan, a rather injudicious Irishman; two other Irishmen in
the French and Spanish services; Kelly, a young English divine; and
Æneas Macdonald, a banker in Paris, and younger brother of the chieftain
Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart, a prudent young man, who saw himself
involved in the Prince's cause very much against his will and better
judgment.
II
PRINCE CHARLIE'S LANDING
ENGLAND and France being at war at this time, the Channel was constantly
swept by English men-of-war. The 'Doutelle' and her convoy were hardly
four days out before the 'Elizabeth' was attacked by an English frigate,
the 'Lion.' Knowing _who_ it was he had on board, Walsh, the prudent
master of the 'Doutelle,' would by no means consent to join in the fray,
and sheered off to the north in spite of the commands and remonstrances
of the Prince. The unfortunate 'Elizabeth' was so much disabled that she
had to return to Brest, taking with her most of the arms and ammunition
for the expedition. At night the 'Doutelle' sailed without a light and
kept well out to sea, and so escaped further molestation. The first
land they sighted was the south end of the Long Island. Gazing with
eager eyes on the Promised Land, old Lord Tullibardine was the first to
notice a large Hebridean eagle which flew above the ship as they
approached. 'Sir,' he said, 'it is a good omen; the king of birds has
come to welcome your royal highness to Scotland.'
Charles had need of all happy auguries, for on his arrival in Scotland
things did not seem very hopeful. With his usual rash confidence he had
very much exaggerated the eagerness of his friends and supporters to
welcome him in whatever guise he might come. Never had fallen kings more
faithful and unselfish friends than had the exiled Stuarts in the
Highland chiefs and Jacobite lairds of Scotland, but even they were
hardly prepared to risk life and property with a certainty of failure
and defeat. Let the Prince appear with 5,000 French soldiers and French
money and arms, and they would gather round him with alacrity, but they
were prudent men and knew too well the strength of the existing
Government to think that they could overturn it unaided.
The first man to tell the Prince this unwelcome truth was Macdonald of
Boisdale, to whom he sent a message as soon as he landed in Uist. This
Boisdale was brother of the old Clanranald, chief of the loyal clan
Macdonald of Clanranald. If these, his stoutest friends, hesitated to
join his expedition Charles should have felt that his cause was
desperate indeed. But his mind was made up with all the daring of his
five-and-twenty years, and all the ill-fated obstinacy of his race. For
hours he argued with the old Highlander as the ship glided over the
waters of the Minch. He enumerated the friends he could count on, among
them the two most powerful chiefs of the North, Macdonald of Sleat, and
the Macleod. 'They have both declared for the existing Government,' was
the sad reply. Before taking leave of the Prince, Boisdale again urged
his returning 'home.' 'I am come _home_,' replied Charles passionately,
'and can entertain no notion of returning. I am persuaded that my
faithful Highlanders will stand by me.'
[Illustration: 'I WILL, THOUGH NOT ANOTHER MAN IN THE HIGHLANDS SHOULD
DRAW A SWORD']
On July 19 the 'Doutelle' cast anchor in Loch na-Nuagh, in the country
of the loyal Macdonalds. The first thing Charles did was to send a
letter to the young Clanranald to beg his immediate presence. The next
day four of the chief men of the clan waited on Charles, Clanranald,
Kinloch Moidart, Glenaladale, and another who has left us a lively
picture of the meeting. For three hours, in a private interview,
Clanranald tried in vain to dissuade the Prince. Then Charles--still
preserving his incognito--appeared among the assembled gentlemen on
deck. 'At his first appearance I found my heart swell to my very throat
'writes the honest gentleman who narrates the story. His emotion was
fully shared by a younger brother of Kinloch Moidart's who stood on deck
silent from youth and modesty, but with his whole heart looking out of
his eyes. His brother and the other chiefs walked up and down the deck
arguing and remonstrating with Charles, proving the hopelessness of the
undertaking. As he listened to their talk the boy's colour came and
went, his hand involuntarily tightened on his sword. Charles caught
sight of the eager young face, and, turning suddenly towards him cried,
'Will _you_ not assist me?' 'I will, I will; though not another man in
the Highlands should draw a sword, I will die for you.' Indeed, years
after all had failed, young Clanranald prepared a new rising, and had
9,000 stand of arms concealed in the caves of Moidart.
The boy's words were like flint to tinder. Before they left the ship the
hesitating chieftains had pledged themselves to risk property,
influence, freedom, and life itself in the Prince's cause. These gallant
Macdonalds were now willing to run all risks in receiving the Prince
even before a single other clan had declared for him. Old Macdonald of
Boisdale entertained Charles as an honoured guest in his bare but
hospitable Highland house. All the people of the district crowded to see
him as he sat at dinner. The young Prince delighted all present by his
geniality and the interest he showed in everything Highland, and when he
insisted on learning enough Gaelic to propose the king's health in their
native language, the hearts of the simple and affectionate people were
completely gained.
Meanwhile young Clanranald had gone to Skye to try and persuade Macleod
and Sir Alexander Macdonald to join the Prince. It was all in vain;
these two powerful chiefs were too deeply committed to the Government.
Next to these two, the most influential man in the Highlands was Cameron
of Locheil. Indeed, such was the respect felt by all his neighbours for
his gentle and chivalrous character, that there was no one whose example
would carry such weight. It was all-important to gain him to the cause.
No one saw more clearly than Locheil the hopelessness of the
undertaking, no one was more unwilling to lead his clansmen to what he
knew was certain destruction. He would see the Prince, he said, and warn
him of the danger and entreat him to return. 'Write to him,' urged
Locheil's brother, 'but do not see him. I know you better than you know
yourself. If this Prince once sets eyes on you he will make you do
whatever he pleases.' It was but too true a prophecy. When all argument
had failed to move Locheil's prudent resolution, Charles exclaimed
passionately, 'In a few days, with a few friends, I will raise the Royal
Standard and proclaim to the people of Britain that Charles Stuart is
come over to claim the crown of his ancestors, to win it or perish in
the attempt. Locheil, who, my father has often told me, was our firmest
friend, may stay at home and learn from the newspapers the fate of his
Prince.' It was more than the proud, warm heart of the chief could
stand. 'No,' he cried with emotion, 'I will share the fate of my Prince,
and so shall every man over whom nature and fortune has given me any
power.'
Even before the Royal Standard was raised an unexpected success crowned
the rebel arms. The Government had troops stationed both at Fort
Augustus and Fort William. The latter being in the heart of the
disaffected district, the commanding officer at Fort Augustus despatched
two companies of newly-raised men to its assistance. This body, under a
Captain Scott, was approaching the narrow bridge which crossed the Spean
some seven miles from Fort William; all at once a body of Highlanders
appeared, occupying the bridge and barring further passage. Had the
troops plucked up courage enough to advance they would have found only
some dozen Macdonalds; but the wild sound of the pipes, the yells of the
Highlanders, and their constant movement which gave the effect of a
large body, struck terror into the hearts of the recruits; they wavered
and fell back, and their officer, though himself a brave man, had to
order a retreat. But the sound of firing had attracted other bodies of
Macdonalds and Camerons in the neighbourhood. All at once the steep,
rough hillside seemed alive with armed Highlanders; from rock and bush
they sprung up, startling the echoes by their wild shouts. In vain the
disordered troops hurried along the road and rushed across the isthmus
to the further side of the lakes; there a new party of Macdonalds, led
by Keppoch, met them in front, and the whole body surrendered with
hardly a blow struck. They were carried prisoners to Locheil's house,
Achnacarry. In default of medical aid, the wounded captain was sent to
Fort William, in that spirit of generous courtesy which characterised
all Charles's behaviour to his defeated enemies.
[Illustration: 'Go, sir, to your general; tell him what you have
seen. . . .']
On August 19 the Royal Standard was raised at Glenfinnan, a deep rocky
valley between Loch Eil and Loch Sheil, where the Prince's monument now
stands. Charles, with a small body of Macdonalds, was the first to
arrive, early in the morning. He and his men rowed up the long narrow
Loch Sheil. The valley was solitary--not a far-off bagpipe broke the
silence, not a figure appeared against the skyline of the hills. With
sickening anxiety the small party waited, while the minutes dragged out
their weary length. At last, when suspense was strained to the utmost,
about two in the afternoon, a sound of pipes was heard, and a body of
Camerons under Lochiel appeared over the hill, bringing with them the
prisoners made at the Bridge of Spean. Others followed: Stewarts of
Appin, Macdonalds of Glencoe and Keppoch, till at least 1,500 were
present. Then the honoured veteran of the party, old Tullibardine,
advanced in solemn silence and unfurled the royal banner, with the motto
_Tandem Triumphans_. As its folds of white, blue, and red silk blew out
on the hill breeze, huzzas rent the air, and the sky was darkened by the
bonnets that were flung up. An English officer, a prisoner taken at
Spean, stood by, an unwilling spectator of the scene. 'Go, sir,' cried
the Prince in exultation, 'go to your general; tell him what you have
seen, and say that I am coming to give him battle.'
III
THE MARCH SOUTH
FOR a full month Prince Charles had been in Scotland. During that time a
body of men, amounting to a small army, had collected round him; his
manifestoes had been scattered all over the country (some were even
printed in Edinburgh), and yet the Government had taken no steps to
oppose him. News travelled slowly from the Highlands; it was August 9
before any _certain_ account of the Prince's landing was received in
Edinburgh. One bad fruit of the Union was that Scotch questions had to
be settled in London, and London was three days further away. Moreover,
at that greater distance, men had more difficulty in realising the
gravity of the situation. Conflicting rumours distracted the authorities
in Edinburgh; now it was declared that the Prince had landed with 10,000
French soldiers, at another time men ridiculed the idea of his getting a
single man to rise for him. Those who knew the country best took the
matter most seriously. The question of defence was not an easy one. At
that time almost all the available British troops were in Flanders,
fighting the French; the soldiers that were left in Scotland were either
old veterans, fit only for garrison duty, newly raised companies whose
mettle was untried, or local militias which were not to be trusted in
all cases. If the great lords who had raised and who commanded them
chose to declare for the Stuarts, they would carry their men with them.
The commander-in-chief, Sir John Cope, was not the man to meet so sudden
and so peculiar a crisis. He had nothing of a real general's love of
responsibility and power of decision. To escape blame and to conduct a
campaign according to the laws of war was all the old campaigner cared
for. When it was decided that he was to march with all the available
forces in Scotland into the Highlands he willingly obeyed, little
guessing what a campaign in the Highlands meant. Almost at once it was
found that it would be impossible to provide food for horses as well as
men. So the dragoons under Colonel Gardiner were left at Stirling. We
shall hear of them again. But his 1,500 infantry were weighted heavily
enough; a small herd of black cattle followed the army to provide them
with food, and more than 100 horses carried bread and biscuit. Confident
that the loyal clans would come in hundreds to join his standard, Cope
carried 700 stand of arms. By the time he reached Crieff, however, not a
single volunteer had come in, and the stand of arms was sent back. Cope
followed one of the great military roads which led straight to Fort
Augustus, and had been made thirty years before by General Wade. Now
across that road, some ten miles short of the fort, lies a high
precipitous hill, called Corryarack. Up this mountain wall the road is
carried in seventeen sharp zigzags; so steep is it that the country
people call it the 'Devil's Staircase.' Any army holding the top of the
pass would have an ascending enemy at its mercy, let alone an army of
Highlanders, accustomed to skulk behind rock and shrub, and skilled to
rush down the most rugged hillsides with the swiftness and
surefootedness of deer.
While still some miles distant, Cope learned that the Highlanders were
already in possession of Corryarack. The rumour was premature, but it
thoroughly alarmed the English general. He dared not attempt the ascent;
to return south was against his orders. A council of war, hastily
summoned, gave him the advice he wished for, and on the 28th the army
had turned aside and was in full retreat on Inverness.
Meanwhile, the Prince's army was pressing forward to meet Cope. The
swiftest-footed soldiers that ever took the field, the Highlanders were
also the least heavily-weighted. A bag of oatmeal on his back supplied
each man's need, Charles himself burned his baggage and marched at the
head of his men as light of foot and as stout of heart as the best of
them. On the morning of the 27th they were to ascend Corryarack. The
Prince was in the highest spirits. As he laced his Highland brogues he
cried, 'Before I take these off I shall have fought with Mr. Cope!'
Breathless the Highland army reached the top of the hill; they had
gained _that_ point of vantage. Eagerly they looked down the zigzags on
the further side; to their amazement not a man was to be seen, their
road lay open before them! When they learned from deserters the course
Cope's army had taken, they were as much disappointed as triumphant.
A body of Highlanders was despatched to try and take the barracks at
Ruthven, where twelve soldiers, under a certain Sergeant Molloy, held
the fort for the Government. This man showed a spirit very different
from that of his superior officer's. This is his own straightforward
account of the attack and repulse:
'Noble General,--They summoned me to surrender,
but I told him I was too old a soldier to part
with so strong a place without bloody noses. They
offered me honourable terms of marching out bag
and baggage, which I refused. They threatened to
hang me and my party. I said I would take my
chance. They set fire to the sally-port which I
extinguished; and failing therein, went off asking
leave to take their dead man, which I granted.'
Honour to Molloy, whatever the colour of his cockade!
Though unsuccessful at Ruthven, some members of this party, before
rejoining the Prince's army at Dalwhinnie, made an important capture.
Macpherson of Cluny was one of the most distinguished chiefs in the
Highlands, ruling his clan with a firm hand, and repressing all thieving
amongst them. As captain of an independent company, he held King
George's commission; his honour kept him faithful to the Government, but
his whole heart was on the other side. He was taken prisoner in his own
house by a party 'hardly big enough to take a cow,' and once a prisoner
in the Highland army, it was no difficult task to persuade him to take
service with the Prince.
The army now descended into the district of Athol. With curious emotion
old Tullibardine approached his own house of Blair from which he had
been banished thirty years before. The brother who held his titles and
properties fled before the Highland army, and the noble old exile had
the joy of entertaining his Prince in his own halls. The Perthshire
lairds were almost all Jacobites. Here at Blair, and later at Perth,
gentlemen and their following flocked to join the Prince.
One of the most important of these was Tullibardine's brother, Lord
George Murray, an old soldier who had been 'out in the '15.' He had real
genius for generalship, and moreover understood the Highlanders and
their peculiar mode of warfare. He was no courtier, and unfortunately
his blunt, hot-tempered, plain speaking sometimes ruffled the Prince,
too much accustomed to the complacency of his Irish followers. But all
that was to come later. On the march south there were no signs of
divided counsels. The command of the army was gladly confided to Lord
George.
Another important adherent who joined at this time was the Duke of
Perth, a far less able man than Lord George, but endeared to all his
friends by his gentleness and courage and modesty. Brought up in France
by a Catholic mother, he was an ardent Jacobite, and the first man to be
suspected by the authorities. As soon as the news spread that the Prince
had landed in the West, the Government sent an officer to arrest the
young duke. There was a peculiar treachery in the way this was
attempted. The officer, a Mr. Campbell of Inverawe, invited himself to
dinner at Drummond Castle, and, after being hospitably entertained,
produced his warrant. The duke retained his presence of mind, appeared
to acquiesce, and, with habitual courtesy, bowed his guest first out of
the room; then suddenly shut the door, turned the key and made his
escape through an ante-room, a backstairs, and a window, out into the
grounds. Creeping from tree to tree he made his way to a paddock where
he found a horse, without a saddle but with a halter. He mounted, and
the animal galloped off. In this fashion he reached the house of a
friend, where he lay hid till the time he joined the Prince.
[Illustration: Escape of the Duke of Perth]
No Jacobite family had a nobler record of services rendered to the
Stuarts than the Oliphants of Gask. The laird had been 'out in the '15,'
and had suffered accordingly, but he did not hesitate a moment to run
the same risks in the '45. He brought with him to Blair his
high-spirited boy, young Lawrence, who records his loyal enthusiasm in a
journal full of fine feeling and bad spelling! Indeed, one may say that
bad spelling was, like the 'white rose,' a badge of the Jacobite party.
Mistress Margaret Oliphant, who with her mother and sisters donned the
white cockade and waited on their beloved Prince at her aunt's, Lady
Nairne's, house, also kept a journal wherein she regrets in ill-spelt,
fervent words that being 'only a woman' she cannot carry the Prince's
banner. This amiable and honourable family were much loved among their
own people. 'Oliphant is king to us' was a by-word among retainers who
had lived on their land for generations. But at this crisis the shrewd,
prosperous Perthshire farmers refused to follow their landlord on such a
desperate expedition. Deeply mortified and indignant, the generous,
hot-tempered old laird forbade his tenants to gather in the harvest
which that year was early and abundant. As Charles rode through the Gask
fields he noticed the corn hanging over-ripe and asked the cause. As
soon as he was told, he jumped from his horse, cut a few blades with
his sword and, in his gracious princely way, exclaimed 'There, _I_ have
broken the inhibition! Now every man may gather in his own.' It was acts
like this that gained the hearts of gentle and simple alike, and explain
that passionate affection for Charles that remained with many to the end
of their days as part of their religion. The strength of this feeling
still touches our hearts in many a Jacobite song. 'I pu'ed my bonnet
ower my eyne, For weel I loued Prince Charlie,' and the yearning
refrain, 'Better loued ye canna be, Wull ye no come back again?' On the
3rd Charles entered Perth, at the head of a body of troops, in a
handsome suit of tartan, but with his last guinea in his pocket!
However, requisitions levied on Perth and the neighbouring towns did
much to supply his exchequer, and it was with an army increased in
numbers and importance, as well as far better organised--thanks to Lord
G. Murray--that Charles a week later continued his route to Edinburgh.
Having no artillery the Highland army avoided Stirling, crossed the
Forth at the Fords of Frew entirely unopposed, and marched to
Linlithgow, where they expected to fight with Gardiner's dragoons. That
body however did not await their arrival, but withdrew to Corstorphine,
a village two miles from Edinburgh.
The next halt of the Prince's army was at Kirkliston. In the
neighbourhood lay the house of New Liston, the seat of Lord Stair, whose
father was so deeply and disgracefully implicated in the massacre of
Glencoe. It was remembered that a grandson of the murdered Macdonald was
in the army with the men of his clan. Fearing that they would seize this
opportunity of avenging their cruel wrong, the general proposed placing
a guard round the house. Macdonald hearing this proposal, went at once
to the Prince. 'It is right,' he said, 'that a guard should be placed
round the house of New Liston, but that guard must be furnished by the
Macdonalds of Glencoe. If they are not thought worthy of this trust they
are not fit to bear arms in your Royal Highness' cause, and I must
withdraw them from your standard.' The passion for revenge may be strong
in the heart of the Highlander, but the love of honour and the sense of
loyalty are stronger still. The Macdonalds, as we shall see, carried
their habit of taking their own way to a fatal extent.
IV
EDINBURGH
MEANWHILE nothing could exceed the panic that had taken possession of
the town of Edinburgh. The question of the hour was, could the city be
defended _at all_, and if so, could it, in case of siege, hold out till
Cope might be expected with his troops? That dilatory general, finding
nothing to do in the North, was returning to Edinburgh by sea, and might
be looked for any day. There could be no question of the strength of the
Castle. It was armed and garrisoned, and no army without large guns need
attempt to attack it. But with the town it was different. The old town
of Edinburgh, as everybody knows, is built along the narrow ridge of a
hill running from the hollow of Holyrood, in constant ascent, up to the
Castle rock. On each side narrow wynds and lanes descend down steep
slopes, on the south side to the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, on the
north--at the time of which we write--the sides of the city sloped down
to a lake called the Norloch, a strong position, had the city been
properly fortified. More than two hundred years before, in the desolate
and anxious days that followed Flodden, the magistrates of the city,
hourly expecting to be invaded, had hastily built a high wall round the
whole city as it then was. For the time the defence was sufficient. But
the wall had been built without reference to artillery, it had neither
towers nor embrasures for mounting cannons. It was simply a very high,
solid, park wall, as may be seen to this day by the curious who care to
visit the last remnants of it, in an out-of-the-way corner near the
Grassmarket.
If the material defences were weak, the human defenders were weaker
still. The regular soldiers were needed for the Castle; Hamilton's
dragoons, stationed at Leith, were of no use in the defence of a city,
the town guard was merely a body of rather inefficient policemen, the
trained bands mere ornamental volunteers who shut their eyes if they had
to let off a firearm in honour of the king's birthday. As soon as it
seemed certain that the Highland army was approaching Edinburgh,
preparations, frantic but spasmodic, were made to put the city in a
state of defence.
The patriotic and spirited Maclaurin, professor of mathematics, alone
and unaided, tried to mount cannons on the wall, but not with much
success. The city determined to raise a regiment of volunteers; funds
were not lacking; it was more difficult to find the men. Even when
companies were formed, their ardour was not very great. Rumour and
ignorance had exaggerated the numbers and fierceness of the Highland
army; quiet citizens, drawn from desk or shop, might well shrink from
encountering them in the field. Parties were divided in the town; the
Prince had many secret friends among the citizens. In back parlours of
taverns 'douce writers,' and advocates of Jacobite sympathies, discussed
the situation with secret triumph; in many a panelled parlour high up in
those wonderful old closes, spirited old Jacobite ladies recalled the
adventures of the '15, and bright-eyed young ones busied themselves
making knots of white satin. 'One-third of the men are Jacobite,' writes
a Whig citizen, 'and two-thirds of the ladies.'
On Saturday, 14th, the news reached Edinburgh that the Prince had
arrived at Linlithgow, and that Gardiner had retired on Corstorphine, a
village two miles from Edinburgh. Consternation was general; advice was
sought from the law officers of the Crown, and it was found that they
had all retired to Dunbar. The Provost was not above suspicion. His
surname was Stuart; no Scotsman could believe that he really meant to
oppose the chief of his name.
[Illustration: 'In many a panelled parlour']
On Sunday, as the townsfolk were at church about eleven o'clock, the
firebell rang out its note of alarm, scattering the congregation into
the streets. It was the signal for the mustering of the volunteers. The
officer in command at the Castle was sending the dragoons from Leith to
reinforce Gardiner at Corstorphine, and the volunteers were ordered to
accompany them. They were standing in rank in the High Street, when the
dragoons rattled up the Canongate at a hard trot; as they passed they
saluted their brothers in arms with drawn swords and loud huzzas, then
swept down the West Bow and out at the West Port. For a moment military
ardour seized the volunteers, but the lamentations and tears of their
wives and children soon softened their mood again. A group of Jacobite
ladies in a balcony mocked and derided the civic warriors, but had
finally to close their windows to prevent stones being hurled at them.
One of the volunteer companies was composed of University students.
Among them was, doubtless, more than one stout young heart, eager for
fame and fighting, but most were more at home with their books than
their broadswords. 'Oh, Mr. Hew, Mr. Hew,' whispered one youth to his
comrade, 'does not this remind you of the passage in Livy where the Gens
of the Fabii marched out of the city, and the matrons and maids of Rome
were weeping and wringing their hands?' 'Hold your tongue,' said Mr.
Hew, affecting a braver spirit, 'you'll discourage the men.' 'Recollect
the end, Mr. Hew,' persisted his trembling comrade; '_they all perished
to a man!_' This was not destined to be the fate of the Edinburgh
volunteers. On the march down the West Bow, one by one they stole off,
up the narrow wynds and doorways, till by the time they reached the West
Port, only the student corps remained, and even its ranks were sadly
thinned. The remnant were easily persuaded that their lives were too
precious to their country to be rashly thrown away, and quietly marched
back to the college yards.
There was no alarm that night. At one o'clock the Provost, accompanied
by a few of the city guard, carrying a lantern before him, visited the
outposts and found all at their places. In the narrow streets of
Edinburgh the people were accustomed to transact all their business out
of doors. Next morning (Monday, 16th), the streets were already crowded
at an early hour with an anxious, vociferous crowd. At 10 o'clock a man
arrived with a message from the Prince, which he incautiously proclaimed
in the street. If the town would surrender it should be favourably
treated; if it resisted it must expect to be dealt with according to the
usages of war. Greatly alarmed, the people clamoured for a meeting, but
the Provost refused; he trusted to the dragoons to defend the city. A
little after noon, the citizens looking across from the Castle and the
northern windows of their houses, saw the dragoons in retreat from
Coltbridge As they watched the moving figures, the pace quickened and
became a regular flight; by the time the dragoons were opposite the city
on the other side of the Norloch, they were running like hares. They
made at first for their barracks at Leith, but the distance still
seemed too short between them and the terrifying Highlanders; they never
drew rein till they had reached Prestonpans, nor did they rest there
longer than an hour or two, but galloped on, and were at Dunbar before
nightfall. And yet they had not exchanged a blow with their foes! At the
first sight of a reconnoitring party of horsemen, panic had seized them
and they had fled. This was the celebrated 'Canter of Coltbridge.'
The effect on the city was disturbing in the extreme. A tumultuous
meeting was held in the council chamber, the volunteers were drawn up in
the streets. As they stood uncertain what to do a man on horseback--it
was never known who he was--galloped up the Bow, and as he passed along
the ranks, shouted 'The Highlanders are coming, sixteen thousand
strong.'
It was too much for the volunteers, they marched up to the Castle and
gave in their arms! Meanwhile, a packet was handed into the council
chamber signed C. P., and offering the same terms as in the morning,
only adding that the town must open its gates by two o'clock next
morning. The cry was unanimous to surrender, but to gain time deputies
were sent to the Prince at Gray's Mill, two miles from Edinburgh, to ask
for further delay. Hardly had the deputies gone when, in through the
opposite gate galloped a messenger from Dunbar, to say that Cope had
landed there with his troops. Opinion now swung round the other way, and
men's courage rose to the point of _speaking_ about resistance. The
deputies returned at ten at night; Charles, they said, was inexorable
and stuck to his conditions. To cause a delay, a new set of deputies
were sent forth at a very late hour, and went out by the West Bow _in a
hackney coach_.
[Illustration: 'Och no! she be relieved']
To gain time, and then steal another march on Cope, was even more
important to the Prince than to his enemies. There were weak points in
the wall that might be attacked. The chief gate of the city, the
Netherbow, lay midway up the High Street, dividing the real borough of
Edinburgh from the Canongate; on each side of this gate the wall
descended sharply down hill, running along Leith Wynd on the north side
and St. Mary's Wynd on the south. The houses of the latter--Edinburgh
houses numbering their ten or twelve stories--were actually built on to
the wall. By entering one of these, active and determined men might
clear the wall by a fire of musketry from the upper windows, and then
make an escalade. Another weak point was at the foot of Leith Wynd,
where the wall met the Norloch. About midnight Locheil and five hundred
of his men started to make a night attack. They were guided by Mr.
Murray of Broughton (the Prince's secretary, afterwards a traitor), who
had been a student in Edinburgh and knew the town well. To avoid chance
shots from the guns of the Castle, they made a wide circle round the
town, but so still was the night that across the city they could hear
the watches called in the distant fortress. Swift and silent as Red
Indians, the Highlanders marched in the shadow cast by the high, dark
houses of the suburbs without arousing the sleeping inmates. They could
see cannons on the walls, but no sentinels were visible. They determined
to try fraud before resorting to force. Twenty Camerons placed
themselves in hiding on each side of the gate, sixty stood in the dark
recess of the Wynd, the rest were at the bottom of the slope. One of the
number, disguised as the servant of an English officer of dragoons,
knocked loudly at the gate, demanding admission. The watch refused to
open and threatened to fire. So this stratagem was not successful.
Already the dawn was beginning to break, and a council was held among
the leaders of the band in low hurried whispers. They were deliberating
whether they should not retreat, when all at once a heavy rumbling
noise from within the city broke the silence of the night. The hackney
coach before mentioned had deposited its load of deputies at the council
chamber and was returning to its stable-yard in the Canongate. A word to
the watchmen within and the gates swung on their heavy hinges. In rushed
the body of Camerons, secured the bewildered watchmen, and in a few
minutes had seized the city guard-house and disarmed the soldiers. Then
they struck up the wild pibroch 'We'll awa' to Sheriffmuir to haud the
Whigs in order,' and startled citizens rushing to their windows saw in
the dim twilight the streets filled with plaids and bonnets. The
conquerors visited all the outposts as quietly as if they were troops
relieving guard. A citizen strolling along by the wall early next
morning found a Highland soldier astride on one of the cannons, 'Surely
you are not the same soldiers who were here yesterday?' 'Och no!' was
the answer with a grave twinkle, 'she be relieved.'
At noon Prince Charles rode to Holyrood by way of Arthur's Seat and
Salisbury Crags. He was on foot as he approached the ancient home of his
race, but the large and enthusiastic crowd which came out to meet him
pressed so closely upon him in their eagerness to kiss his hand, that he
had to mount a horse, and rode the last half mile between the Duke of
Perth and Lord Elcho. A gallant young figure he must have appeared at
that moment--tall and straight and fresh-coloured, in a tartan coat and
blue bonnet, with the cross of St. Andrew on his breast. As he was about
to enter the old palace of Holyrood, out of the crowd stepped the noble
and venerable figure of Mr. Hepburn of Keith. He drew his sword, and,
holding it aloft, with grave enthusiasm marshalled the Prince up the
stairs. It was surely a good omen; no man in Scotland bore a higher
character for learning, goodness, and patriotism than Mr. Hepburn; he
was hardly less respected by the Whigs than the Jacobites.
That same afternoon, at the old Cross in the High Street, with pomp of
heralds and men-at-arms, James VIII. was proclaimed king, and his son's
commission as regent was read aloud to the listening crowd. Loud huzzas
almost drowned the wild music of the bagpipes, the Highlanders in
triumph let off their pieces in the air, and from every window in the
high houses on each side ladies fluttered their white handkerchiefs.
Beside the Cross, beautiful Mrs. Murray of Broughton sat on horseback, a
drawn sword in one hand, while with the other she distributed white
cockades to the crowd. Even grave Whig statesmen like the Lord
President Forbes were disturbed by the enthusiastic Jacobitism that
possessed all the Scotch ladies. More than one followed the example of
the high-spirited Miss Lumsden, who let her lover clearly understand
that she would have nothing more to say to him unless he took up arms
for the Prince, and doubtless more young gallants than Robert Strange
joined the rebels for no better reason than their ladies' command.
[Illustration: Mrs. Murray of Broughton distributes cockades to the
crowd]
A ball was given at Holyrood that same evening, and surrounded by all
that was bravest and most beautiful and brilliant in Scottish society,
it was no wonder that Charles felt that this was but the beginning of a
larger and more complete triumph.
V
PRESTONPANS
IN less than a month Prince Charles had marched through a kingdom, and
gained a capital, but he felt his triumph insecure till he had met his
enemies in fair fight. Nor were his followers less eager for battle. In
a council of war held at Holyrood, Charles declared his intention of
leading the army against Cope, and of charging in person at its head.
_That_, however, the chiefs would not hear of; the Prince's life was
all-important to their cause, and must not be rashly exposed to danger.
The arms that the Edinburgh trained bands had used to so little
purpose--about a thousand muskets--had fallen into the hands of their
enemies; but even with this addition, the Highland soldiers were
insufficiently accoutred. The gentlemen, who marched in the front ranks,
were, it is true, completely armed with broadsword, musket, pistol, and
dirk, but in the rank and file many an unkempt, half-clothed, ill-fed
cateran carried merely a bill-hook or scytheblade fixed into a long
pole. It was the swiftness and splendid daring of their onset that made
these ill-armed, untrained clansmen the equals or more than the equals
of the regular army that opposed them.
In the meantime Cope, with his army of 2,000 foot, reinforced by the
fugitive dragoons, some 600 men under Gardiner, were marching from
Dunbar. Gardiner, as brave a soldier as he was a good and devout
Christian, was full of foreboding. The 'canter of Coltbridge' had broken
his heart; a 'most foul flight,' he called it, and added, to a friend
who tried to comfort him, that there were not ten men in his troop whom
he could trust not to run away at the first fire. No such misgiving
seems to have disturbed Sir John Cope. On Friday the 20th the Hanoverian
army reached Prestonpans, and formed its ranks on a plain between the
sea on the north and the ridge of Carberry Hill on the south. The road
from Edinburgh to Haddington passed through this plain, and the simple
old general argued that the advancing army would be sure to take the
easiest road. Fortunately Lord George Murray knew better where the
peculiar strength of the Highlanders lay.
Early on Friday morning the Prince's army broke up from their camp at
Duddingstone. Charles himself was the first man on the field. As the
troops began their march, he drew his sword and cried: 'Gentlemen, I
have thrown away the scabbard;' high-spirited words which found an echo
in the hearts of all the brave men present.
The army marched in column, three abreast, the various clans holding
together under their own chiefs. Two miles short of Prestonpans Lord
George learned the position of Cope's army, and at once led his
light-footed soldiers up the slopes that commanded the plain. The
English general was hourly expecting to see his enemies approach from
the west by the road, and he was fully prepared to meet them at that
point. At two in the afternoon, to his amazement, they suddenly appeared
from the south, marching over the ridge of the hill.
The Hanoverian soldiers had enough spirit to receive them with cheers,
to which the Highlanders responded by wild yells. They longed ardently
to sweep down the slope and give instant battle, but the nature of the
ground made this impossible even to a Highland army. Intersecting the
hillside were high stone walls, which would have to be scaled under a
hot fire from below, and at the bottom was a swamp, a wide ditch, and a
high hedge. A certain gentleman in the Prince's army--Mr. Ker of
Gordon--rode over the ground on his pony to examine its possibilities.
He went to work as coolly as if he were on the hunting-field, making
breaches in the wall and leading his pony through, in spite of a
dropping fire from the Hanoverians. He reported that to charge over such
ground was impossible. The Highlanders were bitterly disappointed; their
one fear was that Cope should again slip away under cover of darkness.
To prevent this Lord Nairne and 600 Perthshire men were sent to guard
the road to Edinburgh. Seeing that nothing more could be done that
night, both armies settled down to rest; General Cope lay in comfort at
Cockenzie, Prince Charles on the field; a bundle of peastraw served for
his pillow; a long white cloak thrown over his plaid for a covering.
Among the volunteers who had recently joined the Prince was an East
Lothian laird called Anderson. He had often shot over the fields about
Prestonpans. During the night he suddenly remembered a path which led
from the heights, down through the morass on to the plain, slightly to
the east of Cope's army. He sought out Lord George and told him of this
path, and he, struck with the possibility of making immediate use of the
information, took him without delay to the Prince. Charles was alert on
the instant, entered into the plan proposed, and the next moment the
word of command was passed along the sleeping lines. A few moments later
the whole army was moving along the ridge in the dim starlight. But here
a difficulty occurred. At Bannockburn, and in all great battles
afterwards, except Killiekrankie, the Macdonalds had held the place of
honour on the right wing of the army. They claimed that position now
with haughty tenacity. The other clans, equally brave and equally proud,
disputed the claim. It was decided to draw lots to settle the question.
Lots were drawn, and the place of honour fell to the Camerons and
Stewarts. An ominous cloud gathered on the brows of the Macdonald
chiefs, but Locheil, as sagacious as he was courteous, induced the other
chiefs to waive their right, and, well content, the clan Macdonald
marched on in the van.
Up on the hill the sky was clear, but a thick white mist covered the
plain. Under cover of this the Highlanders passed the morass in the one
fordable place. In the darkness the Prince missed a stepping-stone and
slipped into the bog, but recovered so quickly that no one had time to
draw a bad omen from the accident. A Hanoverian dragoon, standing
sentinel near this point, heard the march of the soldiers while they
were still invisible in the dusk, and galloped off to give the alarm,
but not before the Highland army was free from the swamp and had formed
in two lines on the plain. Macdonalds and Camerons and Stewarts were in
the first line; behind, at a distance of fifty yards, the Perthshiremen
and other regiments led by Charles himself.
Learning that the enemy was now approaching from the east side of the
plain, Cope drew up his men to face their approach. In the centre was
the infantry--the steadiest body in his army--on his left, near the sea
and opposite the Macdonalds, Hamilton's dragoons, on the right, the
other dragoons under Gardiner, and in front of these the battery of six
cannon. This should have been a formidable weapon against the
Highlanders, who, unfamiliar with artillery, had an almost superstitious
fear of the big guns, but they were merely manned by half-a-dozen feeble
old sailors. There was a brief pause as the two armies stood opposite
each other in the sea of mist. The Highlanders muttered a short prayer,
drew their bonnets down on their eyes, and moved forward at a smart
pace. At that moment a wind rose from the sea and rolled away the
curtain of mist from between the two armies. In front of them the
Highlanders saw their enemy drawn up like a hedge of steel. With wild
yells they came on, their march quickening to a run, each clan charging
in a close compact body headed by its own chief. Even while they rushed
on, as resistless as a torrent, each man fired his musket deliberately
and with deadly aim, then flung it away and swept on, brandishing his
broadsword. A body of Stewarts and Camerons actually stormed the
battery, rushing straight on the muzzles of the guns. The old men who
had them in charge had fled at the first sight of the Highlanders; even
the brave Colonel Whiteford, who alone and unassisted stood to his guns,
had to yield to their furious onset. Gardiner's dragoons standing
behind the battery were next seized by the panic; they made one
miserable attempt to advance, halted, and then wheeling round, dashed
wildly in every direction. Nor could Hamilton's dragoons on the other
wing stand the heavy rolling fire of the advancing Macdonalds. Mad with
terror, man and horse fled in blind confusion, some backwards,
confounding their own ranks, some along the shore, some actually through
the ranks of the enemy.
[Illustration: James More wounded at Prestonpans]
Only the infantry in the centre stood firm and received the onset of the
Highlanders with a steady fire. A small band of Macgregors, armed only
with scytheblades, charged against this hedge of musketry. This curious
weapon was invented by James More, a son of Rob Roy Macgregor. He was
the leader of this party, and fell, pierced by five bullets. With
undaunted courage he raised himself on his elbow, and shouted, 'Look ye,
my lads, I'm not dead; by Heaven I shall see if any of you does not do
his duty.' In that wild charge, none of the clansmen failed to 'do his
duty.' Heedless of the rain of bullets, they rushed to close quarters
with the Hanoverian infantry, who, deserted by the dragoons, were now
attacked on both sides as well as in front. A few stood firm, and the
gallant Colonel Gardiner put himself at their head. A blow from a
scytheblade in the hands of a gigantic Macgregor ended his life, and
spared him the shame and sorrow of another defeat. The Park walls at
their back prevented the infantry from seeking ignoble security in
flight, after the fashion of the dragoons, and they were forced to lay
down their weapons and beg for quarter. Some 400 of them fell, struck
down by the broadswords and dirks of their enemy, more than 700 were
taken prisoners, and only a few hundreds escaped.
[Illustration: 'HE GALLOPED UP THE STREETS OF EDINBURGH SHOUTING,
"VICTORY! VICTORY!"']
The battle was won in less than five minutes. Charles himself commanded
the second column, which was only fifty yards behind the first, but, by
the time he arrived on the scene of action, there was nothing left to be
done. Nothing, that is, in securing the victory, but Charles at once
occupied himself in stopping the carnage and protecting the wounded and
prisoners. 'Sir,' cried one of his staff, riding up to him, 'there are
your enemies at your feet.' 'They are my father's subjects,' answered
Charles sadly, turning away.
In vain did Sir John Cope and the Earl of Home try to rally the
dragoons. Holding pistols to the men's heads, they succeeded in
collecting a body in a field near Clement's Wells, and tried to form a
squadron; but the sound of a pistol-shot renewed the panic and off they
started again at the gallop. There was nothing for it but for the
officers to put themselves at the head of as many fugitives as they
could collect, and conduct the flight. Hardly did they draw rein till
they were safe at Berwick. There the unfortunate general was received by
Lord Mark Ker with the well-known sarcasm--'Sir, I believe you are the
first general in Europe who has brought the first news of his own
defeat.'[37]
In the meantime, the wounded they had left on the field were being
kindly cared for by the victorious army. Charles despatched a messenger
to bring medical aid--an errand not without danger to a single horseman
on roads covered with straggling bodies of dragoons. But the adventure
just suited the gallant spirit of young Lawrence Oliphant. At Tranent
the sight of him and his servant at their heels sent off a body of
dragoons at the gallop. Single fugitives he disarmed and dismounted,
sending the horses back to the Prince by the hands of country lads.
Once he had to discharge his pistol after a servant and pony, but for
the most part the terrified soldiers yielded at a word.
Entering the Netherbow, he galloped up the streets of Edinburgh
shouting, 'Victory! victory!' From every window in the High Street and
Luckenbows white caps looked out, while the streets were crowded with
eager citizens, and joyful hurrahs were heard on every side. At Lucky
Wilson's, in the Lawn Market, the young gentleman alighted, called for
breakfast, and sent for the magistrates to deliver his orders that the
gates were to be closed against any fugitive dragoons. Hat in hand, the
magistrates waited on the Prince's aide-de-camp, but at that moment the
cry arose that dragoons and soldiers were coming up the street. Up jumps
Mr. Oliphant and out into the street, faces eight or nine dragoons, and
commands them to dismount in the Prince's name. This the craven
Hanoverians were quite prepared to do. Only one presented his piece at
the young officer. Mr. Oliphant snapped his pistol at him, forgetting
that it was empty. Immediately half a dozen shots were fired at him, but
so wildly that none did him any harm beyond shattering his buckle, and
he retreated hastily up one of the dark steep lanes that led into a
close.
The commander of the Castle refused to admit the fugitives, threatened
even to fire on them as deserters, and they had to gallop out at the
West Port and on to Stirling. Another of the Prince's officers,
Colquhoun Grant, drove a party of dragoons before him all the way into
Edinburgh, and stuck his bloody dirk into the Castle gates as a
defiance.
Sadder was the fate of another Perthshire gentleman, as young and as
daring as Lawrence Oliphant. David Thriepland, with a couple of
servants, had followed the dragoons for two miles from the field; they
had fled before him, but, coming to a halt, they discovered that their
pursuers numbered no more than three. They turned on them and cut them
down with their swords. Many years afterwards, when the grass was rank
and green on Mr. Thriepland's grave, a child named Walter Scott, sitting
on it, heard the story from an old lady who had herself seen the death
of the young soldier.
The next day (Sunday) the Prince held his triumphant entry up the High
Street of Edinburgh. Clan after clan marched past, with waving plaids
and brandished weapons; the wild music of the pipes sounded as full of
menace as of triumph. From every window in the dark, high houses on
each side, fair faces looked down, each adorned with the white cockade.
In their excitement the Highlanders let off their pieces into the air.
By an unfortunate accident one musket thus fired happened to be loaded,
and the bullet grazed the temple of a Jacobite lady, Miss Nairne,
inflicting a slight wound. 'Thank God that this happened to _me_, whose
opinions are so well known,' cried the high-spirited girl. 'Had a Whig
lady been wounded, it might have been thought that the deed had been
intentional.'[38]
VI
THE MARCH TO DERBY
A SUCCESSFUL army, especially an insurgent army, should never pause in
its onward march. If Prince Charles could have followed the flying
dragoons over the Border into England he would have found no
preparations made to resist him in the Northern counties. Even after the
King and Government were alarmed by the news of the battle of Preston, a
full month was allowed to pass before an army under General Wade arrived
at Newcastle on the 29th of October. Dutch, Hessian, and English troops
were ordered home from Flanders and regiments were raised in the
country, though at first no one seems to have seriously believed in
anything so daring as an invasion of England by Prince Charles and his
Highlanders.
So far there had come no word of encouragement from the English
Jacobites. Still, Charles never doubted but that they would hasten to
join him as soon as he crossed the Border. On the very morrow of
Prestonpans he sent messengers to those whom he considered his friends
in England, telling of his success and bidding them be ready to join
him. In the meantime he waited in Edinburgh till his army should be
large and formidable enough to undertake the march South. After the
battle numbers of his soldiers had deserted. According to their custom,
as soon as any clansman had secured as much booty as he could
conveniently carry, he started off home to his mountains to deposit his
spoil. A stalwart Highlander was seen staggering along the streets of
Edinburgh with a pier glass on his back, and ragged boys belonging to
the army adorned themselves with gold-laced hats, or any odd finery they
could pick up.
Many new adherents flocked to join the Prince. Among these was the
simple-minded old Lord Pitsligo. He commanded a body of horse, though at
his age he could hardly bear the fatigues of a campaign. In
Aberdeenshire--always Jacobite and Episcopalian--Lord Lewis Gordon
collected a large force; in Perthshire Lord Ogilvy raised his clan,
though neither of these arrived in time to join the march South. Even a
Highland army could not start in mid-winter to march through a hostile
country without any preparations. Tents and shoes were provided by the
city of Edinburgh, and all the horses in the neighbourhood were pressed
for the Prince's service.
On the first day of November the army, numbering 6,000 men, started for
the Border. Lord George led one division, carrying the supplies by
Moffat and Annandale to the West Border. Charles himself commanded the
other division. They pretended to be moving on Newcastle, marched down
Tweedside and then turned suddenly westward and reached England through
Liddesdale.
On the 8th they crossed the Border. The men unsheathed their swords and
raised a great shout. Unfortunately, as he drew his claymore, Locheil
wounded his hand, and his men, seeing the blood flow, declared it to be
a bad omen.
But fortune still seemed to follow the arms of the Adventurer. Carlisle
was the first strong town on the English Border, and though
insufficiently garrisoned, was both walled and defended by a Castle. The
mayor, a vain-glorious fellow, was ambitious of being the first man to
stay the victorious army, and published a proclamation saying that he
was not 'Patterson, a Scotchman, but Pattieson, a true-hearted
Englishman, who would defend his town against all comers.'
A false report that Wade was advancing from the West made Charles turn
aside and advance to Brampton in the hope of meeting him, but the roads
were rough, the weather was wild and cold, the Hanoverian general was
old, and again, as at Corryarack, Charles prepared to meet an enemy that
never appeared.
In the meantime a division of the army had returned to Carlisle and was
laying siege to it with great vigour. Lord George Murray and the Duke of
Perth worked in the trenches in their shirt sleeves. The sound of
bullets in their ears, the sight of formidable preparations for an
assault, were too much for the mayor and his citizens; on the 13th, the
'true-hearted Englishmen' hung out a white flag, and the Prince's army
marched in and took possession. It was another success, as sudden and
complete as any of the former ones. But there were ominous signs even
at this happy moment. The command of the siege of Carlisle had been
given to the Duke of Perth, and Lord George Murray, the older and abler
general, resented the slight. He sent in his resignation of the command
of the forces, but with proud magnanimity offered to serve as a
volunteer. Charles accepted the resignation, but the idea of losing the
one general of any experience they had, created consternation among the
chiefs. The crisis would have become serious but for the generous good
sense and modesty of the Duke of Perth, who sent in his resignation also
to the Prince. A more ominous fact was that they had been almost a week
in England and no one had declared for them. Charles refused to let
anything damp his hopefulness. Lancashire was the stronghold of
Jacobitism. Once in Lancashire, gentlemen and their following would
flock to join him.
The road between Carlisle and Preston lies over bare, stony heights, an
inhospitable country in the short, bleak days and long nights of
November. Charles shared every hardship with his soldiers. He had a
carriage but he never used it, and it was chiefly occupied by Lord
Pitsligo. With his target on his shoulder he marched alongside of the
soldiers, keeping up with their rapid pace, and talking to them in his
scanty Gaelic. He seldom dined, had one good meal at night, lay down
with his clothes on, and was up again at four next morning. No wonder
that the Highlanders were proud of 'a Prince who could eat a dry crust,
sleep on pease-straw, dine in four minutes, and win a battle in five.'
Once going over Shap Fell he was so overcome by drowsiness and cold that
he had to keep hold of one of the Ogilvies by the shoulderbelt and
walked some miles half asleep. Another time the sole of his boot was
quite worn out, and at the next village he got the blacksmith to nail a
thin iron plate to the boot. 'I think you are the first that ever shod
the son of a king,' he said, laughing as he paid the man.
Still entire silence on the part of the English Jacobites. The people in
the villages and towns through which they passed looked on the uncouth
strangers with ill-concealed aversion and fear. Once going to his
quarters in some small town the 'gentle Locheil' found that the good
woman of the house had hidden her children in a cupboard, having heard
that the Highlanders were cannibals and ate children!
The town of Preston was a place of ill omen to the superstitious
Highlanders. There, thirty years before, their countrymen had been
disastrously defeated. They had a presentiment that they too would
never get beyond that point. To destroy this fear, Lord George Murray
marched half his army across the river and encamped on the further side.
[Illustration: Crossing Shap Fell]
Manchester was the next halting-place, and there the prospects were
rather brighter. An enterprising Sergeant Dickson hurried on in front of
the army with a girl and a drummer boy at his side. He marched about the
streets recruiting, and managed to raise some score of recruits. In
Manchester society there was a certain Jacobite element; on Sunday the
church showed a crowd of ladies in tartan cloaks and white cockades, and
a nonjuring clergyman preached in favour of the Prince's cause. Among
the officers who commanded the handful of men calling itself the
Manchester Regiment, were three brothers of the name of Deacon, whose
father, a nonjuring clergyman, devoted them all gladly to the cause.
Another, Syddel, a wig-maker, had as a lad of eleven seen his father
executed as a Jacobite in the '15, and had vowed undying vengeance
against the house of Hanover. Manchester was the only place in England
that had shown any zeal in the Prince's cause, and it only contributed
some few hundred men and 3,000_l._ of money.
The situation seemed grave to the leaders of the Prince's army. He
himself refused to recognise any other fact than that every day brought
him nearer to London. On October 31 the army left Manchester. At
Stockport they crossed the Mersey, the Prince wading up to the middle.
Here occurred a very touching incident. A few Cheshire gentlemen met
Charles at this point, and with them came an aged lady, Mrs. Skyring. As
a child she remembered her mother lifting her up to see Charles II. land
at Dover. Her parents were devoted Cavaliers, and despite the
ingratitude of the royal family, loyalty was an hereditary passion with
their daughter. For years she had laid aside half her income and had
sent it to the exiled family, only concealing the name of the donor, as
being of no interest to them. Now, she had sold all her jewels and
plate, and brought the money in a purse as an offering to Charles. With
dim eyes, feeble hands, and feelings too strong for her frail body, she
clasped Charles's hand, and gazing at his face said, 'Lord, now lettest
Thou Thy servant depart in peace.'
The Highland forces were in the very centre of England and had not yet
encountered an enemy, but now they were menaced on two sides. General
Wade--'Grandmother Wade' the Jacobite soldiers called him--by slow
marches through Yorkshire had arrived within three days' march of them
on one side, while, far more formidable, in front of them at Stafford
lay the Duke of Cumberland with 10,000 men. He was a brave leader, and
the troops under him were seasoned and experienced. At last the English
Government had wakened up to the seriousness of the danger which they
had made light of as long as it only affected Scotland. When news came
that the Scots had got beyond Manchester, a most unmanly panic prevailed
in London. Shops were shut, there was a run on the Bank, it has even
been asserted that George II. himself had many of his valuables removed
on to yachts in the Thames, and held himself in readiness to fly at any
moment.
The Duke of Cumberland and his forces were the only obstacle between the
Prince's army and London. Lord George Murray, with his usual sagacity,
determined to slip past this enemy also, as he had already slipped past
Wade. While the Prince, with one division of the army, marched straight
for Derby, he himself led the remaining troops apparently to meet the
Duke of Cumberland. That able general fell into the snare and marched up
his men to meet the Highlanders at Congleton. Then Lord George broke up
his camp at midnight (of December 2), and, marching across country in
the darkness, joined the Prince at Leek, a day's journey short of Derby.
By this clever stratagem the Highland army got a start of at least a
day's march on their way to London.
On the 4th, the Highland army entered Derby, marching in all day in
detachments. Here Charles learned the good news from Scotland that Lord
John Drummond had landed at Montrose with 1,000 French soldiers and
supplies of money and arms. Never had fortune seemed to shine more
brightly on the young Prince. He was sure now of French assistance, he
shut his eyes to the fact that the English people were either hostile or
indifferent; if it came to a battle he was confident that hundreds of
the enemy would desert to his standard. The road to London and to a
throne lay open before him! That night at mess he seriously discussed
how he should enter London in triumph. Should it be in Highland or
English dress? On horseback or on foot? Did he notice, one wonders, that
his gay anticipations were received in ominous silence by the chiefs? At
least the private soldiers of his army shared his hopes. On the
afternoon of the 5th many had their broadswords and dirks sharpened, and
some partook of the Sacrament in the churches. They all felt that a
battle was imminent.
Next morning a council of war was held. Charles was eager to arrange for
an immediate advance on London. Success seemed to lie within his grasp.
Lord George Murray rose as spokesman for the rest. He urged immediate
retreat to Scotland! Two armies lay one on either hand, a third was
being collected to defend London. Against 30,000 men what could 5,000
avail? He had no faith in a French invasion, he was convinced that
nothing was to be looked for from the English Jacobites. 'Rather than go
back, I would I were twenty feet underground,' Charles cried in
passionate disappointment. He argued, he commanded, he implored; the
chiefs were inexorable, and it was decided that the retreat should begin
next morning before daybreak. This decision broke the Prince's heart and
quenched his spirit; never again did his buoyant courage put life into
his whole army. Next morning he rose sullen and enraged, and marched in
gloomy silence in the rear.
All the private soldiers and many of the officers believed that they
were being led against the Duke of Cumberland. When returning daylight
showed that they were retreating by the same road on which they had
marched so hopefully two days before, they were filled with grief and
rage. 'Would God,' writes a certain brave Macdonald, 'we had pushed on
though we had all been cut to pieces, when we were in a condition for
fighting and doing honour to our noble Prince and the glorious cause we
had taken in hand.' The distrust caused in the Prince's mind by Lord
George's action had, later, the most fatal effect.
[Illustration: 'Many had their broadswords and dirks sharpened']
VII
THE RETREAT
NEVER, perhaps, in any history was there a march more mournful than that
of the Highland army from Derby. These soldiers had never known defeat,
and yet there they were, in full retreat through a hostile country. So
secret and rapid were their movements that they had gained two full
days' march before the Duke of Cumberland had any certain news of their
retreat. Though he started at once in pursuit, mounting a body of
infantry on horses that they might keep up with the cavalry, and though
all were fresh and in good condition, it was not till the 18th that he
overtook the Prince's army in the wilds of Cumberland. Lord George
Murray, looking upon himself as responsible for the safety of the army,
had sent on the first division under the Prince, and himself brought up
the rear with the baggage and artillery. In the hilly country of the
North of England, it was no light task to travel with heavy baggage. The
big wagons could not be dragged up the steep ill-made roads, and the
country people were sullenly unwilling to lend their carts. The general
was reduced to paying sixpence for every cannon ball that could be
carried up the hills. The Prince was already at Penrith on the 17th, but
Lord George had been obliged to stop six miles short of that point.
Marching before daybreak on the 18th, he reached a village called
Clifton as the sun rose. A body of horsemen stood guarding the village;
the Highlanders, exhilarated at meeting a foe again, cast their plaids
and rushed forward. On this the Hanoverians--a mere body of local
yeomanry--fled. Among a few stragglers who were taken prisoner was a
footman of the Duke of Cumberland, who told his captors that his master
with 4,000 cavalry was following close behind them. Lord George resolved
to make a stand, knowing that nothing would be more fatal than allowing
the dragoons to fall suddenly on his troops when they had their backs
turned. He had a body of Macdonalds and another of Stuarts with him; he
found also some two hundred Macphersons, under their brave commander
Cluny, guarding a bridge close to the village. The high road here ran
between a wall on one side, and fields enclosed by high hedges and
ditches on the other. On either side he could thus place his soldiers
under cover. As evening fell he learned that the Hanoverian soldiers
were drawn up on the moor, about a mile distant. He sent some of his men
to a point where they should be partly visible to the enemy over a
hedge; these he caused to pass and repass, so as to give a delusive idea
of numbers. When the night fell the Highland soldiers were drawn up
along the wall on the road, and in the enclosures behind the hedges;
Lord George and Cluny stood with drawn swords on the highway. Every man
stood at his post on the alert, in the breathless silence. Though the
moon was up, the night was cloudy and dark, but in a fitful gleam the
watchful general saw dark forms approaching in a mass behind a hedge. In
a rapid whisper he asked Cluny what was to be done. 'I will charge sword
in hand if you order me,' came the reply, prompt and cheery. A volley
from the advancing troops decided the question. 'There is no time to be
lost; we must charge,' cried Lord George, and raising the Highland war
cry, 'Claymore, Claymore,' he was the first to dash through the hedge
(he lost his hat and wig among the thorns, and fought the rest of the
night bareheaded!). The dragoons were forced back on to the moor, while
another body of horse was similarly driven back along the high road by
the Stuarts and Macdonells of Glengarry. About a dozen Highlanders,
following too eagerly in pursuit, were killed on this moor, but the loss
on the other side was far greater. Nor did the Duke of Cumberland again
attack the retreating enemy; he had learned, like the other generals
before him, the meaning of a Highland onset.[39]
A small garrison of Highlanders had been left in Carlisle, but these
rejoined the main army as it passed through the town. There was an
unwillingness among the soldiers to hold a fort that was bound to be
taken by the enemy. Finally the Manchester regiment consented to remain,
probably arguing, in the words of one of the English volunteers, that
they 'might as well be hanged in England as starved in Scotland.'
The Esk was at this time in flood, running turbid and swift. But the
Highlanders have a peculiar way of crossing deep rivers. They stand
shoulder to shoulder, with their arms linked, and so pass in a
continuous chain across. As Charles was fording the stream on horseback,
one man was swept away from the rest and was being rapidly carried down.
The Prince caught him by the hair, shouting in Gaelic, 'Cohear, cohear!'
'Help, help!'
They were now again on Scottish ground, and the question was, whither
were they to go next? Edinburgh, immediately after the Prince's
departure, had gladly reverted to her Whig allegiance. She was
garrisoned and defended; any return thither was practically out of the
question. It was resolved that the army should retire to the Highlands
through the West country.
Dumfries, in the centre of the Covenanting district, had always been
hostile to the Stuarts. Two months before, when the Highland army
marched south, some of her citizens had despoiled them of tents and
baggage. To revenge this injury, Charles marched to Dumfries and levied
a large fine on the town. The Provost, Mr. Carson, was noted for his
hostility to the Jacobites. He was warned that his house was to be
burned, though the threat was not carried out. He had a little daughter
of six years old at the time; when she was quite an old lady she told
Sir Walter Scott that she remembered being carried out of the house in
the arms of a Highland officer. She begged him to point out the
_Pretender_ to her. This he consented to do, after the little girl had
solemnly promised always to call him the _Prince_ in future.
[Illustration: 'The Prince caught him by the hair']
An army which had been on the road continuously for more than two winter
months, generally presents a sufficiently dilapidated appearance; still
more must this have been the case with the Highland army, ill-clad and
ill-shod to begin with. The soldiers--hardly more than 4,000 now--who on
Christmas day marched into Glasgow, had scarcely a whole pair of boots
or a complete suit of tartans among them. This rich and important town
was even more hostile than Dumfries to the Jacobites, but it was
necessity more than revenge that forced the Prince to levy a heavy sum
on the citizens, and exact besides 12,000 shirts, 6,000 pairs of
stockings, and 6,000 pairs of shoes.
At Stirling, whither the Prince next led his army, the prospects were
much brighter. Here he was joined by the men raised in Aberdeenshire
under Lord Lewis Gordon, Lord Strathallan's Perthshire regiment, and the
French troops under Lord John Drummond. The whole number of his army
must have amounted to not much less than 9,000 men.
The Duke of Cumberland had given up the pursuit of the Highland army
after Carlisle; an alarm of a French invasion having sent him hurrying
back to London. In his stead General Hawley had been sent down to
Scotland and was now in Edinburgh at the head of 8,000 men. He was an
officer trained in the Duke of Cumberland's school, severe to his
soldiers and relentlessly cruel to his enemies. A vain and boastful man,
he looked with contempt on the Highland army, in spite of the experience
of General Cope. On the 16th he marched out of Edinburgh with all his
men, anticipating an easy victory. Lord George Murray was at Linlithgow,
and slowly retreated before the enemy, but not before he had obtained
full information of their numbers and movements. On the nights of
January 15 and 16, the two armies lay only seven miles apart, the
Prince's at Bannockburn and General Hawley's at Falkirk. From the one
camp the lights of the other were visible. The Highland army kept on the
alert, expecting every hour to be attacked.
All the day of the 16th they waited, but there was no movement on the
part of the English forces. On the 17th the Prince's horse reconnoitred
and reported perfect inactivity in Hawley's camp. The infatuated general
thought so lightly of the enemy that he was giving himself up to
amusement.
The fair and witty Lady Kilmarnock lived in the neighbourhood at
Callender House. Her husband was with the Prince, and she secretly
favoured the same cause. By skilful flattery and hospitality, she so
fascinated the English general that he recklessly spent his days in her
company, forgetful of the enemy and entirely neglectful of his soldiers.
Charles knew that the strength of his army lay in its power of attack,
and so resolved to take the offensive. The high road between Bannockburn
and Falkirk runs in a straight line in front of an old and decaying
forest called Torwood. Along this road, in the face of the English camp,
marched Lord John Drummond, displaying all the colours in the army, and
making a brave show with the cavalry and two regiments. Their advance
was only a feint. The main body of the army skirted round to the south
of the wood, then marched across broken country--hidden at first by the
trees and later by the inequalities of the ground--till they got to the
back of a ridge called Falkirk Muir, which overlooked the English camp.
Their object was to gain the top of this ridge before the enemy, and
then to repeat the manoeuvres of Prestonpans.
Meanwhile, the English soldiers were all unconscious, and their general
was enjoying himself at Callender House. At eleven o'clock General
Huske, the second in command, saw Lord John Drummond's advance, and sent
an urgent message to his superior officer. He, however, refused to take
alarm, sent a message that the men might put on their accoutrements, and
sat down to dinner with his fascinating hostess. At two o'clock, General
Huske, looking anxiously through his spy-glass, saw the bulk of the
Highland army sweeping round to the back of the ridge.
A messenger was instantly despatched to Callender House. At last Hawley
was aroused to the imminence of the danger. Leaving the dinner table, he
leaped on his horse and arrived in the camp at a gallop, breathless and
bare-headed. He trusted to the rapidity of his cavalry to redeem the
day. He placed himself at the head of the dragoons, and up the ridge
they rode at a smart trot. It was a race for the top. The dragoons on
their horses were the first to arrive, and stood in their ranks on the
edge of the hill. From the opposite side came the Highlanders in three
lines; first the clans (the Macdonalds, of course, on the right), then
the Aberdeenshire and Perthshire regiments, lastly cavalry and Lord John
Drummond's Frenchmen. Undismayed, nay, rather exhilarated by the sight
of the three regiments of dragoons drawn up to receive them, they
advanced at a rapid pace. The dragoons, drawing their sabres, rode on at
full trot to charge the Highlanders. With the steadiness of old
soldiers, the clans came on in their ranks, till within ten yards of the
enemy. Then Lord George gave the signal by presenting his own piece, and
at once a withering volley broke the ranks of the dragoons. About 400
fell under this deadly fire and the rest fled, fled as wildly and
ingloriously as their fellows had done at Coltbridge or Prestonpans. A
wild storm of rain dashing straight in their faces during the attack
added to the confusion and helplessness of the dragoons. The right and
centre of Hawley's infantry were at the same instant driven back by the
other clans, Camerons and Stewarts and Macphersons. The victory would
have been complete but for the good behaviour of three regiments at the
right of Hawley's army, Price's, Ligonier's, and Barrel's. From a point
of vantage on the edge of a ravine they poured such a steady fire on the
left wing of the Highlanders, that they drove them back and forced them
to fly in confusion. Had the victorious Macdonalds only attacked these
three steady regiments, the Highland army would have been victorious all
along the line. Unfortunately they had followed their natural instinct
instead of the word of command, and flinging away their guns, were
pursuing the fugitive dragoons down the ridge. The flight of the
Hanoverians was so sudden that it caused suspicion of an ambush. The
Prince was lost in the darkness and rain. The pipers had thrown their
pipes to their boys, had gone in with the claymore, and could not sound
the rally. It was not a complete victory for Charles, but it was a
sufficiently complete defeat for General Hawley, who lost his guns. The
camp at Falkirk was abandoned after the tents had been set on fire, and
the general with his dismayed and confused followers retired first to
Linlithgow and then to Edinburgh. Hawley tried to make light of his
defeat and to explain it away, though to Cumberland he said that his
heart was broken; but the news of the battle spread consternation all
over England, and it was felt that no one but the Duke of Cumberland was
fit to deal with such a stubborn and daring enemy.
The Prince's army did not reap so much advantage from their victory as
might have been expected; their forces were in too great confusion to
pursue the English general, and on the morrow of the battle many
deserted to their own homes, carrying off their booty. A more serious
loss was the defection of the clan Glengarry. The day after the battle a
young Macdonald, a private soldier of Clanranald's company, was
withdrawing the charge from a gun he had taken on the field. He had
abstracted the bullet, and, to clean the barrel, fired off the piece.
Unfortunately it had been double loaded, and the remaining bullet struck
Glengarry's second son, Æneas, who was in the street at the time. The
poor boy fell, mortally wounded, in the arms of his comrades, begging
with his last breath that no vengeance should be exacted for what was
purely accidental. It was asking too much from the feelings of the
clansmen. They indignantly demanded that blood should atone for blood.
Clanranald would gladly have saved his clansman, but dared not risk a
feud which would have weakened the Prince's cause. So another young life
as innocent as the first was sacrificed to clan jealousy. The young
man's own father was the first to fire on his son, to make sure that
death should be instantaneous. Young Glengarry was buried with all
military honours, Charles himself being chief mourner; but nothing could
appease the angry pride of the clan, and the greater part of them
returned to their mountains without taking any leave.
[Illustration: The poor boy fell, mortally wounded]
VIII
IN THE HIGHLANDS
ON January 30 the Duke of Cumberland arrived in Edinburgh. His reception
was a curious parody of Charles's brilliant entry four months before.
The fickle mob cheered the one as well as the other; the Duke occupied
the very room at Holyrood that had been Charles's; where the one had
danced with Jacobite beauties, the other held a reception of Whig
ladies. Both were fighting their father's battle; both were young men of
five-and-twenty. But here likeness gives way to contrast; Charles was
graceful in person, and of dignified and attractive presence; his
cousin, Cumberland, was already stout and unwieldy, and his coarse and
cruel nature had traced unpleasant lines on his face. He was a poor
general but a man of undoubted courage. Yet he had none of that high
sense of personal honour that we associate with a good soldier. In
Edinburgh he found many of the English officers who had been taken
prisoner at Prestonpans. They had been left at large on giving their
word not to bear arms against the Prince. Cumberland declared that this
'parole' or promise was not binding, and ordered them to return to their
regiments. A small number--it is right that we should know and honour
their names--Sir Peter Halket, Mr. Ross, Captain Lucy Scott, and
Lieutenants Farquharson and Cumming, thereupon sent in their
resignations, saying that the Duke was master of their commissions but
not of their honour.
On the 30th the Duke and his soldiers were at Linlithgow, and hoped to
engage the Highland army next day near Falkirk. But on the next day's
march they learned from straggling Highlanders that the enemy had
already retired beyond the Forth. They had been engaged in a futile
siege of Stirling Castle. The distant sound of an explosion which was
heard about midday on the 1st, proved to be the blowing up of the powder
magazine, the last act of the Highlanders before withdrawing from
Stirling. This second, sudden retreat was as bitter to the Prince as the
return from Derby. After the battle at Falkirk he looked forward eagerly
and confidently to fighting Cumberland on the same ground. But there was
discontent and dissension in the camp. Since Derby the Prince had held
no councils, and consulted with no one but Secretary Murray and his
Irish officers. The chiefs were dispirited and deeply hurt, and, as
usual, the numbers dwindled daily from desertion. In the midst of his
plans for the coming battle, Charles was overwhelmed by a resolution on
the part of the chiefs to break up the camp and to retire without delay
to the Highlands. Again he saw his hopes suddenly destroyed, again he
had to yield with silent rage and bitter disappointment.
The plan of the chiefs was to withdraw on Inverness, there to attack
Lord Loudon (who held the fort for King George); to rest and recruit,
each clan in its own country, till in the spring they could take the
field again with a fresher and larger army. Lord George Murray led one
division by the east coast and Aberdeen, to the rendezvous near
Inverness, Charles led the other by General Wade's road through Badenoch
and Athol. Cumberland with his heavy troops and baggage could not
overtake the light-footed Highlanders; by the time he reached Perth he
was six days' march behind them. He sent old Sir Andrew Agnew to
garrison the house of Blair, and other small companies to occupy all the
chief houses in Athol. He himself retired with the main body to
Aberdeen, and there waited for milder weather.
In the neighbourhood of Inverness lies the country of the Mackintoshes.
The laird of that ilk was a poor-spirited, stupid man. It was his simple
political creed that that king was the right one who was willing and
able 'to give a half-guinea to-day and another to-morrow.' That was
probably the pay he drew as officer in one of King George's Highland
companies. Of a very different spirit was his wife. Lady Mackintosh was
a Farquharson of Invercauld; in her husband's absence she raised a body
of mixed Farquharsons and Mackintoshes, several hundred strong, for the
Prince. These she commanded herself, riding at their head in a tartan
habit with pistols at her saddle. Her soldiers called her 'Colonel
Anne.' Once in a fray between her irregular troops and the militia, her
husband was taken prisoner and brought before his own wife. She received
him with a military salute, 'Your servant, captain;' to which he replied
equally shortly, 'Your servant, colonel.'
This high-spirited woman received Charles as her guest on February 16 at
the castle of Moy, twelve miles from Inverness.
Having learnt that Charles was staying there with a small guard, Lord
Loudon conceived the bold plan of capturing the Prince, and so putting
an end to the war once for all. On Sunday the 16th, at nightfall, he
started with 1,500 men with all secrecy and despatch. Still the secret
had oozed out, and the dowager Lady Mackintosh sent a boy to warn her
daughter-in-law and the Prince. The boy was both faithful and sagacious.
Finding the high road already full of soldiers, he skulked in a ditch
till they were past, then, by secret ways, over moor and moss, running
at the top of his pace, he sped on, till, faint and exhausted, he
reached the house at five o'clock in the morning, and panted out the
news that Loudon's men were not a mile away! The Prince was instantly
aroused, and in a few minutes was out of the house and off to join
Lochiel not more than a mile distant. As it happened, Lord Loudon's
troops had already been foiled and driven back by a bold manoeuvre of
some of 'Colonel Anne's' men. A blacksmith with some half-dozen men--two
pipers amongst them--were patrolling the woods near the high road, when
in the dim morning twilight they saw a large body of the enemy
approaching. They separated, planted themselves at intervals under
cover, fired rapidly and simultaneously, shouted the war cries of the
various clans, Lochiel, Keppoch, Glengarry, while the pipers blew up
their pipes furiously behind. The advancing soldiers were seized with
panic, and flying wildly back, upset the ranks of the rear and filled
them with the same consternation. The 'Rout of Moy' was hardly more
creditable to the Hanoverian arms than the 'Canter of Coltbridge.' In
this affair only one man fall, MacRimmon, the hereditary piper of the
Macleods. Before leaving Skye he had prophesied his own death in the
lament, 'Macleod shall return, but MacRimmon shall never.'
The next day, February 18, Charles, at the head of a body of troops,
marched out to besiege Inverness. He found that town already evacuated:
Lord Loudon had too little faith in his men to venture another meeting
with the enemy. Two days later Fort George also fell into the Prince's
hands.
During the next six weeks the Highland army was employed in detachments
against the enemies who surrounded them on all sides. Lord John Drummond
took Fort Augustus, Lochiel and others besieged--but in vain--the more
strongly defended Fort William. Lord Cromarty pursued Lord Loudon into
Sutherland. But the most notable and gallant feat of arms was performed
by Lord George Murray. He marched a body of his own Athol men, and
another of Macphersons under Cluny--700 men in all--down into his native
district of Athol. At nightfall they started from Dalwhinnie, before
midnight they were at Dalnaspidal, no one but the two leaders having any
idea of the object of the expedition. It was the middle of March; at
that season they might count on five hours of darkness before daybreak.
It was then explained to the men that they were to break up into some
thirty small companies, and each was to march to attack one of the
English garrisons placed in all the considerable houses in the
neighbourhood. It was necessary that each place should be attacked at
the same time, that the alarm might not spread. By daybreak all were to
reassemble at the Falls of Bruar, within a mile or two of Castle Blair.
One after the other the small parties moved off swiftly and silently in
the darkness, one marching some ten miles off to the house of Faskally,
others attacking Lude, Kinnachin, Blairfettie, and many other houses
where the English garrisons were sleeping in security. Meanwhile Lord
George and Cluny, with five-and-twenty men and a few elderly gentlemen,
went straight to the Falls of Bruar. In the grey of the morning a man
from the village of Blair came up hastily with the news that Sir Andrew
Agnew had got the alarm, and with several hundred men was scouring the
neighbourhood and was now advancing towards the Falls! Lord George might
easily have escaped up the pass, but if he failed to be at the
rendezvous, each small body as it came in would be surrounded and
overpowered by the enemy. The skilful general employed precisely the
same ruse as had been so successful at the Rout of Moy.
[Illustration: The 'Rout of Moy']
He put his followers behind a turf wall at distant intervals, displayed
the colours in a conspicuous place, and placed his pipers to advantage.
As Sir Andrew came in sight, the sun rose, and was flashed back by
brandished broadswords behind the turf wall. All along the line plaids
seemed to be waving, and heads appeared and disappeared as if a large
body of men were behind; while the pipes blew up a clamorous pibroch,
and thirty men shouted for three hundred. Sir Andrew fell into the
snare, and promptly marched his men back again. One by one the other
parties came in: some thirty houses had yielded to them, and they
brought three hundred prisoners with them.
After this success Lord George actually attempted to take the House of
Blair. It was a hopeless enterprise; the walls of the house were seven
feet thick, and Lord George had only two small cannons. 'I daresay the
man's mad, knocking down his own brother's house,' said the stout old
commander, Sir Andrew, watching how little effect the shot had on the
walls. Lord George sent to Charles for reinforcements when it began to
seem probable that he could reduce the garrison by famine, but Charles,
embittered and resentful, and full of unjust suspicion against his
general, refused any help, and on March 31 Lord George had to abandon
the siege and withdraw his men. The Prince's suspicions, though unjust,
were not unnatural. Lord George had twice advised retreat, where
audacity was the only way to success.
IX
CULLODEN
IN the meantime the weeks were rolling on. The grey April of the North,
if it brought little warmth, was at least lengthening the daylight, and
melting the snow from the hills, and lowering the floods that had made
the rivers impassable. Since the middle of February the Duke of
Cumberland and his army of at least eight thousand men--horse and
infantry--had been living at free quarters in Aberdeen. He bullied the
inhabitants, but he made careful provision for his army. English ships
keeping along the coast were ready to supply both stores and ammunition
as soon as the forces should move. With the savage content of a wild
animal that knows that his prey cannot escape, the duke was in no hurry
to force on an engagement till the weather should be more favourable.
To the Highland army every week's delay was a loss. Many of the clansmen
had scattered to their homes in search of subsistence, for funds were
falling lower and lower at Inverness. Fortune was treating Charles
harshly at this time. Supplies had been sent once and again from France,
but the ships that had brought them had either fallen into the enemy's
hands, or had been obliged to return with their errand unaccomplished.
His soldiers had now to be paid in meal, and that in insufficient
quantities. There was thus discontent in the ranks, and among the chiefs
there was a growing feeling of discouragement. Charles treated with
reserve and suspicion the men who were risking property and life for his
cause, and consulted only with Secretary Murray and his Irish officers.
On April 8 the Duke of Cumberland began his march from Aberdeen. Between
the two armies lay the river Spey, always deep and rapid, almost
impassable when the floods were out. A vigilant body of men commanding
the fords from either bank would have any army at its mercy that might
try to cross the stream under fire. Along the west bank Lord John
Drummond and his men had built a long, low barrack of turf and stone.
From this point of vantage they had hoped to pour their fire on the
Hanoverian soldiers in mid-stream, but the vigilant Duke of Cumberland
had powerful cannons in reserve on the opposite bank, and Lord John and
his soldiers drew off before the enemy got across.
On Monday the 15th this retreating party arrived at Inverness, bringing
the news that the Duke was already at Nairne, and would probably next
day approach to give battle. Prince Charles was in the highest spirits
at the news. In the streets of Inverness the pipers blew the gatherings
of the various clans, the drums beat, and with colours flying the whole
army marched out of the town and encamped on the plain of Culloden.
The Prince expected to be attacked next morning, Tuesday the 16th, and
at six o'clock the soldiers were drawn up in order of battle. There was
an ominous falling away in numbers. The Macphersons with Cluny had
scattered to their homes in distant Badenoch; the Frasers were also
absent. [Neither of these brave and faithful clans was present at the
battle the next day.] The Keppoch Macdonalds and some other detachments
only came in next morning.
By the most fatal mismanagement no provision had been made for feeding
the soldiers that day, though there was meal and to spare at Inverness.
A small loaf of the driest and coarsest bread was served out to each
man. By the afternoon, the starving soldiers had broken their ranks and
were scattering in search of food. Lord Elcho had reconnoitred in the
direction of Nairne, twelve miles off, and reported that the English
army would not move that day; they were resting in their camp and
celebrating their commander's birthday. Charles called a council of war
at three in the afternoon. Lord George Murray gave the daring counsel
that instead of waiting to be attacked they should march through the
night to Nairne, and while it was still dark surprise and overwhelm the
sleeping enemy. By dividing the Highland forces before reaching Nairne
they might attack the camp in front and rear at the same moment; no gun
was to be fired which might spread the alarm; the Highlanders were to
fall on with dirk and broadsword. The Prince had meant to propose this
very plan: he leaped up and embraced Lord George. It was a dangerous
scheme; but with daring, swiftfooted, enterprising men it did not seem
impossible. Yes! but with men faint and dispirited by hunger? At the
review that morning the army had numbered about 7,000 men, but hardly
more than half that number assembled in the evening on the field, the
rest were still scattered in search of food. By eight o'clock it was
dark enough to start. The attack on the enemy's camp was timed for two
in the morning, six hours was thus allowed for covering the twelve
miles. The army was to march in three columns, the clans first in two
divisions, Lochiel and Lord George at the head with 30 of the
Mackintoshes as guides. The Prince himself commanded the third column,
the Lowland troops, and the French and Irish regiments. The utmost
secrecy was necessary; the men marched in dead silence. Not only did
they avoid the high roads, but wherever a light showed the presence of a
house or sheiling they had to make a wide circuit round it. The ground
they had to go over was rough and uneven; every now and then the men
splashed into unexpected bogs or stumbled over hidden stones. Add to
this that the night was unusually dark. Instead of marching in three
clear divisions, the columns got mixed in the darkness and mutually kept
each other back. Soon the light-footed clansmen got ahead of the Lowland
and French and Irish regiments unused to such heavy walking. Every few
minutes messengers from the rear harassed the leaders of the van by
begging them to march more slowly. It was a cruel task to restrain the
pace while the precious hours of darkness were slipping past. At
Kilravock House the van halted. This was the point where it was
arranged that the army was to divide, one part marching straight on the
English camp, the other crossing the river so as to fall on the enemy
from the opposite side. The rear had fallen far behind, and there was
more than one wide gap between the various troops. The Duke of Perth
galloped up from behind and told Lord George that it was necessary that
the van should wait till the others came up; other officers reported
that the men were dropping out of their ranks, and falling asleep by the
roadside. Watches were now consulted. It was already two o'clock and
there were still four miles to be covered. Some of the officers begged
that, at all risks, the march might be continued. As they stood
consulting an aide-de-camp rode up from the rear saying that the Prince
desired to go forward, but was prepared to yield to Lord George's
judgment. Just then through the darkness there came from the distance
the rolling of drums! All chance of surprising the English camp was at
an end. With a heavy heart Lord George gave the order to march back.
This affair increased the Prince's suspicions of Lord George, which were
fostered by his Irishry.
In the growing light the retreat was far more rapid than the advance had
been. It was shortly after five that the army found themselves in their
old quarters at Culloden. Many fell down where they stood, overpowered
with sleep; others dispersed in search of food. Charles himself and his
chief officers found nothing to eat and drink at Culloden House but a
little dry bread and whisky. Instead of holding a council of war, each
man lay down to sleep where he could, on table or floor.
But the sleep they were able to snatch was but short. At about eight a
patrol coming in declared that the Duke of Cumberland was already
advancing, his main body was within four miles, his horse even nearer.
In the utmost haste the chiefs and officers of the Highland army tried
to collect their men. Many had straggled off as far as Inverness, many
were still overpowered with sleep; all were faint for lack of food. When
the ranks were arrayed in order of battle, their numbers only amounted
to 5,000 men. They were drawn up on the open plain; on the right, high
turf walls, enclosing a narrow field, protected their flank (though, as
it proved, quite ineffectually), on their left lay Culloden House. In
spite of hunger and fatigue, the old fighting instinct was so strong in
the clans that they took up their positions in the first line with all
their old fire and enthusiasm, _all but the Macdonalds_. By
extraordinary mismanagement the clans Glengarry, Keppoch, and
Clanranald--they who had so nobly led the right wing at Prestonpans and
Falkirk--were placed on the left. It was a slight that bitterly hurt
their pride; it was also, to their superstitious minds, a fatal omen.
Who was the cause of the blunder? This does not seem to be certainly
known. On the right, where the Macdonalds should have been, were the
Athol men, the Camerons, the Stewarts of Appin, Macleans, Mackintoshes,
and other smaller clans, each led by their own chiefs, and all commanded
by Lord George. At the extremities of the two wings the guns were
placed, four on each side, the only artillery on the Prince's side. The
second line consisted of the French, Irish, and Lowland regiments. The
Prince and his guards occupied a knoll at the rear, from which the whole
action of the fight was visible. His horse was later covered with mud
from the cannon balls striking the wet moor, and a man was killed behind
him. By one o'clock the Hanoverian army was drawn up within five hundred
paces of their enemies. The fifteen regiments of foot were placed in
three lines, so arranged that the gaps in the first line were covered by
the centres of the regiments in the second line. Between each regiment
in the first line two powerful cannons were placed, and the three bodies
of horse were drawn up, flanking either wing. The men were fresh, well
fed, confident in their general, and eager to retrieve the dishonour of
Prestonpans and Falkirk.
A little after one, the day clouded over, and a strong north-easterly
wind drove sudden showers of sleet in the faces of the Highland army.
They were the first to open fire, but their guns were small, and the
firing ill-directed; the balls went over the heads of the enemy and did
little harm. Then the great guns on the other side poured out the return
fire, raking the ranks of the Highlanders, clearing great gaps, and
carrying destruction even into the second line. For half an hour the
Highlanders stood exposed to this fire while comrade after comrade fell
at their side. It was all they could do to keep their ranks; their
white, drawn faces and kindling eyes spoke of the hunger for revenge
that possessed their hearts. Lord George was about to give the word to
charge, when the Mackintoshes impatiently rushed forward, and the whole
of the centre and left wing followed them. On they dashed blindly,
through the smoke and snow and rattling bullets. So irresistible was the
onset that they actually swept through two regiments in the first line,
though almost all the chiefs and front rank men had fallen in the
charge. The regiment in the second rank--Sempill's--was drawn up three
deep--the first rank kneeling, the third upright--all with bayonets
fixed. They received the onrushing Highlanders with a sharp fire. This
brought the clansmen to a halt, a few were forced back, more perished,
flinging themselves against the bayonets. Their bodies were afterwards
found in heaps three or four deep.
While the right and centre perished in this wild charge, the Macdonalds
on the left remained sullenly in their ranks, rage and angry pride in
their souls. In vain the Duke of Perth urged them to charge. 'Your
courage,' he cried, 'will turn the left into the right, and I will
henceforth call myself Macdonald.'
In vain Keppoch, with some of his kin, charged alone. 'My God! have the
children of my tribe forsaken me?' he cried, looking back to where his
clansmen stood stubborn and motionless. The stout old heart was broken
by this dishonour. A few minutes later he fell pierced by many bullets.
In the meantime the second line had been thrown into confusion. A
detachment of the Hanoverians--the Campbells, in fact--had broken down
the turf walls on the Prince's right. Through the gaps thus made, there
rode a body of dragoons, who fell on the rear and flanks of the Lowland
and French regiments, and scattered them in flight. Gillie MacBane held
a breach with the claymore, and slew fourteen men before he fell. But
the day was lost. All that courage, and pride, and devotion, and fierce
hate could do had been done, and in vain.
Charles had, up to the last, looked for victory. He offered to lead on
the second line in person; but his officers told him that Highlanders
would never return to such a charge. Two Irish officers dragged at his
reins; his army was a flying mob, and so he left his latest field,
unless, as was said, he fought at Laffen as a volunteer, when the Scots
Brigade nearly captured Cumberland. He had been eager to give up
Holyrood to the wounded of Prestonpans; _his_ wounded were left to die,
or were stabbed on the field. He had refused to punish fanatics who
tried to murder him; his faithful followers were tortured to extract
information which they never gave. He lost a throne, but he won hearts,
and, while poetry lives and romance endures, the Prince Charles of the
Forty-Five has a crown more imperishable than gold. This was the ending
of that Jacobite cause, for which men had fought and died, for which
women had been content to lose homes and husbands and sons.
It was the end of that gifted race of Stuart kings who, for three
centuries and more of varying fortunes, had worn the crown of Scotland.
[Illustration: The end of Culloden]
But it was not the end of the romance of the Highland clans. Crushed
down, scattered, and cruelly treated as these were in the years that
followed Culloden, nothing could break their fiery spirit nor kill their
native aptitude for war. In the service of that very government which
had dealt so harshly with them, they were to play a part in the world's
history, wider, nobler, and not less romantic than that of fiercely
faithful adherents to a dying cause. The pages of that history have been
written in imperishable deeds on the hot plains of India, in the
mountain passes of Afghanistan, in Egypt, in the Peninsula, on the
fields of Waterloo and Quatre Bras, and among the snows of the Crimea.
And there may be other pages of this heroic history of the Highland
regiments that our children and our children's children shall read with
proud emotion in days that are to be.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] Others were Frederick the Great, and David Leslie!
[38] In _Waverley_ this generous speech is attributed to Flora Macivor.
[39] Readers of _Waverley_ will remember that in this fight Fergus
Macivor was taken prisoner.
_THE BURKE AND WILLS EXPLORING EXPEDITION_
ON August 21, 1860, in the most lovely season of the year--that of early
spring--the citizens of Melbourne crowded to the Royal Park to witness
the departure of the most liberally equipped exploring party that had
yet set out to penetrate the unknown regions of Australia. Their object
was to cross the land from the South to the Northern Seas, a task which
had never before been accomplished, as well as to add to the scientific
knowledge of the interior.
The expedition started under the leadership of Robert O'Hara Burke, who
began his career as a cadet at Woolwich, but left at an early age to
enter a regiment of Hussars in the Austrian service, in which he
subsequently held a captaincy.
When this regiment was disbanded, in 1848, he obtained an appointment in
the Irish Constabulary, which he exchanged for the Police Force of
Victoria in 1853, and in this he was at once made an inspector.
A Mr. Landells, in charge of the camels, went as second in command, and
William John Wills, an astronomer and surveyor, as third.
Wills was the son of Dr. William Wills, and was born at Totnes, in
Devonshire, in 1834; he was cousin to Lieutenant Le Viscomte, who
perished with Sir John Franklin in the 'Erebus.'
In 1852 the news of the wonderful gold discoveries induced him to try
his fortune in Victoria; but he soon became attached to the staff of the
Melbourne Observatory, where he remained until selected for the post of
observer and surveyor to the exploring expedition.
From the time that the expedition first took shape the names of these
leaders were associated in the minds of the people with those of other
brave men who had toiled to solve the mystery that lay out in the great
thirsty wilderness of the interior. Some of them had tried, and,
failing, had returned broken in health by the terrible privations they
had met with. Others, having failed, had tried again; but the seasons
and years had rolled on since, and had brought back no story of their
fate.
Therefore, as late in the afternoon Burke, mounted on a pretty grey,
rode forth at the head of the caravan, cheer after cheer rang out from
either side of the long lane formed by the thousands of sympathetic
colonists who were eager to get a last glimpse of the adventurers.
Immediately following the leader came a number of pack horses led by the
European servants on foot; then Landells and Dr. Beckler mounted on
camels; and in their train sepoys, leading two by two twenty-four
camels, each heavily burdened with forage and provisions, and a mounted
sepoy brought up the rear.
At intervals after these several wagons rolled past, and finally when
nearly dusk, Wills and Fergusson, the foreman, rode out to their first
camping-ground at the village of Essendon, about seven miles distant.
Before the evening star, following close the crescent moon, had dropped
below the dark and distant hill range, the green near the church was
crowded by the picturesque confusion of the camp.
Above the fires of piled gum-tree bark and sticks rose soft plumes of
white smoke that scented the air fragrantly, and the red light of the
flames showed, as they would show many times again, the explorers' tents
in vivid relief against the coming night.
The horses and camels were unloaded and picketed, and the men sat at the
openings of their tents eating their supper, or stood in groups talking
to those anxious friends who had come out from Melbourne to say the last
good speed, or to repeat fears, to which imagination often lent the
wildest colouring, of perils that awaited the adventurers in the great
unknown land.
The wet weather which set in soon after their start made travelling very
slow as they crossed Victoria, though at that time all seemed to go well
with the party.
On fine days Wills found he was able to write his journal and do much of
his work whilst riding his camel; he sat behind the hump, and had his
instruments packed in front of it; thus he only needed to stop when the
bearings had to be carefully taken.
They halted for several days at Swan Hill, which was their last
resting-place before leaving the Colony. They were very hospitably
entertained there by the people.
This may have had something to do with the ill-content of some of the
party when on the march again, as at Balranald, beyond the Murray, Burke
found himself obliged to discharge the foreman, Fergusson.
The plan of their route had to be changed here, as they were told that
all along the Lower Darling, where they intended to travel, there was
absolutely no food for their horses, but a plant called the Darling Pea,
which made the animals that ate it mad.
Burke was at this time constantly irritated by Landells refusing to
allow the camels to travel the distance of a day's march, or to carry
their proper burden; he was naturally full of anxiety to push on while
the season was favourable, and impatient and hasty when anything
occurred to hinder their progress.
Landells insisted upon taking a quantity of rum for the use of the
camels, as he had heard of an officer who took two camels through a two
years' campaign in Cabul, the Punjab, and Scind by allowing them arrack.
He had also been sowing dissension in the camp for some time; and, in
short, the camels and the officer in charge of them seemed likely to
disorganise the whole of the enterprise.
Complaints were now continually reaching Burke from the managers of the
sheep stations through which they passed, that their shearers had got
drunk on some of the camels' rum, which had been obtained from the
wagons. He therefore, at last, determined to leave the rum behind.
Landells, of course, would not agree to this, and in the end sent in his
resignation.
In the course of the same day Dr. Beckler followed his example, giving
as his reason that he did not like the manner in which Burke spoke to
Landells, and that he did not consider the party safe without him to
manage the camels. Burke did not, however, accept the Doctor's
resignation.
This happened shortly before they left Menindie, the last station of the
settled districts, and it was impossible to find anyone to take
Landells' place. Wills was, however, at once promoted to be second in
charge.
Burke now divided the expedition into two parts--one to act with him as
an exploring party to test the safety of the route to Cooper's Creek,
which was about four hundred miles farther on; the other to remain at
Menindie with the heavy stores, under the care of Dr. Beckler, until
arrangements were made to establish a permanent depôt in the interior.
The advance party of eight started on October 29, under the guidance of
a man named Wright, who was said to have practical knowledge of the
'back country.'
[Illustration: 'The advance party of eight started on October 29']
They were Burke, Wills, Brahé, Patten, M'Donough, King, Gray, and Dost
Mahomet, with fifteen horses and sixteen camels.
When this journey was made it was immediately after one of those
wonderful seasons that transform these parts of Central Australia from
a treeless and grassless desert to a land where the swelling plains that
stretch from bound to bound of the horizon are as vast fields of
ripening corn in their yellow summertide.
Riding girth high through the lovely natural grass, from which the ripe
seed scattered as they passed, or camping at night surrounded by it, the
horses and camels improved in condition each day, and were never at a
loss for water. Sometimes they found a sufficiency in a natural well or
claypan; or again they struck for some creek towards the west or north,
whose irregular curves were outlined on the plain by the gum-trees
growing closely on its banks.
Nowhere did they experience great difficulty or serious obstacle on
their northward way, though sometimes, as they crossed the rough
ironstone ranges which crop up now and then on this great and ever
rising table-land, there was little feed, and the sharp stones cut the
feet of the animals as they trod with faltering footsteps down the
precipitous gulleys, out of which the floods had for ages torn a path.
As they followed the dry bed of such a path leading to rich flats, they
would come upon quiet pools deeply shaded by gums and marsh mallow, that
had every appearance of being permanent.
After they had been out ten days and had travelled over two hundred
miles, Burke had formed so good an opinion of Wright that he made him
third in charge, and sent him back to Menindie to replace Dr.
Beckler--whose resignation was now accepted--in command of the portion
of the expedition at that place. Wright took with him despatches to
forward to Melbourne, and his instructions were to follow up the advance
party with the heavy stores immediately.
Burke now pushed on to Cooper's Creek; and though the last part of their
journey led them over many of those tracts of country peculiar to
Australia where red sandy ridges rise and fall for many miles in rigid
uniformity, and are clothed for the most part in the monotonous grey of
salt and cotton-bush leafage, yet they saw before them what has since
proved to be one of the finest grazing lands in the world.
Still, as they went on, though the creeks and watercourses were more
frequent, everywhere they showed signs of rapid drying up.
The party reached the Cooper on November 11, and after resting for a
day, they set about preparing the depôt. For about a fortnight from this
point Burke or Wills made frequent short journeys to the north or
north-east, to feel their way before starting for the northern coast.
On one occasion Wills went out taking with him M'Donough and three
camels, and when about ninety miles from the head camp he walked to a
rising ground at some distance from where they intended to stop to make
some observations, leaving M'Donough in charge of the camels and to
prepare tea.
On his return he found that the man had fallen asleep, and that the
camels had gone. Night closing in almost directly prevented any search
for the missing animals.
Next morning nothing could be seen of them, though their tracks were
followed for many miles, and though Wills went to some distant hills and
searched the landscape on all sides with his field-glasses.
With a temperature of 112° in the shade, and the dazzling sun-rays
beating from a pallid and cloudless sky, they started on their homeward
walk of eighty miles, with only a little bread and a few johnny cakes to
eat, each carrying as much water as he could.
They feared to light a fire even at night, as it might have attracted
the blacks; therefore they took it in turn to sleep and watch when the
others rested; while the dingoes sneaked from their cover in the belts
of scrub, and howled dismally around them.
They reached the depôt in three days, having found only one pool of
stagnant water, from which they drank a great deal and refilled the
goatskin bag.
Wills was obliged to return afterwards with King to recover the saddles
and things that were left when the camels strayed.
For some time Wright had been expected to arrive with the caravan from
Menindie; yet a whole month passed and he did not come.
Burke who had now become very impatient at the loss of opportunity and
time, determined to make a dash across the continent to the sea.
He therefore left Brahé, a man who could travel by compass and
observation, in charge at Cooper's Creek depôt until Wright should
arrive, giving him positive instructions to remain there until the
return of the exploring party from the Gulf of Carpentaria, which he
thought would be in about three or four months.
Burke started northwards on December 16, in company with Wills, King,
and Gray, taking with them six camels, one horse, and provisions for
three months, while Brahé, three men, and a native were left at the
Creek with the rest of the horses and camels.
* * * * *
The expedition was now in three parts, and Wright, who perhaps knew more
about the uncertainty of the seasons and the terrible consequences of
drought than any of the party, still delayed leaving Menindie with his
contingent, though he well knew that as the summer advanced the greater
would be the difficulty to travel.
He had become faint-hearted, and every day invented some new excuse for
not leaving. One day it was that there were not enough camels and horses
to carry the necessary provision; the next, that the country through
which they must pass was infested by blacks; the next, that he waited
for his appointment to be confirmed by the authorities at Melbourne; and
all this time he knew that Burke depended solely upon him to keep up
communication with the depôt from the Darling.
Finally he started at the end of January (summer in Australia), more
than a month after his appointment was officially confirmed, and more
than two months after his return from Menindie.
For the first few days after Burke and Wills set off they followed up
the creek, and though the banks were rugged and stony, there was plenty
of grass and soft bush near. They soon fell in with a large tribe of
blacks, the first they had seen, who followed them for some time, and
constantly tried to entice them to their camp to dance. When they
refused to go the natives became very troublesome, until they threatened
to shoot them.
They were fine-looking men, but easily frightened, and only carried as a
means of defence a shield and a large kind of boomerang.
The channel of the Creek was often quite dry for a great distance; then
a chain of magnificent water-holes followed, from whose shady pools
pelicans, black swans, and many species of duck flew up in flocks at the
approach of the travellers.
After a few days they reached what seemed to be the end of Cooper's
Creek, and, steering a more north-easterly course, they journeyed for
some time over great plains covered by dry grass-stalks or barren sandy
ridges, on the steep sides of which grew scant tufts of porcupine grass;
sometimes following the lines of a creek, or, again, travelling along
the edge of a splendid lagoon that stretched its placid waters for miles
over the monotonous landscape.
Even the stony desert they found far from bad travelling ground, and but
little different from much of what they had already crossed.
Yet ever before them there, from the sunrise to its setting, the
spectral illusive shapes of the mirage floated like restless spirit
betwixt heaven and earth on the quivering heat-haze.
On January 7 they crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and their way beyond
it soon began to improve.
In the excitement of exploring fine country Burke rushed on with almost
headlong feverishness, travelling in every available hour of the day,
and often by night, even grudging the necessary time for food and rest.
He walked with Wills in front, taking it in turn with him to steer by a
pocket compass.
Before they left each camp its number was cut deeply into the bark of
some prominent tree. Wills kept the little record there is of their
journey, and as they went it was the duty of King or Gray to blaze a
tree to mark their route.
They passed now over many miles of the richly grassed slopes of a
beautiful open forest, intersected by frequent watercourses where the
land trended gradually upward to the distant mountain-range. Sometimes
they had to go out of their course in order to avoid the tangle of
tropic jungle; but onward north by east they went, beneath the shade of
heavy-fruited palms, their road again made difficult by the large and
numerous anthills that give these northern latitudes so strange a
solemnity and appearance of desolation.
After leaving Cooper's Creek they often crossed the paths the blacks
made for themselves, but had hitherto seen nothing of the natives. One
day Golah, one of the camels (who were all now beginning to show great
signs of fatigue), had gone down into the bed of a creek to drink, and
could not be made to climb its steep sides again.
After several unsuccessful attempts to get him up, they determined to
try bringing him down until an easier ascent could be found. King
thereupon went on alone with him, and had great difficulty in getting
him through some of the deeper water-holes.
But after going in this way for two or three miles they were forced to
leave him behind, as it separated King from the rest of the party, and
they found that a number of blacks were hiding in the box-trees on the
banks, watching, and following them with stealthy footsteps.
It now became a very difficult matter for the camels to travel as the
heavy rains that had fallen made the land so wet and boggy that with
every footstep they sank several inches into it.
At Camp 119 Burke left them in charge of Gray and King, and walked on to
the shores of Carpentaria with Wills, and took only the horse Billy to
carry their provisions.
[Illustration: Golah is abandoned]
They followed the banks of a river which Burke named the Cloncurry. A
few hundred yards below the camp Billy got bogged in a quicksand bank so
deeply as to be unable to stir, and they had to undermine him on the
creek side and pull him into the water. About five miles farther on he
bogged again, and afterwards was so weak that he could hardly crawl.
After floundering along in this way for some time they came upon a
native path which led through a forest; following it, they reached a
large patch of sandy ground where the blacks had been digging yams and
had left numbers lying on the surface; and these the explorers were glad
enough to eat.
A little farther on they saw a black lying coiled round his camp fire,
and by him squatted his lubra and piccaninny yabbering at a great rate.
They stopped to take out their pistols in case of need before disturbing
them; almost immediately the black got up to stretch his limbs, and
presently saw the intruders.
He stared at them for some time, as if he thought he must be dreaming,
then, signing to the others, they all dropped on their haunches, and
shuffled off in the quietest manner.
Near their fire was a worley (native hut) large enough to shelter a
dozen blacks; it was on the northern outskirt of the forest, and looked
out across a marsh which is sometimes flooded by sea-water. Upon this
were hundreds of wild geese, plover, and pelicans. After they crossed it
they reached a channel through which the sea-water enters, and there
passed three blacks, who silently and unasked pointed out the best way
to go.
Next day, Billy being completely tired, they short-hobbled and left him,
going forward again at daybreak in the hope of at last reaching the open
sea. After following the Flinders (this country had already been
explored by Gregory) for about fifteen miles, and finding that the tide
ebbed and flowed regularly, and that the water was quite salt, they
decided to go back, having successfully accomplished one great object of
their mission, by crossing the Australian continent from south to north.
After rejoining Gray and King on February 13, the whole party began the
return march. The incessant and heavy rains that had set in rendered
travelling very difficult; but the provisions were running short, and it
was necessary to try to get back to the depôt without delay.
The damp and suffocating heat that brooded in the air overpowered both
man and beast, who were weak and weary from want of rest; and to breast
the heavy rains and to swim the rapid creeks in flood well-nigh
exhausted all their strength.
Day after day they stumbled listlessly onward; while the poor camels,
sweating, bleeding, and groaning from fear, had their feet at almost
every step entangled by the climbing plants that clung to the rank
grasses, which had rushed in magical growth to a height of eight or ten
feet.
If for a moment they went to windward of their camp fires they were
maddened by swarms of mosquitoes, and everywhere were pestered by ants.
Wonderful green and scarlet ants dropped upon them from the trees as
they passed; from every log or stick gathered for the fires a new
species crept; inch-long black or brown 'bulldogs' showed fight at them
underfoot: midgets lurked in the cups of flowers; while the giant white
ant ate its stealthy way in swarms through the sap of the forest trees
from root to crown.
Every night fierce storms of thunder crashed and crackled overhead, and
the vivid lightning flaring across the heavens overpowered the
moonlight.
Gray, who had been ailing for some time, grew worse, though probably, as
they were all in such evil plight, they did not think him really ill.
One night Wills, returning to a camp to bring back some things that had
been left, found him hiding behind a tree eating skilligolee. He
explained he was suffering from dysentery, and had taken the flour
without leave.
It had already been noticed that the provisions disappeared in an
unaccountable way; therefore Wills ordered him back to report himself to
Burke. But Gray was afraid to tell, and got King to do so for him. When
Burke heard of it, he was very angry, and flogged him.
On March 20 they overhauled the packs, and left all they could do
without behind, as the camels were so exhausted.
Soon after this they were again beyond the line of rainfall, and once
more toiling over the vast plains and endless stony rises of the
interior.
At the camp called Boocha's Rest they killed the camel Boocha, and spent
the whole day cutting up and jerking the flesh--that is, removing all
bone and fat and drying the lean parts in the sun; they also now made
use of a plant called portulac as a vegetable, and found it very good,
and a great addition to their food.
For more than a week it had become very troublesome to get Gray to walk
at all; he was still in such bad odour from his thieving that the rest
of the party thought he pretended illness, and as they had to halt
continually to wait for him when marching, he was always in mischief.
The faithful Billy had to be sacrificed in the Stony Desert, as he was
so reduced and knocked up that there seemed little chance of his
reaching the other side; and another day was taken to cut up and jerk
his flesh.
At dawn on the fourth day before they reached the depôt, when they were
preparing to start they were shocked to find poor Gray was dying.
His companions, full of remorse for bygone harshness, their better
natures stirred to the depths of humanity by his pitiful case, knelt
around to support him in those last moments as he lay stretched
speechless on his desolate sand bed. Thus comforted, his fading eyes
closed for ever as the red sun rose above the level plain.
The party remained in camp that day to bury him, though they were so
weak that they were hardly able to dig a grave in the sand sufficiently
deep for the purpose.
They had lived on the flesh of the worn-out horse for fifteen days, and
once or twice were forced to camp without water. Though the sun was
always hot, at night a gusty wind blew from the south with an edge like
a razor, which made their fire so irregular as to be of little use to
them. The sudden and cruel extremes of heat and cold racked the
exhausted frames of the explorers with pain, and Burke and King were
hardly able to walk. They pushed on, only sustained by the thought that
but a few hours, a few miles, now separated them from the main party,
where the first felicitations on the success of their exploit awaited
them, and, what was of greater importance to men shattered by hardships
and privation, wholesome food, fresh clothing, and the comfort of a
properly organised camp.
On the morning of April 21, with every impatient nerve strung to its
utmost tension, and full of hope, they urged their two remaining camels
forward for the last thirty miles; and Burke, who rode a little in
advance of the others, shouted for joy when they struck Cooper's Creek
at the exact spot where Brahé had been left in charge of the depôt.
'I think I see their tents,' he cried, and putting his weary camel to
its best speed, he called out the names of the men he had left there.
'There they are! There they are!' he shouted eagerly, and with a last
spurt left the others far behind.
When Wills and King reached the depôt they saw Burke standing by the
side of his camel in a deserted camp, _alone_.
He was standing, lost in amazement, staring vacantly around. Signs of
recent departure, of a final packing-up, everywhere met the eye: odd
nails and horseshoes lay about, with other useful things that would not
have been left had the occupants merely decamped to some other spot.
Then, as one struck by some terrible blow, Burke reeled and fell to the
ground, overcome by the revulsion of feeling from exultant hope to
sudden despair.
Wills, who had ever the greater control of himself, now walked in all
directions to make a careful examination, followed at a little distance
by King.
Presently he stopped, and pointing to a tree, into the bark of which had
been newly cut the words--
'DIG.
'April 21, 1861'
he said:--
'_King, they are gone!_ They have only gone to-day--there are the things
they have left!'
The two men immediately set to work to uncover the earth, and found a
few inches below the surface a box containing provisions and a bottle.
In the bottle was a note, which was taken to Burke at once, who read it
aloud:--
'Depôt, Cooper's Creek,
'April 21, 1861.
'The depôt party of the Victorian Exploring
Expedition leaves this camp to-day to return to
the Darling.
'I intend to go S.E. from Camp 60, to get into our
old track near Bulloo. Two of my companions and
myself are quite well; the third--Patten--has been
unable to walk for the last eighteen days, as his
leg has been severely hurt when thrown by one of
the horses.
'No person has been up here from the Darling.
'We have six camels and twelve horses in good
working condition.
'WILLIAM BRAHÉ.'
When the leader had finished reading it, he turned to the others and
asked if they would start next day to try to overtake Brahé's party.
They replied that they could not. With the slightest exertion all felt
the indescribable languor and terrible aching in back and legs that had
proved fatal to poor Gray. And, indeed, it was as much as any one of
them could do to crawl to the side of the creek for a billy of water.
They were not long in getting out the stores Brahé had left, and in
making themselves a good supper of oatmeal porridge and sugar.
[Illustration: 'King, they are gone!']
This and the excitement of their unexpected position did much to revive
them. Burke presently decided to make for a station on the South
Australian side which he believed was only one hundred and twenty miles
from the Cooper. Both Wills and King wanted to follow down their old
track to the Darling, but afterwards gave in to Burke's idea. Therefore
it was arranged that after they had rested they would proceed by gentle
stages towards the Mount Hopeless sheeprun.
Accordingly, on the next day Burke wrote and deposited in the cache a
letter giving a sketch of the exploration, and added the following
postscript:
'The camels cannot travel, and we cannot walk, or we should follow the
other party. We shall move very slowly down the Creek.'
The cache was again covered with earth, and left as they had found it,
though nothing was added to the word 'Dig,' or to the date on the tree;
which curious carelessness on the part of men accustomed to note every
camping-ground in this way seems unaccountable.
A few days after their return they started with the month's supply of
provisions that had been left.
They had every reason to hope, with the help of the camels, they might
easily reach Mount Hopeless in time to preserve their lives and to reap
the reward of their successful exertions.
* * * * *
It will be remembered that when Burke formally appointed Brahé as
officer in command of the depôt until Wright should arrive, he was told
to await his leader's return to Cooper's Creek, _or not to leave it
until obliged by absolute necessity_. Day after day, week after week
passed, and Wright, with the rest of the stores from Menindie, never
came. It was more than four months since Burke's party went north, and
every day for the last six weeks Brahé had looked out anxiously for
their return.
On one hand he was worried by Patten, who was dying, and who wanted to
go back to the Darling for advice; on the other, by M'Donough's
continually pouring into his ears the assurance that Burke would not
return that way, but had doubtless by this time made for some port on
the Queensland coast, and had returned to Melbourne by sea; and that if
they stayed at the depôt they would all get scurvy, and in the end die
of starvation. Though they had sufficient provisions to keep them for
another month, they decided to start on the morning of April 21, leaving
the box of stores and the note hidden in the earth which the explorers
found on their return.
Following their former route towards the Darling, they fell in with
Wright's party at Bulloo, where they had been stationary for several
weeks, and where three of the men had died of scurvy.
Brahé at once put himself under Wright's orders; but he did not rest
until Wright consented to go to Cooper's Creek with him, so that before
abandoning the expedition he might feel assured that the explorers had
not returned.
Wright and Brahé reached the depôt on May 8, a fortnight after the
others had left, and Brahé seeing nothing above ground in the camp to
lead him to think anyone had been there, did not trouble to disturb the
box which he had originally planted--as Wright suggested the blacks
would be more likely to find it; therefore, running their horses several
times over the spot, they completed by their thoughtless stupidity the
most terrible blunder the explorers had begun.
Wright and Brahé then rejoined the camp at Bulloo, when all moved back
to Menindie, and reached that place on June 18.
Brahé at once set off for Melbourne, and by this time everyone there
seemed to be alive to the necessity of sending out to look for the
explorers.
Two steamers were despatched to the Gulf of Carpentaria, and a relief
party, in charge of Alfred Howitt, up to the Cooper.
From South Australia an organised expedition of twenty-six men, with
McKinlay as leader, was already engaged in the search, as well as
several smaller parties from the neighbouring colonies.
* * * * *
Burke, Wills, and King, much revived with the rest of a few days and the
food they had found at the depôt, left for Mount Hopeless, with the
intention of following as nearly as possible the route taken by Gregory
many years before.
Shortly after their departure Landa, one of the camels, bogged at the
side of a water-hole and sank rapidly, as the ground beneath was a
bottomless quicksand; all their efforts to dig him out were useless, and
they had to shoot him where he lay, and cut off what flesh they could
get at to jerk.
They made a fresh start next day with the last camel, Rajah, only loaded
with the most useful and necessary articles; and each of the men now
carried his own swag of bed and clothing.
In addition to these misfortunes they had now to contend with the blast
of drought that lay over the land; with the fiery sun, that streamed
from cloudless skies, beneath which the very earth shrunk from itself in
gaping fissures; with the wild night wind, that shrieked and skirled
with devastating breath over the wilderness beneath the cold light of
the crowding stars.
For a few days they followed the Creek, but found that it split up into
sandy channels which became rapidly smaller as they advanced, and sent
off large billabongs (or backwaters) to the south, slightly changing the
course of the Creek each time, until it disappeared altogether in a
north-westerly direction. Burke and Wills went forward alone to
reconnoitre, and found that the land as far as they could see stretched
away in great earthy plains intersected by lines of trees and empty
watercourses.
Next day they retraced their steps to the last camp, and realised that
their rations were rapidly diminishing and their boots and clothing
falling to pieces.
Rajah was very ill and on the point of dying, when Burke ordered him to
be shot, his flesh being afterwards dried in the usual manner.
Some friendly blacks, whom they amused by lighting fires with matches,
gave them some fish and a kind of bread called nardoo.
At various times they had tried to learn from the blacks how to procure
the nardoo grain, which is the seed of a small clover-like plant, but
had failed to make them understand what they wanted.
Then Wills went out alone to look for it; but as he expected to find it
growing on a tree, was of course unsuccessful, and the blacks had again
moved off to some other branch of the Creek.
The terrible fate of death from starvation awaited them if they could
not obtain this knowledge, and for several days they all persevered with
the search, until quite by chance King at last caught sight of some
seeds which proved to be nardoo lying at the foot of a sandhill, and
they soon found the plain beyond was black with it.
With the reassurance that they could now support themselves they made
another attempt to reach Mount Hopeless. Burke and King each carried a
billy of water, and the last of the provisions was packed up in their
swags; but after travelling for three days they found no water, and were
forced to turn back to the Creek, at a point where--though they knew it
not--scarce fifty miles remained to be accomplished, and just as Mount
Hopeless would have appeared above the horizon had they continued their
route for even another day.
Wearily they retraced their footsteps to the water and to the prospect
of existence. They at once set about collecting nardoo; two of them were
employed in gathering it, while one stayed in camp to clean and crush
it.
In a few days Burke sent Wills back to the depôt to bury the field-books
of their journey north in the cache, and another letter to tell of their
present condition.
When Wills reached the spot he could see no trace of anyone having been
there but natives, and that the hiding-place had not been touched.
Having deposited the field-books and a note, with an account of their
sufferings and a pitiful and useless appeal for food and clothing, he
started back to rejoin Burke, terribly fatigued and weak from his long
walk.
It had taken him eleven days to cover the seventy miles to and fro, and
he had had very little to eat.
However, to his surprise, one morning, on his way back he heard a cooee
from the opposite bank of the Creek, and saw Pitchery, the chief of the
friendly blacks, beckoning to him to come to their camp. Pitchery made
him sit down by a fire, upon which a large pile of fish was cooking.
This he thought was to provide a breakfast for the half-dozen natives
who sat around; but to his astonishment they made him eat the whole lot,
while they sat by extracting the bones.
Afterwards a supply of nardoo was given him; at which he ate until he
could eat no more. The blacks then asked him to stay the night with
them; but as he was anxious to rejoin Burke and King, he went on.
In his absence Burke, while frying some fish that the natives had given
him, had set fire to the mia-mia (a shelter made by the blacks of bushes
and trees).
It burnt so quickly that every remnant of their clothing was destroyed,
and nothing saved but a gun.
In a few days they all started back towards the depôt, in the hope that
they could live with the blacks; but they found they had again
disappeared.
On again next morning to another of the native camps; but, finding it
empty, the wanderers took possession of the best mia-mia, and Wills and
King were sent out to collect nardoo.
This was now absolutely their only food, with the exception of two crows
which King shot; he alone seemed to be uninjured by the nardoo. Wills
had at last suddenly collapsed, and could only lie in the mia-mia, and
philosophically contemplate the situation.
He strongly advised Burke and King to leave him, as the only chance for
the salvation of any one of them now was to find the blacks.
Very reluctantly at last Burke consented to go; and after placing a
large supply of nardoo, wood, and water within easy reach, Burke said
again:
'I will not leave you, Wills, under any other circumstance than that of
your own wish.'
And Wills, again repeating 'It is our only chance,' gave him a letter
and his watch for his father.
King had already buried the rest of the field-books near the mia-mia.
* * * * *
The first day after they left Wills Burke was very weak, and complained
sadly of great pain in his back and legs. Next day he was a little
better, and walked for about two miles, then lay down and said he could
go no farther.
[Illustration: Death of Burke]
King managed to get him up, but as he went he dropped his swag and threw
away everything he had to carry.
When they halted he said he felt much worse, and could not last many
hours longer, and he gave his pocket-book to King, saying:--
'I hope you will remain with me till I am quite dead--it is a comfort to
know someone is by; but when I am dying, it is my wish that you should
place the pistol in my right hand, and that you leave me unburied as I
lie.'
Doubtless he thought of King's weak state, and wished to spare him the
labour of digging a grave.
The last of the misfortunes that had followed the enterprise from the
outset, misfortunes in many cases caused by the impatient zeal of its
leader, was drawing to its close.
Tortured by disappointment and despair, racked by starvation and
disease, he lay in the desert dying.
Flinging aside the last poor chance of succour, renouncing all hope that
he might yet live to reap the reward of his brilliant dash across the
continent, he met death
'With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,
With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes
He saw the sun go down on the sand,
And he slept--and never saw it rise.'
King lingered near the spot for a few hours; but at last, feeling it to
be useless, he went on up the Creek to look for the natives.
In one of their deserted mia-mias he found a large store of the nardoo
seed, and, carrying it with him, returned to Wills.
On his way back he shot three crows. This addition to their food would,
he felt, give them a chance of tiding over their difficulties until the
blacks could again be found. But as he drew near the mia-mia where he
and poor Burke had left Wills a few days before, and saw his lonely
figure in the distance lying much as they had left him, a sudden fear
came upon him.
Hitherto the awful quiet of these desolate scenes had little impressed
him, and now it came upon him heavily. The shrilling of a solitary
locust somewhere in the gums, the brisk crackle of dry bark and twigs as
he trod, the melancholy sighing of the wind-stirred leafage, offered him
those inexplicable contrasts that give stress to silence.
Anxious to escape thoughts so little comprehended, King hurried on, and
essayed a feeble 'cooee' when a few yards from the sleeper. No answering
sound or gesture greeted him.
Wills had fallen peacefully asleep for ever.
Footprints on the sand showed that the blacks had already been there,
and after King had buried the corpse with sand and rushes as well as he
was able, he started to follow their tracks.
Feeling desperately lonely and ill, he went on, and as he went he shot
some more crows. The blacks, hearing the report of the gun, came to meet
him, and taking him to their camp gave him food.
The next day they talked to him by signs, putting one finger in the
ground and covering it with sand, at the same time pointing up the
Creek, saying 'White fellow.'
By this they meant that one white man was dead.
King, by putting two fingers in the sand and covering them, made them
understand that his second companion was also dead.
Finding he was now quite alone, they seemed very sorry for him, and gave
him plenty to eat. However, in a few days they became tired of him, and
by signs told him they meant to go up the Creek, pointing in the
opposite direction to show that that must be his way. But when he shot
some more crows for them they were very pleased. One woman to whom he
gave a part of a crow gave him a ball of nardoo, and, showing him a
wound on her arm, intimated that she would give him more, but she was
unable to pound it. When King saw the wound he boiled some water in his
billy and bathed it. While the whole tribe sat round, watching and
yabbering excitedly, he touched it with some lunar caustic; she shrieked
and ran off, crying 'mokow! mokow!' (fire! fire!) She was, however, very
grateful for his kindness, and from that time she and her husband
provided him with food.
* * * * *
About two months later the relief party reached the depôt, where they
found the letters and journals the explorers had placed in the cache.
They at once set off down the Creek, in the hope still of finding Burke
and Wills. They met a black who directed them to the native camp. Here
they found King sitting alone in the mia-mia the natives had made for
him, wasted and worn to a shadow, almost imbecile from the terrible
hardships he had suffered.
He turned his hopeless face upon the new-comers, staring vacantly at
them, muttering indistinctly words which his lips refused to articulate.
Only the remnants of his clothing marked him as a civilised being. The
blacks who had fed him sat round to watch the meeting with most
gratified and delighted expressions.
Howitt waited for a few days to give King an opportunity of recovering
his strength, that he might show them where the bodies of his
unfortunate leaders lay, that the last sad duty to the dead might be
performed before they left the place.
Burke's body had been dragged a short distance from where it originally
lay, and was partly eaten by the dingoes (wild dogs). The remains were
carefully collected, wrapped in a Union Jack, and placed in a grave dug
close to the spot.
* * * * *
A few weeks later the citizens of Melbourne, once again aroused to
extravagant enthusiasm, lined the streets through which the only
survivor of the only Victorian Exploration Expedition was to pass.
'Here he comes! Here he comes!' rang throughout the crowd as King was
driven to the Town Hall to tell his narrative to the company assembled
there.
'There is a man!' shouted one--'There is a man who has lived in hell.'
* * * * *
A few months later Howitt was again sent to Cooper's Creek to exhume the
bodies of Burke and Wills and bring them to Melbourne. They were
honoured by a public funeral, and a monument was erected to their
memory--
'A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,
Telling its story to great and small
Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone.'
_THE STORY OF EMUND_ (A.D. 1020)
THERE was a man named Emund of Skara; lawman in Western Gautland, and
very wise and eloquent. Of high birth he was, had a numerous kin, and
was very wealthy. Men deemed him cunning, and not very trusty. He passed
for the man of most weight in West Gautland now that the Earl was gone
away.
At the time when Earl Rognvald left Gautland the Gauts held assemblies,
and often murmured among themselves about what the Swedish king was
intending. They heard that he was wroth with them for having made a
friendship with Olaf, King of Norway, rather than quarrel. He also
charged with crime those men who had accompanied his daughter Astridr to
Norway's king. And some said that they should seek protection of the
Norse king and offer him their service; while others were against this,
and said that the West Gauts had no strength to maintain a quarrel
against the Swedes, 'and the Norse king is far from us,' they said,
'because the main power of his land is far: and this is the first thing
we must do, send men to the Swedish king and try to make agreement with
him; but if that cannot be done, then take we the other choice of
seeking the protection of the Norse king.'
So the landowners asked Emund to go on this mission, to which he
assented, and went his way with thirty men, and came to East Gautland.
There he had many kinsmen and friends, and was well received. He had
there some talk with the wisest men about this difficulty, and they were
quite agreed in thinking that what the King was doing with them was
against use and law. Then Emund went on to Sweden, and there talked with
many great men; and there too all were of the same mind. He then held on
his way till he came on the evening of a day to Upsala. There they
found them good lodging and passed the night. The next day Emund went
before the King as he sat in council with many around him. Emund went up
to the King, and bowed down before him, and greeted him. The King looked
at him, returned his greeting, and asked him what tidings he brought.
Emund answered: 'Little tidings are there with us Gauts. But this we
deem a novelty: Atti the Silly in Vermaland went in the winter up to the
forest with his snowshoes and bow; we call him a mighty hunter. On the
fell he got such store of grey fur that he had filled his sledge with as
much as he could manage to draw after him. He turned him homeward from
the forest; but then he saw a squirrel in the wood, and shot at him and
missed. Then was he wroth, and, loosing from him his sledge, he ran
after the squirrel. But the squirrel went ever where the wood was
thickest, sometimes near the tree roots, sometimes high among the
boughs, and passed among the boughs from tree to tree. But when Atti
shot at him, the arrow always flew above or below him, while the
squirrel never went so that Atti could not see him. So eager was he in
this chase that he crept after him for the whole day, but never could he
get this squirrel. And when darkness came on, he lay down in the snow,
as he was wont, and so passed the night; 'twas drifting weather. Next
day Atti went to seek his sledge, but he never found it again; and so he
went home. Such are my tidings, sire.'
Said the King: 'Little tidings these, if there be no more to say.'
Emund answered: 'Yet further a while ago happened this, which one may
call tidings. Gauti Tofason went out with five warships by the river
Gaut Elbe; but when he lay by the Eikr Isles, some Danes came there with
five large merchant ships. Gauti and his company soon captured four of
the merchant ships without losing a man, and took great store of wealth;
but the fifth ship escaped out to sea by sailing. Gauti went after that
one ship, and at first gained on it; but soon, as the wind freshened,
the merchant ship went faster. They had got far out to sea, and Gauti
wished to turn back; but a storm came on, and his ship was wrecked on an
island, and all the wealth lost and the more part of the men. Meanwhile
his comrades had had to stay at the Eikr Isles. Then attacked them
fifteen Danish merchant ships, and slew them all, and took all the
wealth which they had before gotten. Such was the end of this
covetousness.'
The King answered: 'Great tidings these, and worth telling; but what is
thy errand hither?'
Emund answered: 'I come, sire, to seek a solution in a difficulty where
our law and Upsala law differ.'
The King asked: 'What is it of which thou wouldst complain?'
Emund answered: 'There were two men, nobly born, equal in family, but
unequal in possessions and disposition. They quarrelled about lands, and
each wrought harm on the other, and he wrought the more who was the more
powerful, till their dispute was settled and judged at the general
assembly. He who was the more powerful was condemned to pay; but at the
first repayment he paid wildgoose for goose, little pig for old swine,
and for a mark of gold he put down half a mark of gold, the other
half-mark of clay and mould, and yet further threatened with rough
treatment the man to whom he was paying this debt. What is thy judgment
herein, sire?'
The King answered: 'Let him pay in full what was adjudged, and to his
King thrice that amount. And if it be not paid within the year, then let
him go an outlaw from all his possessions, let half his wealth come into
the King's treasury, and half to the man to whom he owed redress.'
Emund appealed to all the greatest men there, and to the laws valid at
Upsala Thing in witness of this decision. Then he saluted the King and
went out. Other men brought their complaints before the King, and he sat
long time over men's suits.
But when the King came to table he asked where was lawman Emund.
He was told that he was at home in his lodging.
Then said the King: 'Go after him, he shall be my guest to-day.'
Just then came in the viands, and afterwards players with harps and
fiddles and other music, and then drink was served. The King was very
merry, and had many great men as his guests, and thought no more of
Emund. He drank for the rest of the day, and slept that night.
But in the morning, when the King waked, then he bethought him of what
Emund had talked of the day before. And so soon as he was dressed he had
his wise men summoned to him. King Olaf had ever about him twelve of the
wisest men; they sate with him over judgments and counselled him in
difficulties; and that was no easy task, for while the King liked it ill
if judgment was perverted, he yet would not hear any contradiction of
himself. When they were met thus in council, the King took the word,
and bade Emund be called thither.
But the messenger came back and said: 'Sire, Emund the lawman rode away
yesterday immediately after he had supped.'
Then spake the King: 'Tell me this, noble lords, whereto pointed that
law question of which Emund asked yesterday?'
They answered: 'Sire, thou wilt have understood it, if it meant more
than his mere words.'
The King said: 'By those two nobly-born men of whom he told the story
that they disputed, the one more powerful than the other, and each
wrought the other harm, he meant me and Olaf Stout.'
'It is even so, sire,' said they, 'as thou sayest.'
The King went on: 'Judgment there was in our cause at the Upsala Thing.
But what did that mean which he said about the under-payment, wildgoose
for goose, little pig for old swine, half clay for gold?'
Arnvid the Blind answered: 'Sire,' said he, 'very unlike are red gold
and clay, but more different are king and thrall. Thou didst promise to
Olaf Stout thy daughter Ingigerdr, who is of royal birth on both sides,
and of Up-Swedish family, the highest in the North, for it derives from
the gods themselves. But now King Olaf has gotten to wife Astridr. And
though she is a king's child, yet her mother is a bondwoman and a
Wendlander.'
There were three brothers then in the council; Arnvid the Blind, whose
sight was so dim that he could scarce bear arms, but he was very
eloquent; the second was Thorvid the Stammerer, who could not speak more
than two words together, he was most bold and sincere; the third was
called Freyvid the Deaf, he was hard of hearing. These brothers were all
powerful men, wealthy, of noble kin, prudent, and all were dear to the
King.
Then said King Olaf: 'What means that which Emund told of Atti the
Silly?'
None answered, but they looked at one another.
Said the King, 'Speak now.'
Then said Thorvid the Stammerer: 'Atti quarrelsome, covetous,
ill-willed, silly, foolish.'
Then asked the King, 'Against whom is aimed this cut?'
Then answered Freyvid the Deaf: 'Sire, men will speak more openly, if
that may be with thy permission.'
Said the King: 'Speak now, Freyvid, with permission what thou wilt.'
Freyvid then took the word: 'Thorvid my brother, who is called the
wisest of us, calls the man Atti quarrelsome, silly, and foolish. He
calls him so because, ill-content with peace, he hunts eagerly after
small things, and yet gets them not, while for their sake he throws away
great and good things. I am deaf, but now so many have spoken that I
have been able to understand that men both great and small like it ill
that thou, sire, keepest not thy word with the King of Norway. And still
worse like they this: that thou makest of none effect the judgment of
the General Assembly at Upsala. Thou hast no need to fear King of Norway
or of Danes, nor anyone else, while the armies of Sweden will follow
thee. But if the people of the land turn against thee with one consent,
then we thy friends see no counsel that is sure to avail.'
The King asked: 'Who are the leading men in this counsel to take the
land from me?'
Freyvid answered: 'All the Swedes wish to have old law and their full
right. Look now, sire, how many of thy nobles sit in council here with
thee. I think we be here but six whom thou callest thy counsellors; all
the others have ridden away, and are gone into the provinces, and are
holding meetings with the people of the land; and, to tell thee the
truth, the war-arrow is cut, and sent round all the land, and a high
court appointed. All we brothers have been asked to take part in this
counsel, but not one of us will bear this name and be called traitor to
his king, for our fathers were never such.'
Then said the King: 'What expedient can we find? A great difficulty is
upon us: give ye counsel, noble sirs, that I may keep the kingdom and my
inheritance from my fathers; I wish not to contend against all the host
of Sweden.'
Arnvid the Blind answered: 'Sire, this seems to me good counsel: that
thou ride down to Aros with such as will follow thee, take ship there,
and go out to the lake; there appoint a meeting with the people. Behave
not with hardness, but offer men law and land right; put down the
war-arrow, it will not have gone far round the land in so short a time;
send men of thine whom thou canst trust to meet those men who have this
business in hand, and try if this tumult can be quieted.'
The King said that he would accept this counsel. 'I will,' said he,
'that ye brothers go on this mission, for I trust you best of my men.'
Then said Thorvid the Stammerer: 'I will remain behind, but let thy son
Jacob go; this is needful.'
And Freyvid said: 'Let us do, sire, even as Thorvid says; he will not
leave thee in this peril; but I and Arnvid will go.'
So this counsel was followed. King Olaf went to his ships and stood out
to the lake, and many men soon joined him there. But the brothers
Freyvid and Arnvid rode out to Ullar-acre, taking with them Jacob, the
King's son, but his going they kept secret. They soon got to know that
there was a gathering and rush to arms, and the country people held
meetings both by day and night.
But when Freyvid and his party met their kinsmen and friends they said
that they would join their company, and this offer all accepted
joyfully.
At once the deliberation was referred to the two brothers, and numbers
followed them, yet all were at one in saying that they would no longer
have Olaf king over them, and would not endure his breaches of law and
his arrogance, for he would hear no man's cause, even though great
chiefs told him the truth.
But when Freyvid found the vehemence of the people, then he saw into
what danger matters had come, and he held a meeting with the chiefs, and
thus spoke before them: 'It seems to me that if this great measure is to
be taken, to remove Olaf Ericsson from the kingdom, we Up-Swedes ought
to have the ruling of it; it has always been so, that what the chiefs of
the Up-Swedes have resolved among them, to this the other men of the
land have listened. Our fathers needed not to receive advice from the
West Gauts about their ruling of the land. Now are we not so degenerate
that Emund need teach us counsel; I would have us bind our counsel
together, kinsmen and friends.'
To this all agreed, and thought it well said. After that the whole
multitude of the people turned to join this union of the Up-Swedish
chiefs; so then Freyvid and Arnvid became chiefs over the people. But
when Emund found this, he guessed how the matter would end. So he went
to meet these brothers, and they had a talk together; and Freyvid asked
Emund: 'What mean ye to do if Olaf Ericsson is killed; what king will ye
have?'
Emund answered; 'Whosoever suits us best, whether of royal family or
not.'
Freyvid answered: 'We Up-Swedes will not that the kingdom in our days go
out of the family who from father to son have long held it, while such
good means may be taken to shun that as now can be. King Olaf has two
sons, and we will have one of them for king. There is, however, a great
difference between them; one is nobly born and Swedish on both sides,
the other is a bondwoman's son and half Wendish.'
At this decision there was great acclaim, and all would have Jacob for
king.
Then said Emund: 'You Up-Swedes have power to rule this for the time;
but I warn you that hereafter some of those who will not hear now of
anything else but that the kingdom of Sweden go in the royal line, will
themselves live to consent that the kingdom pass into other families,
and that will turn out better.'
After this the brothers Freyvid and Arnvid caused Jacob the King's son
to be led before the assembly, and there they gave him the title of
king, and therewith the Swedes gave him the name Onund, and henceforth
he was so called. He was then ten or twelve years old.
Then King Onund took to him guards, and chose chiefs with such force of
men about them as seemed needful; and he gave the common people of the
land leave to go home. Thereafter messengers passed between the kings,
and soon they met and made their agreement. Olaf was to be king over the
land while he lived; he was to hold to peace and agreement with the King
of Norway, as also with all those men who had been implicated in this
counsel. Onund was also to be king, and have so much of the land as
father and son might think fit; but was to be bound to follow the
landowners if King Olaf did any of those things which they would not
tolerate.
After this messengers went to Norway to seek King Olaf with this errand,
that he should come with a fleet to Konunga Hella (Kings' Stone) to meet
the Swedish king, and that the Swedish king wished that they should
there ratify their treaty. King Olaf was still, as before, desirous of
peace, and came with his fleet as proposed. The Swedish king also came,
and when father-in-law and son-in-law met, they bound them to agreement
and peace. Olaf the Swedish king showed him affable and gentle.
Thorstein the Learned says that there was in Hising a portion of land
that had sometimes belonged to Norway, sometimes to Gautland. The kings
agreed between them that for this possession they would casts lots with
dice; he was to have it who should cast the higher throw. The Swedish
king threw two sixes, and said that King Olaf need not cast.
He answered, while shaking the dice in his hand: 'There are yet two
sixes on the dice, and it is but a little thing for God to let them turn
up.' He cast, and turned up two sixes. Then Olaf the Swedish king cast,
and again two sixes. Then cast Olaf, King of Norway, and there was six
on one die, but the other split in two, and there were then seven. So he
got the portion of land. We have heard no more tidings of that meeting.
The kings parted reconciled.
_THE MAN IN WHITE_
'A LITTLE while ago,' writes Mademoiselle Aïssé, the Greek captive who
was such a charming figure in Paris during the opening years of Louis
XV.'s reign, 'a little while ago a strange thing happened here, which
caused a great deal of talk. It cannot be more than six weeks since
Bessé the surgeon received a note, begging him to come without fail that
afternoon at six o'clock to the Rue au Fer, near the Luxembourg Palace.
Punctually at the hour named the surgeon arrived on the spot, where he
found a man awaiting him. This man conducted the surgeon to a house a
few steps further on, and motioning him to enter through the open door,
promptly closed it, and remained himself outside. Bessé was surprised to
find himself alone, and wondered why he had been brought there; but he
had not to wait long, for the housekeeper soon appeared, who informed
him that he was expected, and that he was to go up to the first story.
The surgeon did as he was told, and opened the door of an anteroom all
hung with white. Here he was met by an elegant lackey, dressed also in
white, frizzed and powdered, with his white hair tied in a bag wig,
carrying two torches in his hand, who requested the bewildered doctor to
wipe his shoes. Bessé replied that this was quite unnecessary, as he had
only just stepped out of his sedan chair and was not in the least muddy,
but the lackey rejoined that everything in the house was so
extraordinarily clean that it was impossible to be too careful.
[Illustration: Bessé introduced to the Man in White]
'His shoes being wiped, Bessé was next led into another room, hung with
white like the first. A second lackey, in every respect similar to the
other, made his appearance; again the doctor was forced to wipe his
shoes, and for the third time he was conducted into a room, where
carpets, chairs, sofas, and bed were all as white as snow. A tall figure
dressed in a white dressing-gown and nightcap, and having its face
covered by a white mask, sat by the fire. The moment this ghostly object
perceived Bessé, he observed, "My body is possessed by the devil," and
then was silent. For three-quarters of an hour they remained thus, the
white figure occupying himself with incessantly putting on and taking
off six pairs of white gloves, which were placed on a white table beside
him. The strangeness of the whole affair made Bessé feel very
uncomfortable, but when his eyes fell on a variety of firearms in one
corner of the room he became so frightened that he was obliged to sit
down, lest his legs should give way.
[Illustration: 'Saw reflected in the mirror the white figure']
'At last the dead silence grew more than he could bear, and he turned to
the white figure and asked what they wanted of him, and begged that his
orders might be given him as soon as possible, as his time belonged to
the public and he was needed elsewhere. To this the white figure only
answered coldly, "What does that matter, as long as you are well paid?"
and again was silent. Another quarter of an hour passed, and then the
white figure suddenly pulled one of the white bell-ropes. When the
summons was answered by the two white lackeys, the figure desired them
to bring some bandages, and commanded Bessé to bleed him, and to take
from him five pounds of blood. The surgeon, amazed at the quantity,
inquired what doctor had ordered such extensive blood-letting. "I
myself," replied the white figure. Bessé felt that he was too much upset
by all he had gone through to trust himself to bleed in the arm without
great risk of injury, so he decided to perform the operation on the
foot, which is far less dangerous. Hot water was brought, and the white
phantom removed a pair of white thread stockings of wonderful beauty,
then another and another, up to six, and took off a slipper of beaver
lined with white. The leg and foot thus left bare were the prettiest in
the world; and Bessé began to think that the figure before him must be
that of a woman. At the second basinful the patient showed signs of
fainting, and Bessé wished to loosen the mask, in order to give him more
air. This was, however, prevented by the lackeys, who stretched him on
the floor, and Bessé bandaged the foot before the patient had recovered
from his fainting fit. Directly he came to himself, the white figure
ordered his bed to be warmed, and as soon as it was done he lay down in
it. The servants left the room, and Bessé, after feeling his pulse,
walked over to the fireplace to clean his lancet, thinking all the while
of his strange adventure. Suddenly he heard a noise behind him, and,
turning his head, he saw reflected in the mirror the white figure coming
hopping towards him. His heart sank with terror, but the figure only
took five crowns from the chimneypiece, and handed them to him, asking
at the same time if he would be satisfied with that payment. Trembling
all over, Bessé replied that he was. "Well, then, be off as fast as you
can," was the rejoinder. Bessé did not need to be told twice, but made
the best of his way out. As before the lackeys were awaiting him with
lights, and as they walked he noticed that they looked at each other and
smiled. At length Bessé, provoked at this behaviour, inquired what they
were laughing at. "Ah, Monsieur," was their answer, "what cause have you
to complain? Has anyone done you any harm, and have you not been well
paid for your services?" So saying they conducted him to his chair, and
truly thankful he was to be out of the house. He rapidly made up his
mind to keep silence about his adventures, but the following day someone
sent to inquire how he was feeling after having bled the Man in White.
Bessé saw that it was useless to make a mystery of the affair, and
related exactly what had happened, and it soon came to the ears of the
King. But who was the Man in White? Echo answers "Who?"'
_THE ADVENTURES OF 'THE BULL OF EARLSTOUN'_
THIS is the story of the life of Alexander Gordon, of Earlstoun in
Galloway. Earlstoun is a bonny place, sitting above the waterside of the
Ken in the fair strath of the Glenkens, in the Stewartry of
Kirkcudbright. The grey tower stands ruinous and empty to-day, but once
it was a pleasant dwelling, and dear to the hearts of those that had
dwelt in it when they were in foreign lands or hiding out on the wild
wide moors. It was the time when Charles II. wished to compel the most
part of the people of Scotland to change their religion and worship as
he bade them. Some obeyed the King; but most hated the new order of
things, and cleaved in their hearts to their old ways and to their old
ministers, who had been put out of their kirks and manses at the coming
of the King. Many even set themselves to resist the King in open battle
rather than obey him in the matter of their consciences. It was only in
this that they were rebellious, for many of them had been active in
bringing him again to the throne.
Among those who thus went out to fight were William Gordon and his son
Alexander. William Gordon was a grave, courteous, and venerable man, and
his estate was one of the best in all the province of Galloway. Like
nearly all the lairds in the south and west he was strongly of the
Presbyterian party, and resolved to give up life and lands rather than
his principles. Now the King was doubtless ill-advised, and his
councillors did not take the kindly or the wise way with the people at
this time; for a host of wild Highlanders had been turned into the land,
who plundered in cotter's hut and laird's hall without much distinction
between those that stood for the Covenants and those that held for the
King. So in the year 1679 Galloway was very hot and angry, and many were
ready to fight the King's forces wherever they could be met with.
So, hearing news of a revolt in the West, William Gordon rode away,
with many good riders at his back, to take his place in the ranks of the
rebels. His son Alexander, whose story we are to tell, was there before
him. The Covenanting army had gained one success in Drumclog, which gave
them some hope, but at Bothwell Bridge their forces were utterly broken,
largely through their own quarrels, by the Duke of Monmouth and the
disciplined troops of the Government.
Alexander Gordon had to flee from the field of Bothwell. He came home to
Earlstoun alone, for his father had been met about six miles from the
battle-field by a troop of horse, and as he refused to surrender, he was
slain there and buried in the parish of Glassford.
Immediately after Bothwell, Alexander Gordon was compelled to go into
hiding with a price upon his head. Unlike his father, he was very
ready-witted, free with his tongue, even boisterous upon occasion, and
of very great bodily strength. These qualities stood him in good stead
during the long period of his wandering and when lying in concealment
among the hills.
The day after Bothwell he was passing through the town of Hamilton, when
he was recognised by an old retainer of the family.
'Save us, Maister Alexander,' said the man, who remembered the ancient
kindnesses of his family, 'do you not know that it is death for you to
be found here?'
So saying he made his young master dismount, and carried away all his
horseman's gear and his arms, which he hid in a heap of field-manure
behind the house. Then he took Earlstoun to his own house, and put upon
him a long dress of his wife's. Hardly had he been clean-shaven, and
arrayed in a clean white mutch (cap), when the troopers came clattering
into the town. They had heard that he and some others of the prominent
rebels had passed that way; and they went from door to door, knocking
and asking, 'Saw ye anything of Sandy Gordon of Earlstoun?'
So going from house to house they came to the door of the ancient Gordon
retainer, and Earlstoun had hardly time to run to the corner and begin
to rock the cradle with his foot before the soldiers came to ask the
same question there. But they passed on without suspicion, only saying
one to the other as they went out, 'My certes, Billy, but yon was a
sturdy hizzie!'
After that there was nothing but the heather and the mountain cave for
Alexander Gordon for many a day. He had wealth of adventures, travelling
by night, hiding and sleeping by day. Sometimes he would venture to the
house of one who sympathised with the Covenanters, only to find that
the troopers were already in possession. Sometimes, in utter weariness,
he slept so long that when he awoke he would find a party searching for
him quite close at hand; then there was nothing for it but to lie close
like a hare in a covert till the danger passed by.
Once when he came to his own house of Earlstoun he was only an hour or
two there before the soldiers arrived to search for him. His wife had
hardly time to stow him in a secret recess behind the ceiling of a room
over the kitchen, in which place he abode several days, having his meals
passed to him from above, and breathing through a crevice in the wall.
[Illustration: 'Sometimes he would find a party searching for him quite
close at hand']
After this misadventure he was sometimes in Galloway and sometimes in
Holland for three or four years. He might even have remained in the Low
Countries, but his services were so necessary to his party in Scotland
that he was repeatedly summoned to come over into Galloway and the West
to take up the work of organising resistance to the Government.
During most of this time the Tower of Earlstoun was a barracks of the
soldiers, and it was only by watching his opportunity that Alexander
Gordon could come home to see his wife, and put his hand upon his
bairns' heads as they lay a-row in their cots. Yet come he sometimes
did, especially when the soldiers of the garrison were away on duty in
the more distant parts of Galloway. Then the wanderer would steal
indoors in the gloaming, soft-footed like a thief, into his own house,
and sit talking with his wife and an old retainer or two who were fit to
be trusted with the secret. Yet while he sat there one was ever on the
watch, and at the slightest signs of King's men in the neighbourhood
Alexander Gordon rushed out and ran to the great oak tree, which you may
see to this day standing in sadly-diminished glory in front of the great
house of Earlstoun.
Now it stands alone, all the trees of the forest having been cut away
from around it during the subsequent poverty which fell upon the family.
A rope ladder lay snugly concealed among the ivy that clad the trunk of
the tree. Up this Alexander Gordon climbed. When he arrived at the top
he pulled the ladder after him, and found himself upon an ingeniously
constructed platform built with a shelter over it from the rain, high
among the branchy tops of the great oak. His faithful wife, Jean
Hamilton, could make signals to him out of one of the top windows of
Earlstoun whether it was safe for him to approach the house, or whether
he had better remain hidden among the leaves. If you go now to look for
the tree, it is indeed plain and easy to be seen. But though now so
shorn and lonely, there is no doubt that two hundred years ago it stood
undistinguished among a thousand others that thronged the woodland about
the Tower of Earlstoun.
Often, in order to give Alexander Gordon a false sense of security, the
garrison would be withdrawn for a week or two, and then in the middle of
some mirky night or early in the morning twilight the house would be
surrounded and the whole place ransacked in search of its absent master.
On one occasion, the man who came running along the narrow river path
from Dairy had hardly time to arouse Gordon before the dragoons were
heard clattering down through the wood from the high-road. There was no
time to gain the great oak in safety, where he had so often hid in time
of need. All Alexander Gordon could do was to put on the rough jerkin of
a labouring man, and set to cleaving firewood in the courtyard with the
scolding assistance of a maid-servant. When the troopers entered to
search for the master of the house, they heard the maid vehemently
'flyting' the great hulking lout for his awkwardness, and threatening to
'draw a stick across his back' if he did not work to a better tune.
[Illustration: Alexander Gordon wood-chopping in the disguise of a
labourer]
The commander ordered him to drop his axe, and to point out the
different rooms and hiding-places about the castle. Alexander Gordon did
so with an air of indifference, as if hunting Whigs were much the same
to him as cleaving firewood. He did his duty with a stupid unconcern
which successfully imposed on the soldiers; and as soon as they allowed
him to go, he fell to his wood-chopping with the same stolidity and
rustic boorishness that had marked his conduct.
Some of the officers came up to him and questioned him as to his
master's hiding-place in the woods. But as to this he gave them no
satisfaction.
'My master,' he said, 'has no hiding-place that I know of. I always find
him here when I have occasion to seek for him, and that is all I care
about. But I am sure that if he thought you were seeking him he would
immediately show himself to you, for that is ever his custom.'
This was one of the answers with a double meaning that were so much in
the fashion of the time and so characteristic of the people.
On leaving, the commander of the troop said, 'Ye are a stupid kindly
nowt, man. See that ye get no harm in such a rebel service.'
Sometimes, however, searching waxed so hot and close that Gordon had to
withdraw himself altogether out of Galloway and seek quieter parts of
the country. On one occasion he was speeding up the Water of Æ when he
found himself so weary that he was compelled to lie down under a bush of
heather and rest before proceeding on his journey. It so chanced that a
noted King's man, Dalyell of Glenæ, was riding homewards over the moor.
His horse started back in astonishment, having nearly stumbled over the
body of a sleeping man. It was Alexander Gordon. Hearing the horse's
feet he leaped up, and Dalyell called upon him to surrender. But that
was no word to say to a Gordon of Earlstoun. Gordon instantly drew his
sword, and, though unmounted, his lightness of foot on the heather and
moss more than counterbalanced the advantages of the horseman, and the
King's man found himself matched at all points; for the Laird of
Earlstoun was in his day a famous sworder.
Soon the Covenanter's sword seemed to wrap itself about Dalyell's blade
and sent it twirling high in the air. In a little he found himself lying
on the heather at the mercy of the man whom he had attacked. He asked
for his life, and Alexander Gordon granted it to him, making him
promise by his honour as a gentleman that whenever he had the fortune to
approach a conventicle he would retire, if he saw a white flag elevated
in a particular manner upon a flagstaff. This seemed but a little
condition to weigh against a man's life, and Dalyell agreed.
Now the Cavalier was an exceedingly honourable man and valued his spoken
word. So on the occasion of a great conventicle at Mitchelslacks, in the
parish of Closeburn, he permitted a great field meeting to disperse,
drawing off his party in another direction, because the signal streaming
from a staff told him that the man who had spared his life was amongst
the company of worshippers.
After this, the white signal was frequently used in the neighbourhood
over which Dalyell's jurisdiction extended, and to the great credit of
the Cavalier it is recorded that on no single occasion did he violate
his plighted word, though he is said to have remarked bitterly that the
Whig with whom he fought must have been the devil, 'for ever going to
and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it.'
But Alexander Gordon was too great a man in the affairs of the Praying
Societies to escape altogether. He continually went and came from
Holland, and some of the letters that he wrote from that country are
still in existence. At last, in 1683, having received many letters and
valuable papers for delivery to people in refuge in Holland, he went
secretly to Newcastle, and agreed with the master of a ship for his
voyage to the Low Countries. But just as the vessel was setting out from
the mouth of the Tyne, it was accidentally stopped. Some watchers for
fugitives came on board, and Earlstoun and his companion were
challenged. Earlstoun, fearing the taking of his papers, threw the box
that contained them overboard; but it floated, and was taken along with
himself.
Then began a long series of misfortunes for Alexander Gordon. He was
five times tried, twice threatened with torture--which he escaped, in
the judgment hall itself, by such an exhibition of his great strength as
terrified his judges.[40] He simulated madness, foamed at the mouth, and
finally tore up the benches in order to attack the judges with the
fragments. He was sent first to the castle of Edinburgh and afterwards
to the Bass, 'for a change of air' as the record quaintly says. Finally,
he was despatched to Blackness Castle, where he remained close in hold
till the revolution. Not till June 5, 1689, were his prison doors thrown
open, but even then Alexander Gordon would not go till he had obtained
signed documents from the governor and officials of the prison to the
effect that he had never altered any of his opinions in order to gain
privilege or release.
Alexander Gordon returned to Earlstoun, and lived there quietly far into
the next century, taking his share in local and county business with
Grierson of Lag and others who had hunted him for years--which is a
strange thing to think on, but one also very characteristic of those
times.
On account of his great strength and the power of his voice he was
called 'the Bull of Earlstoun,' and it is said that when he was rebuking
his servants, the bellowing of the Bull could plainly be heard in the
clachan of Dalry, which is two miles away across hill and stream.
FOOTNOTE:
[40] See the story of 'How they held the Bass for King James.'
_THE STORY OF GRISELL BAILLIE'S SHEEP'S HEAD_
THE Lady Grisell Baillie, as she was called after her marriage, was the
daughter of a very eminent Covenanter, Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth.
Grisell was born in 1665, and during all the years of her girlhood her
father was seldom able to come home to his house of Polwarth, for fear
of the officers of the Government seizing him. On one occasion he was
taken and cast into prison in Dumbarton Castle for full fifteen months.
Grisell was but a little girl at the time, but she had a wisdom and a
quaint discretion beyond her years. Often she was entrusted with a
letter to carry to him past the guard, and succeeded in the attempt
where an elder person would certainly have been suspected and searched.
When her father was set at liberty, it was not many weeks till the
soldiers again came seeking him; for new troubles had arisen, and the
suspicion of the King was against all men that were not active in his
service.
Parties of soldiers were continually searching the house in pursuit of
him. But this occasioned no alarm to his family, for they all, with
three exceptions, thought him far from home.
Only Sir Patrick's wife, his little daughter Grisell, and a carpenter
named James Winter were trusted with the secret. The servants were
frequently put to the oath as to when they saw their master; but as they
knew nothing, all passed off quite well.
With James Winter's assistance the Lady Polwarth got a bed and
bed-clothes carried in the night to the burying-place, a vault under the
ground at Polwarth Church, a mile from the house. Here Sir Patrick was
concealed a whole month, never venturing out. For all light he had only
an open slit at one end, through which nobody could see what was below.
To this lonely place little Grisell went every night by herself at
midnight, to carry her father victuals and drink, and stayed with him
as long as she could with a chance of returning home before the morning.
Here in this dismal habitation did they often laugh heartily at the
incidents of the day, for they were both of that cheerful disposition
which is a continual feast.
[Illustration: Grisell brings the sheep's head to her father in the
vault]
Grisell had ordinarily a terror of the churchyard, especially in the
dark, for being but a girl, and having been frightened with nursery
stories, she thought to see ghosts behind every tomb. But when she came
to help her father, she had such anxious care for him that all fear of
ghosts went away from her. She stumbled among the graves every night
alone, being only in dread that the stirring of a leaf or the barking of
a dog betokened the coming of a party of soldiers to carry away her
father to his death. The minister's house was near the church. The first
night she went, his dogs kept up such a barking that it put her in the
utmost fear of a discovery. The next day the Lady Polwarth sent for the
curate, and, on pretext of a mad dog, got him to send away all his dogs.
A considerate curate, in sooth!
There was great difficulty in getting victuals to carry to Sir Patrick
without the servants, who were not in the secret, suspecting for what
purpose they were taken. The only way that it could be done was for
Grisell to slip things off her plate into her lap as they sat at dinner.
Many a diverting story is told about this. Sir Patrick above all things
was fond of sheep's head. One day while the children were eating their
broth, Grisell had conveyed a whole sheep's head into her lap. Her
brother Sandy (who was afterwards Lord Marchmont) looked up as soon as
he had finished, and cried out with great astonishment, 'Mother, will ye
look at our Grisell. While we have been supping our broth, she has eaten
up the whole sheep's head!'
For indeed she needed to be looked to in these circumstances. This
occasioned great merriment when she told her father of it in his
hiding-place at night. And he desired that the next time there was
sheep's head Sandy should have a double share of it.
His great comfort and constant entertainment while in this dreary abode
(for he had no light to read by) was to repeat over and over to himself
Buchanan's Latin Psalms. And to his dying day, nearly forty years after,
he would give the book to his wife, and ask her to try him at any place
to see if he minded his Psalms as well as he had done in the hiding-hole
among the bones of his ancestors in Polwarth Kirkyard.
After this, James Winter and the Lady Polwarth made a hole in the ground
under a bed that drew out of a recess in the wall. They lifted the
boards and took turns at digging out the earth, scratching it with their
hands till they were all rough and bleeding, for only so could they
prevent a noise being heard. Grisell and her mother helped James Winter
to carry the earth in bags and sheets to the garden at the back. He then
made a box bed at his own house, large enough for Sir Patrick to lie in,
with bed and bed-clothes, and bored holes in the boards for air. But in
spite of all this, the difficulty of their position was so great, and
the danger so certainly increasing, that it was judged better that Sir
Patrick should attempt to escape to Holland.
It was necessary to tell the grieve, John Allen, who was so much
astonished to hear that his master had been all the time about the
house, that he fainted away. However, he made up willingly enough a
story that he was going to Morpeth Fair to sell horses, and Sir Patrick
having got forth from a window of the stables, they set out in the dark.
Sir Patrick, being absent-minded, let his horse carry him whither it
would, and in the morning found himself at Tweedside, far out of his
way, at a place not fordable and without his servant.
But this also was turned to good. For after waiting a while he found
means to get over to the other side, where with great joy he met his
servant. Then the grieve told him that he had never missed him till,
looking about, he heard a great galloping of horses, and a party of
soldiers who had just searched the house for Sir Patrick, surrounded him
and strictly examined him. He looked about everywhere and could not see
his master, for he was in much fear, thinking him to be close behind.
But in this manner, by his own absent-mindedness, Sir Patrick was
preserved, and so got safely first to London and afterwards to Holland.
Thence Sir Patrick sent home for his wife and family. They came to him
in a ship, and on the way had an adventure. The captain was a sordid and
brutal man, and agreed with them and with several other people to give
them a bed on the passage. So when there arose a dispute who would have
the bed, the Lady Polwarth said nothing. But a gentleman coming to her
said, 'Let them be doing. You will see how it will end.' So two of the
other gentlewomen lay on the bed, the Lady Polwarth with Grisell and a
little sister lying on the floor, with a cloak-bag of books she was
taking to Sir Patrick for their only pillow.
Then in came the captain, and first ate up all their provisions with a
gluttony incredible. Then he said to the women in the bed, 'Turn out,
turn out!' and laid himself down in place of them. But Providence was
upsides with him, for a terrible storm came on, and he had to get up
immediately and go out to try to save the ship. And so he got no more
sleep that night, which pleased the gentlewomen greatly in spite of all
their own fears and pains. They never saw more of him till they landed
at the Brill. From that they set out on foot for Rotterdam with one of
the gentlemen that had been kind to them on the crossing to Holland.
It was a cold, wet, dirty night. Grisell's little sister, a girl not
well able to walk, soon lost her shoes in the dirt. Whereupon the Lady
Polwarth took her upon her back, the gentlemen carrying all their
baggage, and Grisell going through the mire at her mother's side.
At Rotterdam they found their eldest brother and Sir Patrick himself
waiting to conduct them to Utrecht, where their house was. No sooner
were they met again than they forgot everything, and felt nothing but
happiness and contentment.
And even after their happy and prosperous return to Scotland they looked
back on these years in Holland, when they were so poor, and often knew
not whence was to come the day's dinner, as the happiest and most
delightful of their lives. Yet the years of Grisell Baillie's after-life
were neither few nor evil.
_THE CONQUEST OF PERU_
THE YOUTH OF PIZARRO
AT the time when the news of the conquest of Mexico by Cortés, and the
report of its marvellous stores of treasure, were inflaming the minds of
the men of Spain with an ardent desire for fresh discoveries, there
happened to be living in the Spanish colony of Panamá a man named
Francisco Pizarro, to whose lot it fell to discover and conquer the
great and flourishing empire of Peru. He was a distant kinsman of
Hernando Cortés, but had from his childhood been neglected and left to
make his living as best he might. He could neither read nor write, and
had chiefly been employed as a swineherd near the city of Truxillo,
where he was born. But as he grew older and heard the strange and
fascinating stories of adventure in the New World which were daily more
widely circulated, he took the first opportunity of escaping to Seville,
from which port he, with other Spanish adventurers, embarked to seek
their fortunes in the West, the town being at this time left almost
entirely to the women, so great was the tide of emigration.
Thenceforward he lived a stirring life. We hear of him in Hispaniola,
and serving as lieutenant in a colonising expedition under Alonzo de
Ojeda. After this he was associated with Vasco Nunez de Balboa in
establishing a settlement at Darien, and from Balboa he may first have
heard rumours of Peru itself, for it was to Balboa that an Indian chief
had said concerning some gold which had been collected from the natives:
'If this is what you prize so much that you are willing to leave your
homes and risk even life itself for it, I can tell you of a land where
they eat and drink out of golden vessels, and gold is as common as iron
with you.' Later, Pizarro was sent to traffic with the natives on the
Pacific side of the isthmus for gold and pearls, and presently from the
south came Andagoya, bringing accounts of the wealth and grandeur of
the countries which lay beyond, and also of the hardships and
difficulties endured by the few navigators who had sailed in that
direction. Thus the southern expeditions became a common subject of talk
among the colonists of Panamá.
Pizarro does not at first seem to have shown any special interest in the
matter, nor was he rich enough to do anything without assistance; but
there were two people in the colony who were to help him. One of them
was a soldier of fortune named Diego Almagro, an older man than Pizarro,
who in his early life had been equally neglected; the other was a
Spanish ecclesiastic, Hernando de Luque, a man of great prudence and
worldly wisdom, who had, moreover, control of the necessary funds.
Between these three, then, a compact was made, most of the money being
supplied by De Luque, Pizarro taking command of the expedition, and
Almagro undertaking the equipment of the ships. Only about a hundred men
could be persuaded to join the explorers, and those but the idle
hangers-on in the colony, who were eager to do anything to mend their
fortunes. Everything being ready, Pizarro set sail with these in the
larger of the two ships, in the month of November 1524, leaving Almagro
to follow as soon as the second vessel could be fitted out. With such
slender means did Pizarro begin his attack on a great people, and invade
the mysterious empire of the Children of the Sun.
THE EMPIRE OF THE INCAS
At this time the Peruvian Empire stretched along the Pacific from about
the second degree north to the thirty-seventh degree of south latitude;
its breadth varied, but was nowhere very great. The country was most
remarkable, and seemed peculiarly unfitted for cultivation. The great
range of mountains ran parallel to the coast, sometimes in a single
line, sometimes in two or three, either side by side or running
obliquely to each other, broken here and there by the towering peaks of
huge volcanoes, white with perpetual snows, and descending towards the
coast in jagged cliffs and awful precipices. Between the rocks and the
sea lay a narrow strip of sandy soil, where no rain ever fell, and which
was insufficiently watered by the few scanty streams that flow down the
western side of the Cordilleras. Nevertheless, by the patient industry
of the Peruvians, these difficulties had all been overcome; by means of
canals and subterranean aqueducts the waste places of the coast were
watered and made fertile, the mountain sides were terraced and
cultivated, every form of vegetation finding the climate suited to it
at a different height, while over the snowy wastes above wandered the
herds of llamas, or Peruvian sheep, under the care of their herdsmen.
The Valley of Cuzco, the central region of Peru, was the cradle of their
civilisation. According to tradition among the Peruvians, there had been
a time, long past, when the land was held by many tribes, all plunged in
barbarism, who worshipped every object in nature, made war as a pastime,
and feasted upon the flesh of their slaughtered captives. The Sun, the
great parent of mankind, pitying their degraded condition, sent two of
his children, Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo Huaco, to govern and teach
them. They bore with them as they advanced from the neighbourhood of
Lake Titicaca a golden wedge, and were directed to take up their abode
at the spot where this sacred emblem should sink easily into the ground.
This happened in the Valley of Cuzco; the wedge of gold sank into the
earth and disappeared for ever, and Manco Capac settled down to teach
the men of the land the arts of agriculture, while Mama Ocllo showed the
women how to weave and spin. Under these wise and benevolent rulers the
community grew and spread, absorbing into itself the neighbouring
tribes, and overrunning the whole tableland. The city of Cuzco was
founded, and, under the successors of the Children of the Sun, became
the capital of a great and flourishing monarchy. In the middle of the
fifteenth century the famous Topa Inca Yupanqui led his armies across
the terrible desert of Atacama, and, penetrating to the southern region
of Chili, made the river Maule the boundary of his dominions, while his
son, Huayna Capac, who succeeded him, pushed his conquests northward,
and added the powerful kingdom of Quito to the empire of Peru. The city
of Cuzco was the royal residence of the Incas, and also the 'Holy City,'
for there stood the great Temple of the Sun, the most magnificent
structure in the New World, to which came pilgrims from every corner of
the empire.
[Illustration: MANCO CAPAC AND MAMA OCLLO HUACO, THE CHILDREN OF THE
SUN, COME FROM LAKE TITICACA TO GOVERN AND CIVILISE THE TRIBES OF PERU]
Cuzco was defended on the north by a high hill, a spur of the
Cordilleras, upon which was built a wonderful fortress of stone, with
walls, towers, and subterranean galleries, the remains of which exist to
this day and amaze the traveller by their size and solidity, some of the
stones being thirty-eight feet long by eighteen broad, and six feet
thick, and so exactly fitted together that, though no cement was used,
it would be impossible to put the blade of a knife between them. As the
Peruvians had neither machinery, beasts of burden, nor iron tools, and
as the quarry from which these huge blocks were hewn lay forty-five
miles from Cuzco, over river and ravine, it is easy to imagine the
frightful labour which this building must have cost; indeed, it is said
to have employed twenty thousand men for fifty years, and was, after
all, but one of the many fortifications established by the Incas
throughout their dominions. Their government was absolutely despotic,
the sovereign being held so far above his subjects that even the
proudest of the nobles only ventured into his presence barefooted, and
carrying upon his shoulders a light burden in token of homage. The title
of Inca was borne by all the nobility who were related to the king, or
who, like himself, claimed descent from the Children of the Sun; but the
crown passed from father to son, the heir being the eldest son of the
'coya,' or queen. From his earliest years he was educated by the
'amautas,' or wise men of the kingdom, in the ceremonial of their
religion, as well as in military matters and all manly exercises, that
he might be fitted to reign in his turn.
At the age of sixteen the prince, with the young Inca nobles who had
shared his studies, underwent a kind of public examination, their
proficiency as warriors being tested by various athletic exercises and
by mimic combats which, though fought with blunted weapons, generally
resulted in wounds, and sometimes in death. During this trial, which
lasted thirty days, the young prince fared no better than his comrades,
wearing mean attire, going barefoot, and sleeping upon the ground--a
mode of life which was supposed to give him sympathy with the destitute.
At the end of that time, the candidates considered worthy of the honours
of this barbaric chivalry were presented to the sovereign, who reminded
them of the responsibilities of their birth and station, and exhorted
them, as Children of the Sun, to imitate the glorious career of their
ancestor. He then, as they knelt before him one by one, pierced their
ears with a golden bodkin, which they continued to wear until the hole
was made large enough to contain the enormous pendants worn by the
Incas, which made the Spaniards call them 'Orejones.' Indeed, as one of
the conquerors remarked, 'The larger the hole, the more of a gentleman,'
and the sovereign wore so massive an ornament that the cartilage of his
ear was distended by it nearly to the shoulder. After this ceremony the
feet of the candidates were dressed in the sandals of the order, and
girdles, and garlands of flowers were given them. The head of the prince
was then encircled with a tasselled fringe of a yellow colour, which
distinguished him as the heir apparent, and he at once received the
homage of all the Inca nobility; and then the whole assembly
proceeded to the great square of the capital, where with songs, dances,
and other festivities the ceremony was brought to an end. After this the
prince was deemed worthy to sit in the councils of his father, and to
serve under distinguished generals in time of war, and finally himself
to carry the rainbow banner of his house upon distant campaigns.
The Inca lived with great pomp and show. His dress was of the finest
vicuña wool, richly dyed, and ornamented with gold and jewels. Round his
head was a many-coloured turban and a fringe like that worn by the
prince, but of a scarlet colour, and placed upright in it were two
feathers of a rare and curious bird called the coraquenque, which was
found in a desert country among the mountains. It was death to take or
destroy one of these birds; they were reserved exclusively to supply the
king's headgear. In order to communicate with their people, the Incas
were in the habit of making a stately progress through their land once
in every few years. The litter in which they travelled was richly
decorated with gold and emeralds, and surrounded by a numerous escort.
The men who bore it on their shoulders were provided by two cities
specially appointed for the purpose, and the service was no enviable
one, since a fall was punished by death. Halts were made at the
'tambos,' or inns regularly kept up by the Government along all the
principal roads, and the people assembled all along the line, clearing
stones from the road and strewing it with flowers, and vying with one
another in carrying the baggage from village to village. Here and there
the Inca halted to listen to the grievances of his subjects, or to
decide points referred to him by the ordinary tribunals, and these spots
were long held in reverence as consecrated by his presence. Everywhere
the people flocked to catch a glimpse of their ruler, and to greet him
with acclamations and blessings.
The royal palaces were on a magnificent scale, and were scattered over
all the provinces of the great empire. The buildings were low, covering
a large space, the rooms not communicating with each other, but opening
upon a common square. The walls were of stone rough hewn, and the roofs
of rushes; but inside all was splendour. Gold, silver, and
richly-coloured stuffs abounded, covering the walls, while in niches
stood images of animals and plants curiously wrought in the precious
metals. Even the commonest household utensils were of gold. The
favourite residence of the Incas was the delicious valley of Yucay,
about twelve miles from Cuzco; there they loved to retreat to enjoy
their exquisite gardens, and luxurious baths replenished with clear
water, which flowed through subterranean channels of silver into basins
of gold. The gardens were full of flowers and plants, which flourished
in this temperate climate of the tropics; but strangest of all were
those borders which glowed with various forms of vegetable life,
cunningly fashioned in gold and silver. Among these is specially
recorded the beautiful Indian corn, its golden grain set off by broad
silver leaves, and crowned with a light tassel of silver. But all the
wealth displayed by the Inca belonged to himself alone. When he died,
or, as they put it, 'was called home to the mansions of his father the
Sun,' his palaces were abandoned, and all his treasures and possessions
were suffered to remain as he left them, lest his soul should at any
time return to its body, and require again the things it had used
before. The body itself was skilfully embalmed and removed to the great
Temple of the Sun at Cuzco, where were the bodies of all the former
Incas and their queens, ranged in opposite files. Clothed in their
accustomed attire, they sat in chairs of gold, their heads bent, their
hands crossed upon their breasts, their dusky faces and black, or
sometimes silver, hair retaining a perfectly natural look. On certain
festivals they were brought out into the great square of Cuzco,
invitations were issued in their names to all the nobles' and officers
of the Court, and magnificent entertainments were held, when the display
of plate, gold, and jewels was such as no other city in the world ever
witnessed. The banquets were served by the retainers of the respective
houses, and the same forms of courtly etiquette were used as if the
living monarch had presided, instead of his mummy. The nobility of Peru
consisted of two Orders--the Incas or relatives of the sovereign, and
the Curacas, or chiefs of the conquered nations. The former enjoyed many
privileges; they wore a peculiar dress, and spoke a peculiar dialect.
Most of them lived at Court, sharing the counsels of the king, and
dining at his table. They alone were admissible to the great offices of
the priesthood, and had the command of armies and the government of
distant provinces.
The whole territory of the empire was divided into three parts: one for
the Sun, another for the Inca, and the last for the people. The revenue
from the lands assigned to the Sun supported the numerous priests, and
provided for the maintenance of the temples and their costly
ceremonial. The land of the people was parted equally among them, every
man when he was married receiving enough to support himself and his
wife, together with a house. An additional piece was granted for every
child, the portion for a son being double that for a daughter. The
division of the soil was renewed every year, and the possession of the
tenant increased or diminished according to the number of his family.
The country was wholly cultivated by the people. First the lands of the
Sun were tilled; then those of the old or sick, the widow and orphan,
and soldiers on active service; after this each man was free to attend
to his own, though he was still obliged to help any neighbour who might
require it. Lastly, they cultivated the land of the Inca. This was done
with great ceremony by all the people in a body. At break of day they
were called together, and men, women, and children appeared in their
gayest apparel as if decked for some festival, and sang as they worked
their popular ballads, which told the heroic deeds of the Inca. The
flocks of llamas belonged exclusively to the Sun and the Inca, they were
most carefully tended and managed, and their number was immense. Under
the care of their shepherds they moved to different pastures according
to the climate. Every year some were killed as sacrifices at the
religious festivals or for the consumption of the Court, and at
appointed seasons all were sheared and their wool stored in the public
magazines. Thence it was given out to each family, and when the women
had spun and woven enough coarse garments to supply their husbands and
children they were required to labour for the Inca. Certain officers
decided what was to be woven, gave out the requisite material, and saw
that the work was faithfully done. In the lower and hotter regions
cotton, given out in the same way, took the place of wool. Occupation
was found for all, from the child of five years to the oldest woman who
could hold a distaff. Idleness was held to be a crime in Peru, and was
severely punished, while industry was publicly commended and rewarded.
In the same way all the mines in the kingdom belonged to the Inca, and
were worked for his benefit by men familiar with the service, and there
were special commissioners whose duty it was to know the nature of the
country and the capabilities of its inhabitants, so that whatever work
was required, it might be given into competent hands, the different
employments generally descending from father to son. All over the
country stood spacious stone storehouses, divided between the Sun and
the Inca, in which were laid up maize, coca, woollen and cotton stuffs,
gold, silver, and copper, and beside these were yet others designed to
supply the wants of the people in times of dearth. Thus in Peru, though
no man who was not an Inca could become rich, all had enough to eat and
to wear.
To this day the ruins of temples, palaces, aqueducts, and, above all,
the great roads, remain to bear witness to the industry of the
Peruvians. Of these roads the most remarkable were two which ran from
Quito to Cuzco, diverging again thence in the direction of Chili. One
ran through the low lands by the sea, the other over the great plateau,
through galleries cut for leagues from the living rock, over pathless
sierras buried in snow. Rivers were crossed by filling up the ravines
through which they flowed with solid masses of masonry which remain to
this day, though the mountain torrents have in the course of ages worn
themselves a passage through, leaving solid arches to span the valleys.
Over some of the streams they constructed frail swinging bridges of
osiers, which were woven into cables the thickness of a man's body.
Several of these laid side by side were secured at either end to huge
stone buttresses, and covered with planks. As these bridges were
sometimes over two hundred feet long they dipped and oscillated
frightfully over the rapidly-flowing stream far below, but the Peruvians
crossed them fearlessly, and they are still used by the Spaniards. The
wider and smoother rivers were crossed on 'balsas,' or rafts with sails.
The whole length of this road was about two thousand miles, its breadth
did not exceed twenty feet, and it was paved with heavy flags of
freestone, in parts covered with a cement which time has made harder
than stone itself. The construction of the lower road must have
presented other difficulties. For the most part the causeway was raised
on a high embankment of earth, with a wall of clay on either side. Trees
and sweet-smelling shrubs were planted along the margin, and where the
soil was so light and sandy as to prevent the road from being continued,
huge piles were driven into the ground to mark the way. All along these
highways the 'tambos,' or inns, were erected at a distance of ten or
twelve miles from each other, and some of them were on an extensive
scale, consisting of a fortress and barracks surrounded by a stone
parapet. These were evidently intended as a shelter for the Imperial
armies when on the march.
[Illustration: A Peruvian postman]
The communication throughout the country was by means of runners, each
of whom carried the message entrusted to him with great swiftness for
five miles, and then handed it over to another. These runners were
specially trained to their work and wore a particular dress; their
stations were small buildings erected five miles apart along all the
roads. The messages might be verbal, or conveyed by means of the
'quipus.' A quipu was a cord two feet long, composed of differently
coloured threads twisted together, from which were hung a number of
smaller threads, also differently coloured and tied in knots. Indeed,
the word 'quipu' means 'a knot.' By means of the colours and the various
knots the Peruvians expressed ideas--it was their method of writing--but
the quipus were chiefly used for arithmetical purposes. In every
district officers were stationed who were called 'keepers of the
quipus'; their duty was to supply the Government with information as to
the revenues, births, deaths, and marriages, number of population, and
so on. These records--in skeins of many-coloured thread--were inspected
at headquarters and carefully preserved, the whole collection
constituting what might be call the national archives. In like manner
the wise men recorded the history of the empire, and chronicled the
great deeds of the reigning Inca or his ancestors. The Peruvians had
some acquaintance with geography and astronomy, and showed a decided
talent for theatrical exhibitions, but it was in agriculture that they
really excelled. The mountains were regularly hewn into stone-faced
terraces, varying in width from hundreds of acres at the base to a few
feet near the snows. Water was conveyed in stone-built aqueducts for
hundreds of miles, from some snow-fed lake in the mountains, fertilising
all the dry and sandy places through which it passed. In some of the
arid valleys they dug great pits twenty feet deep and more than an acre
in extent, and, after carefully preparing the soil, planted grain or
vegetables. Their method of ploughing was primitive indeed. Six or eight
men were attached by ropes to a strong stake, to which was fastened a
horizontal piece of wood upon which the ploughman might set his foot to
force the sharp point into the earth as it was dragged along, while
women followed after to break up the clods as they were turned.
Much of the wealth of the country consisted in the huge flocks of llamas
and alpacas, and the wild huanacos and vicuñas which roamed freely over
the frozen ranges of the Cordilleras. Once a year a great hunt took
place under the superintendence of the Inca or some of his officers.
Fifty or sixty thousand men encircled the part of the country that was
to be hunted over, and drove all the wild animals by degrees towards
some spacious plain. The beasts of prey they killed, and also the deer,
the flesh of the latter being dried in strips and distributed among the
people. This preparation, called 'charqui,' was the only animal food of
the lower classes in Peru. The huanacos and vicuñas were only captured
and shorn, being afterwards allowed to escape and go back to their
haunts among the mountains. No district was hunted over more than once
in four years. The Peruvians showed great skill in weaving the vicuña
wool into robes for the Inca and carpets and hangings for his palaces.
The texture was as delicate as silk, and the brilliancy of the dyes
unequalled even in Europe. They also were expert in the beautiful
feather-work for which Mexico was famous, but they held it of less
account than the Mexicans did. In spite of some chance resemblances in
their customs, it seems certain that the Mexicans and Peruvians were
unaware of each other's existence. They differed in nothing more utterly
than in their treatment of the tribes they conquered. While the Mexicans
kept them in subjection by force and cruelty, the Peruvians did
everything they possibly could to make the conquered people one with the
rest of the nation.
RELIGION OF THE PERUVIANS
In religion the Peruvians acknowledged one Supreme Being as creator and
ruler of the universe, whom they called Pachacamac, or Viracocha. In all
the land there was only one temple dedicated to him, and this had
existed before the Incas began to rule. They also worshipped many other
gods, but the Sun was held far above the rest. In every town and village
were temples dedicated to him, and his worship was taught first of all
to every conquered tribe. His temple at Cuzco was called 'the Place of
Gold,' and the interior was a wonderful sight. On the western wall was a
representation of the Sun-god, a human face surrounded by numberless
rays of light. This was engraved upon a huge and massive plate of gold,
thickly powdered with emeralds and other precious stones. The beams of
the morning sun striking first upon this, and being reflected again upon
all the plates and studs of burnished gold with which the walls and
ceiling were entirely covered, lighted the whole temple with a more than
natural radiance. Even the cornices were of gold, and outside the temple
a broad belt of the precious metal was let into the stonework. Adjoining
this building were several smaller chapels. One consecrated to the Moon,
held next in reverence as the mother of the Incas, was decorated in an
exactly similar way, but with silver instead of gold, those of the
Stars, the Thunder and Lightning, and the Rainbow were equally beautiful
and gorgeous. Every vessel used in the temple services was of gold or
silver, and there were beside many figures of animals, and copies of
plants and flowers The greatest Sun festival was called 'Raymi;' at it
a llama was sacrificed, and from the appearance of its body the priest
sought to read the future. A fire was then kindled by focussing the
sun's rays with a mirror of polished metal upon a quantity of dried
cotton, or when the sky was clouded over, by means of friction; but this
was considered a bad omen. The sacred flame was entrusted to the care of
the Virgins of the Sun, and if by any chance it went out it was
considered to bode some great calamity to the nation. The festival ended
with a great banquet to all the people, who were regaled upon the flesh
of llamas, from the flocks of the Sun, while at the table of the Inca
and his nobles were served fine cakes kneaded of maize flour by the
Virgins of the Sun. These young maidens were chosen for their beauty
from the families of the Curacas and inferior nobles, and brought up in
the great convent-like establishments under the care of certain elderly
matrons, who instructed them in their religious duties, and taught them
to spin and embroider, and weave the vicuña wool for the temple hangings
and for the use of the Inca. They were entirely cut off from their own
people and from the world at large, only the Inca and the queen having
the right to enter those sacred precincts. From them the brides of the
Inca were chosen, for the law of the land allowed him to have as many
wives as he pleased. They lived in his various palaces throughout the
country, and at his death many of them sacrificed themselves willingly
that they might accompany him into his new existence. In this wonderful
monarchy each successive Inca seems to have been content with the policy
of his father, to have carried out his schemes and continued his
enterprises, so that the State moved steadily forward, as if under one
hand, in its great career of civilisation and conquest.
PIZARRO'S EXPEDITION
This, then, was the country which Pizarro with a mere handful of
followers had set out to discover and subdue. He had sailed at a most
unfavourable time of year, for it was the rainy season, and the coast
was swept by violent tempests. He steered first for the Puerto de Piñas,
a headland which marked the limit of Andagoya's voyage. Passing this,
Pizarro sailed up a little river and came to anchor, and then landed
with his whole force to explore the country; but after most toilful
wanderings in dismal swamps and steaming forests they were forced to
return exhausted and half-starved to their vessel, and proceed again on
their voyage to the southward. Now they met with a succession of
terrific storms, their frail ship leaked, and their stock of food and
water was nearly gone, two ears of Indian corn a day being all that
could be allowed to each man. In this strait they were glad to turn back
and anchor once more a few leagues from their first halting-place. But
they soon found that they had gained very little; neither bird nor beast
was to be seen in the forest, and they could not live upon the few
unwholesome berries which were all the woods afforded. Pizarro felt that
to give up at this juncture would be utter ruin. So to pacify his
complaining followers he sent an officer back in the ship to the Isle of
Pearls, which was only a few leagues from Panamá, to lay in a fresh
stock of provisions, while he himself with half the company made a
further attempt to explore the country. For some time their efforts were
vain; more than twenty men died from unwholesome food and the wretched
climate, but at last they spied a distant opening in the woods, and
Pizarro with a small party succeeded in reaching the clearing beyond it,
where stood a small Indian village. The Spaniards rushed eagerly forward
and seized upon such poor stores of food as the huts contained, while
the astonished natives fled to the woods; but finding presently that no
violence was offered to them they came back, and conversed with Pizarro
as well as they could by signs. It was cheering to the adventurers to
hear that these Indians also knew of a rich country lying to the
southward, and to see that the large ornaments of clumsy workmanship
which they wore were of gold. When after six weeks the ship returned,
those on board were horrified at the wild and haggard faces of their
comrades, so wasted were they by hunger and disease; but they soon
revived, and, embarking once more, they joyfully left behind them the
dismal scene of so much suffering, which they had named the Port of
Famine. After a short run to the southward they again landed, and found
another Indian settlement. The inhabitants fled, and the Spaniards
secured a good store of maize and other food, and gold ornaments of
considerable value; but they retreated to their ship in horror when they
discovered human flesh roasting before a fire in one of the huts.
Once more they set sail, and encountered a furious storm, which so
shattered their vessel that they were glad to gain the shore at the
first possible landing-place. There they found a considerable town, the
inhabitants of which were a warlike race who speedily attacked them.
After some fighting the Spaniards were victorious, but they had lost
two of their number, and many were wounded. It was necessary that the
ship should be sent back to Panamá for repairs, but Pizarro did not
consider that this place, which they had named Pueblo Quemado, would be
a safe resting-place for those who were left behind; so he embarked
again for Chicamá, and when he was settled there his treasurer started
for Panamá with the gold that had been collected, and instructions to
lay before Pedrarias, the governor, a full account of the expedition.
Meanwhile Almagro had succeeded in equipping a small caravel, and
started with about seventy men. He steered in the track of his comrade,
and by a previously concerted signal of notches upon the trees he was
able to recognise the places where Pizarro had landed. At Pueblo Quemado
the Indians received him ill, though they did not venture beyond their
palisades. This enraged Almagro, who stormed and took the place, driving
the natives into the woods. He paid dearly for his victory, however, as
a wound from a javelin deprived him of the sight of one eye. Pursuing
his voyage, he discovered several new places upon the coast, and
collected from them a considerable store of gold; but being anxious as
to the fate of Pizarro, of whom he had lost all trace for some time, he
turned back at the mouth of the San Juan River, and sailed straight to
the Isle of Pearls. Here he gained tidings of his friend and proceeded
at once to Chicamá, where the two commanders at length met, and each
recounted his adventures.
[Illustration: Almagro wounded in the eye]
After much consultation over what was next to be done, Pizarro decided
to remain where he was while Almagro returned to Panamá for fresh
supplies, and so ended the first expedition. But when Almagro reached
Panamá he found the Governor anything but inclined to favour him and his
schemes, and but for the influence of De Luque there would have been an
end to their chance of discovering Peru. Fortunately, however, he was
able to settle the difficulties with Pedrarias, who for about 2,500_l._
gave up all claim to any of the treasures they might discover, and
ceased to oppose their plans. A memorable contract was then entered into
by Father De Luque, Pizarro, and Almagro, by which the two last solemnly
bound themselves to pursue the undertaking until it was accomplished,
all the lands, gold, jewels, or treasures of any kind that they might
secure to be divided between the three, in consideration of the funds
which De Luque was to provide for the enterprise. Should they fail
altogether, he was to be repaid with every morsel of property they might
possess. This being arranged, two vessels were bought, larger and
stronger than the ones with which they had started before, and a greater
supply of stores put on board, and then a proclamation was made of 'an
expedition to Peru.' But the citizens of Panamá showed no great
readiness to join it, which was, perhaps, not surprising, seeing that of
those who had volunteered before only three-fourths had returned, and
those half-starved. However, in the end about one hundred and sixty men
were mustered, with a few horses and a small supply of ammunition, of
which there was probably very little to spare in the colony. The two
captains, each in his own vessel, sailed once more, and this time having
with them an experienced pilot named Ruiz, they stood boldly out to sea,
steering direct for the San Juan River. This was reached without
misadventure, and from the villages on its banks Pizarro secured a
considerable store of gold and one or two natives. Much encouraged by
this success, the two chiefs felt confident that if this rich spoil, so
soon acquired, could be exhibited in Panamá it would draw many
adventurers to their standard, as a larger number of men was absolutely
necessary to cope with the thickening population of the country. Almagro
therefore took the treasure and went back for reinforcements. Pizarro
landed to seek for a place of encampment, while Ruiz, with the second
ship, sailed southward.
Coasting along with fair winds he reached what is now called the Bay of
St. Matthew, having seen by the way many densely-populated villages in a
well-cultivated land. Here the people showed no signs of fear or
hostility, but stood gazing upon the ship of the white men as it floated
on the smooth waters of the bay, fancying it to be some mysterious being
descended from the skies. Without waiting to undeceive them, Ruiz once
more headed for the open sea, and was soon amazed to see what appeared
to be a caravel of considerable size, advancing slowly, with one large
sail hoisted. The old navigator was convinced that his was the first
European vessel that had ever penetrated into these latitudes, and no
Indian nation yet discovered was acquainted with the use of sails. But
as he drew near he saw it was one of the huge rafts, called 'balsas,'
made of logs and floored with reeds, with a clumsy rudder and movable
keel of planks. Coming alongside, Ruiz found several Indians, themselves
wearing rich ornaments, who were carrying articles of wrought gold and
silver for traffic along the coast. But what attracted his attention
even more was the woollen cloth of which their robes were made. It was
of fine texture, dyed in brilliant colours, and embroidered with figures
of birds and flowers. They also had a pair of balances for weighing the
gold and silver--a thing unknown even in Mexico. From these Indians he
learned that two of their number came from Tumbez, a Peruvian port
further to the south; that their fields were full of large flocks of the
animals from which the wool was obtained; and that in the palaces of
their king gold and silver were as common as wood. Ruiz only half
believed their report, but he took several of them on board to repeat
the tale to his commander, and also to learn Castilian, that they might
serve as interpreters. Without touching at any other port, Ruiz then
sailed southward as far as Punta de Pasado, being the first European
who, sailing in this direction, had crossed the equinoctial line, after
which he returned to the place where he had left Pizarro.
[Illustration: Many of the Spaniards were killed by the snakes and
alligators]
He did not reach it too soon. The little band had met with nothing but
disaster. Instead of being able to reach the open country of which they
had heard, they had been lost in dense forests of gigantic tropical
vegetation. Hill rose behind hill, barring their progress, alternating
with ravines of frightful depth. Monkeys chattered above their heads,
hideous snakes and alligators infested the swamps. Many of the Spaniards
were miserably killed by them, while others were waylaid by lurking
natives, who on one occasion cut off fourteen men whose canoe had
unhappily stranded on the bank of a stream. Their provisions gave out,
and they could barely sustain life on the few cocoa-nuts or wild
potatoes they found. On the shore life was even less tolerable, for the
swarms of mosquitoes compelled the wretched wanderers to bury themselves
up to their very faces in the sand. Worn-out with suffering, their one
wish was to return to Panamá. This was far from being the desire of
Pizarro, and luckily for him at this crisis Ruiz returned, and very soon
after Almagro sailed into port with a fresh supply of provisions and a
band of eighty military adventurers, who had but lately come to Panamá,
and were burning to make their fortunes in the New World. The
enthusiasm of these new recruits, and the relief of their own immediate
miseries, speedily revived the spirits of Pizarro's men, and they
eagerly called upon their commander to go forward; but the season of
favouring winds was past, and it was only after many days of battling
with fearful storms and contrary currents that they reached the Bay of
St. Matthew, and anchored opposite the port of Tacamez. This was a large
town, swarming with people who wore many ornaments of gold and jewels,
for they belonged to the recently annexed province of Quito, and had not
yet been forced to reserve all such things for the Inca, as the
Peruvians did. Moreover, this part of the country was specially rich in
gold, and through it flowed the River of Emeralds, so called from the
quarries on its banks, from which quantities of those gems were dug. The
Spaniards longed to possess themselves of all these treasures, but the
natives were too numerous, and showed no fear of the white men. On the
contrary, they were quite ready to attack them; and Pizarro, who had
landed with some of his followers in the hope of a conference with the
chiefs, found himself surrounded by at least ten thousand men, and would
have fared but ill had not one of the cavaliers chanced to fall from his
horse. This sudden division into two parts of what they had looked upon
as one creature so astonished the Indians that they fell back, and left
a way open for the Spaniards to regain their vessels. Here a council of
war was held, and once again Almagro proposed to go back for more men
while Pizarro waited in some safe spot. But the latter commander had
grown rather weary of the part always assigned to him, and replied that
it was all very well for Almagro, who passed his time sailing pleasantly
to and fro, or living in plenty at Panamá, but that for those who
remained behind to starve in a poisonous climate it was quite another
matter. Almagro retorted angrily that he was quite willing to be the one
to stay if Pizarro declined, and the quarrel would soon have become
serious had not Ruiz interposed. Almagro's plan was adopted, and the
little island of Gallo, which they had lately passed, was chosen as
Pizarro's headquarters.
This decision caused great discontent among the men, who complained that
they were being dragged to this obscure spot to die of hunger, and many
of them wrote to their friends bewailing their deplorable condition, but
Almagro did his best to seize all these letters, and only one escaped
him. This was concealed in a ball of cotton sent as a present to the
wife of the Governor; it was signed by several of the soldiers, and
begged that a ship might be sent to rescue them from this dismal place
before they all perished, and it warned others from joining the
expedition. This letter fell into the Governor's hands, and caused great
dismay in Panamá. Almagro's men looked sufficiently haggard and dejected
to make it generally believed that the few ill-fated survivors were
being detained against their will by Pizarro, to end their days on his
desolate island. The Governor was so enraged at the number of lives
which this unsuccessful expedition had cost the colony, that he utterly
refused the applications of Almagro and De Luque for further help, and
sent off two ships, under a cavalier named Tafur, to bring back every
Spaniard from Gallo.
[Illustration: Amazement of the Indians at seeing a cavalier fall from
his horse]
Meanwhile Pizarro and his men were suffering great misery from the
inclement weather, for the rainy season had set in, and for lack of
proper food, such crabs and shell-fish as they could pick up along the
shore being all that they had. Therefore the arrival of Tafur with two
well-provisioned ships was greeted with rapture, and the only thought of
the soldiers was to embark as soon as possible, and leave for ever that
dismal island. But the ships had brought letters from Almagro and De
Luque to Pizarro, imploring him to hold fast to his original purpose,
and solemnly promising to send him the means for going forward in a
short time.
THE CHOICE OF PIZARRO
For Pizarro a very little hope was enough, but knowing that he could
probably influence such of his followers as he cared to retain more by
example than by word, he merely announced his own purpose in the
briefest way possible. Drawing his sword, he traced a line upon the sand
from east to west.
'Friends and comrades,' said he, turning to the south, 'on this side are
toil, hunger, the drenching storm, desertion, and death; on that side
ease and pleasure. There lies Peru with its riches, here Panamá and its
poverty. Choose each man what best becomes a brave Castilian. For my
part I go to the south.'
So saying he stepped across the line, followed by Ruiz, Pedro de Candia,
and eleven others, and Tafur, after vainly trying to persuade them to
return, reluctantly departed, leaving them part of his store of
provisions. Ruiz sailed with him to help Almagro and De Luque in their
preparations. Not long after Pizarro and his men constructed a raft, and
transported themselves to an island which lay further north. It was
uninhabited, and being partly covered with wood afforded more shelter.
There was also plenty of good water, and pheasants and a species of hare
were fairly numerous. The rain fell incessantly, and the Spaniards built
rude huts to keep themselves dry, but from the swarms of venomous
insects they could find no protection. Pizarro did all he could to keep
up the spirits of his men in this dreary place. Morning prayers were
duly said, the evening hymn chanted, the Church festivals carefully
observed, and, above all, a keen look-out was kept across the ocean for
the expected sail; but seven months had passed before one small vessel
appeared. The Governor had at last allowed De Luque and Almagro to fit
out this ship; but she carried no more men than were needed to work her,
and Pizarro was commanded to report himself in Panamá within six months,
whatever might be happening.
[Illustration: Pizarro sees llamas for the first time]
Taking with him his faithful followers and the natives of Tumbez,
Pizarro speedily embarked, and under the guidance of Ruiz sailed to the
south for twenty days, and reached at length the Gulf of Guayaquil.
Here the voyagers were abreast of some of the grandest heights of the
Cordilleras. Far above them in the still air rose the snowy crests of
Cotopaxi and Chimborazo, while only a narrow strip of green and fertile
land lay between the mountains and the sea. Tumbez proved to be a large
town, and the inhabitants received the Spaniards well, supplying them
plentifully with fruit and vegetables, game and fish, and sending on
board their ship a number of llamas, which Pizarro then saw for the
first time. The 'little camel,' as the Spaniards called it, was an
object of much interest to them, and they greatly admired its mixture of
wool and hair, from which the beautiful native fabrics were woven. The
Indians were much astonished to find two of their own countrymen on
board the strange vessel, but through their favourable report of the
harmless intentions of the Spaniards, and by their help as interpreters,
Pizarro was able to collect much valuable information. At that time
there happened to be an Inca noble in Tumbez, distinguished by his rich
dress, the huge gold ornaments in his ears, and the deference paid him
by the citizens. Pizarro received him on board his ship, showing him
everything, and answering his numerous questions as well as he could. He
also took the opportunity of asserting the lawful supremacy of the King
of Spain over the empire of Peru, and of expounding some of the
doctrines of his own religion, to all of which the chief listened in
silence. Several parties of the Spaniards landed at different times, and
came back with wondrous tales of all they had seen: the temples blazing
with silver and gold, and the convent of the Virgins of the Sun, the
gardens of which glowed with imitations of fruits and flowers in the
same metals. The natives greatly admired one of the Spaniards, a man
named Alonso de Molina, who was of fair complexion and wore a long
beard. They even invited him to settle among them, promising him a
beautiful wife; and on his homeward voyage Pizarro actually left him
there, with one or two others, thinking that at some future time it
might be useful to him that some of his own men should understand the
Indian language. In return he took on board his ship several of the
Peruvians, and one of them, named by the Spaniards Felipillo, played an
important part in after-events.
Having now learnt all he could, Pizarro pursued his voyage, touching at
all the principal points as he coasted along, and being everywhere
received by the people with kindness and much curiosity, for the news of
the coming of the white men spread rapidly, and all were eager to see
the 'Children of the Sun,' as they began to be called from their fair
complexions, their shining armour, and their firearms, which were looked
upon as thunderbolts.
Having gone as far south as the port of Santa, and having heard enough
to make the existence and position of the empire of Peru an absolute
certainty, Pizarro turned and sailed to the northward, landing once or
twice by the way, and being hospitably entertained by an Indian
princess, and after an absence of more than eighteen months anchored
again off Panamá. Great was the joy caused by their arrival, for all
supposed them to have perished; yet even now, in spite of all they had
discovered, the Governor refused his aid, and the confederates, being by
this time without funds, had no alternative but to apply directly to the
King of Spain. The mission was entrusted to Pizarro, who set out in the
spring of 1528, taking with him some of the natives, two or three
llamas, and specimens of the cloth and of the gold and silver ornaments,
to attest the truth of his wonderful story.
PIZARRO GOES TO SPAIN AND RETURNS
It would take too long to tell how Pizarro fared in his native country,
but the matter ended in the King's being convinced of the importance of
his discoveries, and bestowing many honours and rewards upon him. He was
also empowered to conquer and take possession of Peru, and expressly
enjoined to preserve the existing regulations for the government and
protection of the Indians, and to take with him many priests to convert
them. All being settled to Pizarro's satisfaction, he found time to
revisit his own town, where, his fortunes having somewhat mended since
he turned his back upon it, he found friends and eager followers, and
among these his own four half-brothers, Hernando, Gonzalo, and Juan
Pizarro, and Francisco de Alcántara. It was not without many
difficulties that Francisco Pizarro got together the two hundred and
fifty men he had agreed to raise, and escaped from the delays and
intrigues of the Spanish Court; but it was done at last, and the
adventurers in three vessels started from Seville, and after a
prosperous voyage reached Nombre de Dios, and there met De Luque and
Almagro. Disagreements speedily arose, for the latter naturally felt
aggrieved that Pizarro should have secured for himself such an unfair
share of the riches and honours as the King had bestowed on him without
putting forward the claims of his comrade, and matters were made worse
by the insolent way in which Hernando Pizarro treated the old soldier,
whom he looked upon as an obstacle in the path of his brother. Matters
got to such a pass that Almagro was actually preparing ships to
prosecute the expedition on his own account, but De Luque at last
succeeded in reconciling the two commanders--at least for the
moment--and the united band started for the third time. Though the
number of men in the three ships did not exceed one hundred and eighty,
yet they had twenty-seven horses, and were now much better provided with
arms and ammunition. Pizarro's intention was to steer for Tumbez, but
the wind being contrary he anchored instead in the Bay of St. Matthew,
where the troops disembarked and advanced along the coast, while the
vessels proceeded in the same direction, keeping as close inshore as
possible. When Pizarro and his men reached a town of some importance
they rushed in upon it sword in hand, and the inhabitants, without
offering any resistance, fled to the woods, leaving the invaders to
rifle their dwellings, from which they collected an unexpectedly large
store of gold, silver, and emeralds, some of the stones being of great
size. Pizarro sent the treasure back to Panamá in the ships, and
continued his march, his soldiers suffering terribly in crossing the
sandy wastes under the burning sun, which beat upon their iron mail or
quilted cotton doublets till they were nearly suffocated. Here, too,
they were attacked by a dreadful disease, terrible warts of great size
breaking out upon them, of which several died. This plague, which was
quite unknown before, attacked the natives also, spreading over the
whole country. Everywhere as they advanced the Indians fled before them;
the land was poor, and the Spaniards began to grumble and wish to
retreat; but at this juncture one of the ships appeared, and the march
along the coast was continued. Reaching the Gulf of Guayaquil, Pizarro
persuaded the friendly natives of Tumbez to transport himself and his
men to the island of Puná, where he encamped for the rainy season; but
the islanders resented the presence of their enemies the men of Tumbez,
a suspicion of treachery arose, and Pizarro allowed ten or twelve
prisoners, men of Puná, to be massacred. Then the whole tribe fell upon
the Spaniards and there was a great battle, in which the white men were
victorious; but after this their position was a most uncomfortable one,
the enemy being ever on the watch to cut off stragglers and destroy
provisions, besides making night attacks upon the camp. Fortunately the
other two ships came back at this juncture, bringing a hundred
volunteers and some more horses, and with them Pizarro felt strong
enough to cross to the mainland and resume his march. He had lately
learned something of the state of affairs in the country, which he
thought he might be able to turn to his own advantage. It seemed that
the Inca Huayna Capac, who conquered Quito, had left three sons--Huascar
the heir, the son of the Queen, Manco Capac his half-brother, and
Atahuallpa, son of the Princess of Quito, who had been married to Huayna
Capac after the conquest. To Atahuallpa the Inca at his death left the
kingdom of Quito, enjoining him to live at peace with his brother
Huascar, who succeeded to the empire of Peru. This happened about seven
years before Pizarro reached Puná. For five years the brothers ruled
their respective kingdoms without dispute. Huascar was of a gentle and
peaceable disposition, but Atahuallpa was warlike, ambitious, and
daring, and constantly endeavouring to enlarge his territory. His
restless spirit at length excited alarm at Cuzco, and Huascar sent to
remonstrate with him, and to require him to render homage for the
kingdom of Quito. This at once provoked hostilities. A great battle took
place at Ambato, in which Atahuallpa was victorious, and he marched on
in the direction of Cuzco, carrying all before him, and only
experiencing a slight check from the islanders of Puná. After more
desperate encounters, in one of which Huascar was taken prisoner,
Atahuallpa possessed himself of Cuzco, and, assuming the diadem of the
Incas, received the homage of the whole country.
But his triumph was not to be for long.
We left Pizarro preparing to leave Puná and cross to Tumbez. His
surprise when he did so was great, for he found only the ruins of what
had been a flourishing town; moreover, some of his men were
treacherously attacked by the natives, whom he had supposed to be quite
friendly to him. The Spaniards were much disappointed, as they had
looked forward confidently to securing the golden treasures of Tumbez of
which they had heard so much; nor could Pizarro believe the explanation
of this state of affairs given by the Curaca, who was caught lurking in
the woods. However, it was his policy to remain friendly with the
natives if possible, so no further notice was taken. No true account
could be gathered of the fate of the two men who had been left there
from the last expedition, though it was evident that both had perished.
An Indian gave Pizarro a scroll left by one of them, upon which was
written: 'Know, whoever you may be that may chance to set foot in this
country, that it contains more silver and gold than there is iron in
Biscay.' But when this was shown to the soldiers they only thought it
was a device of their captain to give them fresh hope. Pizarro, seeing
that nothing but incessant activity could keep down the rising spirit of
discontent, now spent some weeks in exploring the country, and finally
assembling all his men at a spot some thirty leagues south of Tumbez, he
built there a considerable town, which he named San Miguel. The site
afterwards proved to be unhealthy, and was abandoned for another on the
banks of the river Piura, where a town still stands. Presently the news
reached San Miguel that Atahuallpa was encamped within twelve days'
journey, and Pizarro after much consideration resolved to present
himself in his camp, trusting doubtless that when he got there
circumstances would arise which he could turn to his own advantage.
PIZARRO MARCHES TO MEET THE INCA
Placing himself at the head of his troops, he struck boldly into the
heart of the country, received everywhere by the natives with confiding
hospitality. The Spaniards were careful to give no offence, being aware
that their best chance of success lay in conciliating the people by whom
they were surrounded. After five days' marching, Pizarro halted in a
pleasant valley to rest his company, and finding that some few among
them showed discontent and were unwilling to proceed, he called them all
together, and told them that they had now reached a crisis which it
would require all their courage to meet, and no man should go forward
who had any misgivings as to the success of the expedition. He added
that the garrison left in San Miguel was by no means as strong as he
would like it to be, and that if any of them wished to return there
instead of going forward with him they were quite free to do so, and
their share in the profits of the expedition should be just the same as
that of the men originally left there. Nine of the soldiers availed
themselves of this permission to turn back, and having thus got rid of
the elements of discontent, which might have become dangerous, Pizarro
resumed his march, halting again at Zaran while he sent an officer
forward to obtain more certain tidings of the position of Atahuallpa.
After eight days the cavalier returned, bringing with him an envoy from
the Inca, who bore a present for the Spanish commander, and invited him
to visit Atahuallpa's camp among the mountains. Pizarro quite understood
that the Inca's object was to learn the strength and condition of the
white men, but he hospitably entertained his guest, giving him all the
information he demanded by means of the two interpreters, who had by his
forethought been taught Castilian, and were now of inestimable service.
When the Peruvian departed, Pizarro presented him with a few trifling
gifts, and bade him tell Atahuallpa that he would meet him as soon as
possible. After sending an account of their proceedings back to San
Miguel the adventurers continued their journey towards Caxamalca, and
having crossed a deep and rapid river, fell in with some natives, who
gave such contrary reports of Atahuallpa's position and intentions that
Pizarro sent one of the Indians who accompanied him ostensibly to bear a
friendly greeting to the Inca, but really to find out all he could of
the state of affairs.
After a further march of three days the little army reached the foot of
the huge mountain barrier, and entered upon the labyrinth of passes
which were to lead them to Atahuallpa's camp. The difficulties of the
way were enough to have appalled the stoutest heart. The path was in
many places so steep that the men had to dismount and scramble up as
best they could, dragging their horses after them; often some huge crag
so overhung the track that they could scarcely creep round the narrow
ledge of rock, while a false step would have plunged them into a fearful
precipice. In several of the passes huge stone fortresses had been
built, and places abounded where a handful of men might have barred the
way successfully against an army, but to the relief of the Spaniards
they found all quiet and deserted, the only living things visible being
an occasional condor or vicuña. Finding that their passage was not to be
disputed, Pizarro, who had led the way with one detachment, encamped for
the night, sending word back to his brother to bring up the remainder of
the force without delay. Another toilful day brought him to the crest of
the Cordillera, a bleak tract where the only vegetation was a dry,
yellow grass which grew up to the snow-line. Here he was met by one of
his Indian messengers, who reported that the path was clear, and an
envoy from the Inca was on his way to the Castilian camp. Very soon the
Peruvians appeared, bringing a welcome present of llamas and a message
from their master, who desired to know when the Spaniards would reach
Caxamalca, that he might provide suitably for their reception. The
ambassador vaunted the power and the triumphs of Atahuallpa; but Pizarro
was not to be outdone, and did not hesitate to declare that the Inca was
as much inferior to the King of Spain as the petty chiefs of the country
were to the Inca. After another march of two days the Spaniards began
the descent of the eastern side of the Cordillera, meeting by the way
another and more important envoy, and seven days later the valley of
Caxamalca lay before them, the vapour of its hot springs rising in the
still air, and the slope of the further hillside white with the tents of
the Inca's encampment for a space of several miles--a sight which filled
the Spaniards with a dismay they could hardly conceal. Putting on a bold
front they marched into the town, which was quite deserted, but seemed
large enough to hold ten thousand people, and then Pizarro despatched an
embassy consisting of his brother Hernando, another cavalier, and
thirty-five horsemen, to the camp of Atahuallpa. The party galloped
along the causeway, and, fording a shallow stream, made their way
through a guard of Indians to the open courtyard in the midst of which
the Inca's pavilion stood. The buildings were covered with a shining
plaster, both white and coloured, and there was a spacious stone
reservoir in the courtyard, which remains to this day, and is called
'The Inca's Bath.' The Court was filled with Indian nobles, and
Atahuallpa himself sat upon a low stool, distinguished from the rest by
the crimson fringe upon his forehead, which he had worn since the defeat
of his brother Huascar. Hernando Pizarro rode up to him and, addressing
him ceremoniously, informed him by the aid of Felipillo that he came as
an ambassador from his brother to acquaint the Inca with the arrival of
the white men in Caxamalca, and to explain that they were the subjects
of a mighty prince across the waters, who, attracted by the report of
his great victories, had come to offer their services, and to impart to
him the doctrines of the true faith which they professed, and he brought
an invitation from the general to beg Atahuallpa to visit them in their
present quarters. To all this the Inca listened with his eyes fixed upon
the ground, and answered never a word, but one of the nobles standing by
said, 'It is well.' Hernando Pizarro then respectfully begged the Inca
to speak to them himself and inform them of his pleasure, upon which
Atahuallpa smiled faintly and replied: 'Tell your captain that I am
keeping a fast, which will end to-morrow morning; I will then visit him.
In the meantime let him occupy the public buildings on the square, and
no other, till I come and order what shall be done.'
PIZARRO AND THE INCA
[Illustration: The cavalier displays his horsemanship before Atahuallpa]
One of the cavaliers who was mounted upon a fiery steed, seeing that
Atahuallpa looked at it with some interest, caused it to rear and
curvet, and then dashed out over the plain in a wild gallop, and
returning checked it in full career close beside the Inca. But the face
of Atahuallpa never for an instant lost its marble composure, though
several of his soldiers shrank back in manifest terror as the strange
creature passed them; and it is said that they paid dearly for their
timidity, as Atahuallpa caused them to be put to death for thus showing
fear in the presence of the strangers. Wine was now brought, and offered
to the Spaniards in golden goblets of extraordinary size, and then they
took their leave and rode gloomily back to Caxamalca. Pizarro alone was
not discouraged by the news they brought. He saw that matters had now
come to a climax, and determined upon making a bold stroke. To encounter
the Inca in the open field was manifestly impossible, but could his
person be secured when he entered the city with comparatively few of his
followers the rest might be intimidated, and all might yet be well. To
this end, therefore, he laid his plans. The building in which the
Spaniards were encamped occupied three sides of a square, and consisted
of spacious halls opening upon it with wide doors. In these halls the
general stationed his men, and there they were to remain under cover
till the Inca should have entered the square, when at a given signal,
the firing of a gun, they were to rush out uttering their battle-cries,
and, putting the Peruvians to the sword, possess themselves of the
person of Atahuallpa. After a quiet night and a careful inspection of
their arms and equipments, the Spaniards took up their respective
positions, but it was late in the day before a great stir was visible in
the Peruvian camp. The Inca sent word to Pizarro that he was coming
armed, as the Spaniards had come to him. To which the general replied
that, come as he might, he would be received as a friend and a brother.
At last the procession was seen approaching. First came a large body of
attendants, sweeping every particle of rubbish from the road. Then high
above the crowd the Inca appeared, carried in a gorgeous litter and
surrounded by his nobles, who wore such quantities of golden ornaments
that they blazed like the sun. The road was lined with Peruvian troops,
who also covered the level meadows as far as the eye could reach. When
the company had arrived within half a mile of the city gate Pizarro
observed with dismay that they halted, and seemed to be preparing to
encamp, and word was brought him that the Inca would enter the city on
the following morning. This was far from suiting the general's plans;
his men had been under arms since daylight, and to prolong the suspense
at this critical moment would he felt be fatal. He returned an answer,
therefore, to Atahuallpa, deprecating his change of purpose, and saying
that everything was provided for his entertainment and he expected him
that night to sup with him. This message turned the Inca from his
purpose, his tents were struck again, and the procession re-formed. Only
he sent Pizarro word that he should prefer to pass the night at
Caxamalca, and so would bring into the town with him only a few unarmed
men. It was near sunset when the Peruvians, chanting their triumphant
songs, entered the city gate. According to their different ranks their
robes were of various colours, some chequered in white and red, some
pure white, while the guards and attendants of the Inca were
distinguished by their gay blue uniform and the profusion of their
ornaments. Atahuallpa sat in an open litter, lined with the brilliantly
coloured plumes of tropical birds and studded with burnished plates of
gold and silver. His dress was far richer than on the preceding evening;
round his neck hung a collar of large and brilliant emeralds, and his
short hair was decorated with golden ornaments. He was at this time
about thirty years old, and was taller and stronger than most of his
countrymen. His head was large, and he might have been called handsome
but for his fierce and bloodshot eyes. His bearing was calm and
dignified, and he gazed upon the multitudes about him like one
accustomed to command. Not a Spaniard was to be seen as the procession,
in admirable order, entered the great square of the building that had
been assigned to them, and when the place was occupied by some six
thousand of his people Atahuallpa halted, and asked, 'Where are the
strangers?' Upon this Father Valverde, Pizarro's chaplain, came forward
Bible in hand, and proceeded to expound to him the doctrines of his
faith, declaring finally that the Pope had commissioned the Spanish
Emperor to conquer and convert the inhabitants of the western world, and
beseeching the Inca to embrace the Christian faith and acknowledge
himself a tributary of the Emperor Charles, who would aid and protect
him as a loyal vassal. The eyes of Atahuallpa flashed fire as he
answered: 'I will be no man's tributary; I am greater than any prince
upon earth. Your Emperor may be a great prince. I do not doubt it when I
see that he has sent his subjects so far across the waters, and I am
willing to hold him as a brother. As for the Pope of whom you speak, he
must be crazy to talk of giving away countries which do not belong to
him. For my faith, I will not change it. Your own God, you say, was put
to death by the very men whom he created, but mine'--and here he pointed
to the setting sun--'my god still lives in the heavens and looks down
upon his children.' He then demanded of Valverde by what authority he
had said these things. The friar pointed to the book he held. Atahuallpa
took it, looked at it for an instant, and then threw it violently down,
exclaiming: 'Tell your comrades they shall give an account of their
doings in my land. I will not go from here till they have made me full
satisfaction for all the wrongs they have committed.'
The friar thereupon rushed to Pizarro crying: 'Do you not see that while
we stand here wasting our breath in talking with this dog--full of pride
as he is--the fields are filling with Indians? Set on at once; I absolve
you.'
Pizarro saw that the hour had come. He waved a white scarf, the fatal
gun was fired, and from every opening the Spaniards poured into the
great square, sword in hand, shouting their old battle-cry, 'St. Jago,
and at them!' The Indians, unarmed, taken by surprise, stunned by the
noise of the artillery, and blinded with smoke, knew not which way to
fly. Nobles and soldiers were ruthlessly cut down, or trampled underfoot
by the horses, the entrance to the square was choked with the fallen
bodies of men, but the desperate struggles of the masses of natives
driven together by their fierce assailants actually broke down the wall
of clay and stone for a space of a hundred paces, through which the
wretched fugitives endeavoured to reach the open country, hotly pursued
by the cavalry and struck down in all directions.
THE CAPTIVITY OF THE INCA
[Illustration: The friar urges Pizarro to attack the Peruvians]
Meanwhile, a desperate struggle was going on for the person of the Inca.
His nobles surrounded and faithfully strove to defend him; as fast as
one was cut down another took his place, and with their dying grasp they
clung to the bridles of the cavaliers, trying to force them back.
Atahuallpa sat as one stunned in his swaying litter, forced this way and
that by the pressure of the throng. The Spaniards grew tired at last of
the work of destruction, and, fearing that in the gathering darkness the
Inca might after all escape them, they made an attempt to end the fray
at once by taking his life. But Pizarro, seeing this, cried out in a
mighty voice, 'Let no man who values his life strike at the Inca,' and,
stretching out his arm to shield him, received a wound on the hand from
one of his own men--the only wound received by any Spaniard in the
action. The strife now became fiercer round the litter, and several of
the nobles who bore it having been slain, it was overturned, and the
Inca would have come violently to the ground had not Pizarro and some of
his men caught him in their arms. A soldier instantly snatched the
crimson fringe from his forehead, and the unhappy monarch was taken into
the nearest building and carefully guarded. All attempt at resistance
now ceased. The news of the Inca's fate spread over town and country,
and the only thing which had held them together being gone, each man
thought only of his own safety. The Spaniards pursued the fugitives till
night fell and the sound of the trumpet recalled them to the square of
Caxamalca. That night the Inca supped with Pizarro as he had said, while
ten thousand of his faithful followers lay dead about the city.
He seemed like one in a dream, not understanding the calamity that had
fallen upon him. He even commended the adroit way in which the Spaniards
had entrapped him, adding that since the landing of the white men he had
been made aware of all their doings, but had felt sure of being easily
able to overpower them as soon as he thought fit to do so, and had
allowed them to reach Caxamalca unmolested because he desired to see
them for himself, and to obtain possession of their arms and horses.
This, at least, was the interpretation of what the Inca said given by
Felipillo; but he was a malicious youth, who bore Atahuallpa no good
will, and the Spaniards were only too ready to believe anything that
seemed to justify their cruel deeds. Pizarro replied that the fate of
the Inca was the lot that fell to all who resisted the white men, but he
bade Atahuallpa take courage, for the Spaniards were a generous race,
warring only against those who would not submit themselves. That same
night the general reviewed his men, congratulating them upon the success
of their stratagem, but warning them to be strictly upon their guard,
since they were but a handful of strangers in the heart of a mighty
kingdom, encompassed by foes who were deeply attached to their own
sovereign. Next morning, the prisoners, of whom there were many in the
camp, were employed in burying the dead and removing all traces of the
massacre, while a troop of Spaniards was despatched to spoil the camp of
Atahuallpa and scatter the remnant of the Peruvian forces. At noon this
party returned, bringing the wives and attendants of the Inca, and a
rich booty in gold, silver, emeralds, and other treasures, beside droves
of llamas.
Pizarro would now have liked to march directly upon the capital, but the
distance was great and his force was small. So after sending a message
to San Miguel for reinforcements, he set his men to work at rebuilding
the walls of Caxamalca, and fitting up a church, in which mass was
celebrated daily. Atahuallpa soon discovered that gold was what the
Spaniards chiefly coveted, and he determined to try and buy his freedom,
for he greatly feared that Huascar might win back his liberty and his
kingdom if the news once reached him of his brother's captivity. So he
one day promised Pizarro to fill with gold the room in which they stood,
not merely covering the floor, but piling it up to a line drawn round
the walls as high as he could reach, if he would in return set him free.
The general hardly knew how to answer. All he had seen confirmed the
rumours of the wealth of the country, and if it could be collected thus
by the Inca's order, he might really hope to secure it, whereas if he
trusted to being able to seize it for himself the chances were that most
of it would disappear for ever, hidden by the natives beyond recovery.
At all events he decided it would be safe to agree to Atahuallpa's
proposal; when the gold was collected it would be time enough to think
about setting the captive at liberty. The room to be filled was
seventeen feet broad by twenty-two feet long, and the line upon the wall
was drawn nine feet from the ground. A smaller room which adjoined it
the Inca offered to fill with silver twice over, and he demanded two
months' time to accomplish all this.
As soon as the arrangement was made, Atahuallpa sent couriers to Cuzco
and all the other chief places in the kingdom, with orders to strip the
royal palaces of their treasures and send them without delay to
Caxamalca. Meanwhile he lived in the Spanish quarters, treated with
consideration, and allowed to see his subjects freely, but at the same
time strictly guarded.
THE INCA'S RANSOM
[Illustration: The Spaniards destroy the idol at Pachacamac]
The news of Atahuallpa's capture and the immense ransom he had offered
soon reached the ears of Huascar, who was encouraged by the tidings to
make vigorous efforts to regain his own liberty, and sent a message to
the Spanish commander saying that he would pay a much larger ransom than
that promised by Atahuallpa, who, never having lived in Cuzco, could not
know the quantity of treasure there, or where it was stored. This was
told to Atahuallpa, who also knew that Pizarro had said that Huascar
should be brought to Caxamalca, that he himself might determine which of
the two brothers had the better right to the sceptre of the Incas.
Furiously jealous, and fearing that the decision would surely be in
favour of the more docile Huascar, Atahuallpa ordered secretly that he
should be put to death by his guards, and he was accordingly drowned in
the river of Andamarca, declaring with his dying breath that the white
men would avenge his murder, and that his rival would not long survive
him. Week by week the treasure poured in from all quarters of the realm,
borne on the shoulders of the Indian porters, and consisting mainly of
massive pieces of plate, some of them weighing seventy-five pounds; but
as the distances were great, and the progress necessarily slow, the
Spaniards became impatient, and believed, or pretended to believe, that
the Inca was planning some treachery, and wilfully delaying till he
could arrange a general rising of the Peruvians against the white men.
This charge the Inca indignantly denied, and to prove his good faith
offered to give a safe-conduct to a party of Spaniards, that they might
visit Cuzco for themselves and see that the work of collecting the
treasure was really going on. Pizarro gladly accepted this offer, and
three cavaliers started for the capital. Meanwhile, Hernando Pizarro
with a small troop had set out to make sure that the country round was
really quiet, and, finding that it was, he continued his march to the
town of Pachacamac, to secure the treasures of its famous temple before
they could be hidden by its priests. The city was a hundred leagues from
Caxamalca, and the way lay across the tableland of the Cordilleras; but
after weeks of severe labour the Spaniards reached it, and, breaking
into the temple, in spite of the remonstrances of the priests, they
dragged forth and destroyed the hideous idol it contained, and secured
the greater part of the treasure of gold and jewels, though the priests,
having had warning of his approach, had managed to conceal a good deal,
some of which the Spaniards afterwards discovered buried in the
surrounding land. The people, seeing that their god was unable to defend
himself against the wonderful strangers, now came and tendered their
homage, and Hernando Pizarro, hearing that one of the Inca's two great
generals, a chief named Challcuchima, was lying with a considerable
force in the town of Xanxa, resolved to march there and attack him in
his own quarters. The road across the mountains was even rougher and
more difficult than the one by which he had come, and, to add to his
troubles, the shoes of the horses were all worn out, and they suffered
severely on the rough and stony ground. Iron there was none, but silver
and gold abounded, so Pizarro ordered the Indian smiths to make
horseshoes of silver, with which the horses of the troop were shod. On
reaching Xanxa the Spaniards found it a large and populous place, and
the Indian general with five-and-thirty thousand men was encamped at a
distance of a few miles; but, nothing daunted, Hernando Pizarro sent
messages to him, and when he at last consented to an interview, informed
him that the Inca demanded his presence in Caxamalca. Having been
utterly bewildered since the capture of the Inca, and uncertain as to
what course to take, Challcuchima obeyed at once, and accompanied by a
numerous retinue journeyed back with the Spaniards. He was everywhere
received by the natives with the deepest respect, yet he entered the
presence of the Inca barefooted and with a burden laid upon his back,
and kneeling before his master he kissed his hands and feet, exclaiming,
'Would that I had been here! This would not then have happened.'
Atahuallpa himself showed no emotion, only coldly bade him welcome: even
in his present state of captivity he was immeasurably above the proudest
of his vassals. The Spaniards still treated him with all respect, and
with his own people he kept up his usual state and ceremony, being
attended upon by his wives, while a number of Indian nobles waited
always in the antechamber, but never entered his presence unless sent
for, and then only with every mark of humility. His dress, which he
often changed, was sometimes made of vicuña wool, sometimes of bats'
skins, sleek as velvet. Nothing which he had worn could be used by
another; when he laid it aside it was burned. To while away the time the
Spaniards taught him to play chess, at which he became expert, spending
upon it many of the tedious hours of his imprisonment. Soon after the
return of Hernando Pizarro the three cavaliers came back from Cuzco.
They had travelled six hundred miles in the greatest luxury, carried in
litters by the natives, and received everywhere with awe and respect.
Their accounts of the wealth of the capital confirmed all that Pizarro
had heard, and though they had stayed a week there, they had not seen
all. They had seen the royal mummies in their golden chairs, and had
left them untouched by the Inca's orders; but they had caused the plates
of pure gold to be stripped from the Temple of the Sun--seven hundred of
them, compared in size to the lid of a chest ten or twelve inches wide.
The cornice was so firmly embedded in the stonework that it defied their
efforts to remove it. But they brought with them full two hundred loads
of gold, beside much silver, all hastily collected, for the arrogant
behaviour of the emissaries had greatly exasperated the people of Cuzco,
who were glad to get rid of them as soon as possible. About this time
Almagro reached San Miguel, having, after many difficulties, succeeded
in collecting a few more adventurers, and heard with amazement of
Pizarro's successes and of the change in his fortunes. In spite of the
feelings of rivalry and distrust that existed between himself and his
old comrade, Pizarro was delighted to hear of his arrival, as the
additional troops he brought with him made it possible to go forward
with the conquest of the country. So when Almagro reached Caxamalca in
the middle of February 1533, he and his men were received with every
mark of joy. Only Atahuallpa looked on sadly, seeing the chances of
regaining his freedom, or maintaining it if he did regain it, lessened
by the increased number of his enemies, and to add to his dejection a
comet just then made its appearance in the heavens. As one had been
seen shortly before the death of the Inca's father, Huayna Capac, he
looked upon it as a warning of evil to come, and a dread of the future
took possession of him.
The Spaniards now began to clamour for a division of the gold which had
been already collected: several of them were disposed to return home
with the share that would fall to them, but by far the greater number
only wished to make sure of the spoil and then hurry on to Cuzco, where
they believed as much more awaited them. For various reasons Pizarro
agreed to their demands; the gold--all but a few particularly beautiful
specimens of the Indian goldsmith's work, which were sent to Castile as
part of the royal fifth--was melted down into solid bars, and when
weighed was found to be worth nearly three and a half millions of pounds
sterling. This was divided amongst Pizarro and his men, the followers of
Almagro not being considered to be entitled to a share, though a small
sum was handed over to them to induce them to give up their claim. The
division being completed, there seemed to be no further obstacle to
their resuming active operations; but then the question arose what was
to become of Atahuallpa, who was loudly demanding his freedom. He had
not, indeed, paid the whole of his promised ransom; but an immense
amount had been received, and it would have been more, as he urged, but
for the impatience of the Spaniards. Pizarro, telling no one of the dark
purposes he was brooding over in his own mind, issued a proclamation to
the effect that the ransom was considered to be completely paid, but
that the safety of the Spaniards required that the Inca should be held
captive until they were still further reinforced. Soon rumours began to
be spread, probably by Felipillo, who hated the Inca, that an immense
army was mustering at Quito, and that thirty thousand Caribs, of whom
the Spaniards had a peculiar horror, were on their way to join it. Both
Atahuallpa and his general Challcuchima denied all knowledge of any
rising, but their protestations of innocence did them little good. The
soldiers clamoured against the unhappy Inca, and Pizarro, taking
advantage of the temporary absence of some of the cavaliers who would
have defended him, ordered him to be brought to instant trial. The
evidence of Indian witnesses, as interpreted by Felipillo, sealed his
doom, and in spite of the efforts of a few Spaniards he was found guilty
by the majority on the charge, among other things, of having
assassinated his brother Huascar and raised up insurrection against the
Spaniards, and was sentenced to be burnt alive. When Atahuallpa was told
of his approaching fate his courage gave way for a moment. 'What have I
or my children done,' he said to Pizarro, 'that I should meet such a
doom? And from your hands, too!--you who have met with nothing but
friendship and kindness from my people, with whom I have shared my
treasures, who have received nothing but benefits from my hands.' Then
in most piteous tones he begged that his life might be spared, offering
to answer for the safety of every Spaniard, and promising to pay double
the ransom he had already given. But it was all of no avail. He was not,
however, burnt to death; for at the last moment, on his consenting to
abjure his own religion and be baptized, he was executed in the usual
Spanish manner--by strangulation.
A day or two after, the other cavaliers returned, and found Pizarro
making a show of great sorrow for what had happened. They reproached and
blamed him, saying that there was no truth in the story of
treachery--all was quiet, and the people showed nothing but goodwill.
Then Pizarro accused his treasurer and Father Valverde of having
deceived him in the matter and brought about the catastrophe; and they
in their turn exculpated themselves, and upbraided Pizarro as the only
one responsible for the deed, and the quarrel was fierce between them.
Meanwhile, the death of the Inca, whose power over his people had been
so great, caused the breaking-up of all the ancient institutions. The
Indians broke out into great excesses; villages were burnt and temples
plundered; gold and silver acquired a new importance in their eyes, and
were eagerly seized and hidden in caves and forests; the remote
provinces threw off their allegiance to the Incas; the great captains at
the head of distant armies set up for themselves--one named Ruminavi
sought to detach Quito from the Peruvian Empire and assert its
independence. Pizarro, still in Caxamalca, looked round for a successor
to Atahuallpa, and chose his young brother Toparca, who was crowned with
the usual ceremonies; and then the Spaniards set out for Cuzco, taking
the new Inca with them, and after a toilful journey and more than one
encounter with hostile natives reached Xanxa in safety. Here Pizarro
remained for a time, sending one of his captains, named Hernando de
Soto, forward with a small body of men to reconnoitre. This cavalier
found villages burnt, bridges destroyed, and heavy rocks and trees
placed in the path to impede his cavalry, and realised at length that
the natives had risen to resistance. As he neared the Sierra of
Vilcaconga he heard that a considerable body of Indians lay in wait for
him in its dangerous passes; but though his men and horses were weary,
he rashly determined to push on and pass it before nightfall if
possible. No sooner had they fairly entered the narrow way than he was
attacked by a multitude of armed warriors, who seemed to spring from
every bush and cavern, and rushed down like a mountain torrent upon the
Spaniards as they struggled up the steep and rocky pathway. Men and
horses were overthrown, and it was only after a severe struggle that
they succeeded in reaching a level spot upon which it was possible to
face the enemy. Night fell while the issue of the fight was still
uncertain, but fortunately Pizarro, when he heard of the unsettled state
of the country, had despatched Almagro to the support of De Soto. He,
hearing that there was the chance of a fight, had pushed on hastily, and
now advanced under cover of the darkness, sounding his trumpets, which
were joyfully answered by the bugles of De Soto.
[Illustration: IN ONE CAVE THE SOLDIERS FOUND VASES OF PURE GOLD, ETC.]
When morning broke and the Peruvians saw that their white enemies had
been mysteriously reinforced in the night, they hastily retreated,
leaving the passes open, and the two cavaliers continued their march
through the mountains, and took up a secure position in the open country
beyond, to await Pizarro. Their losses had not been very great, but they
were quite unprepared to meet with any resistance; and as this seemed a
well-organised attack, suspicion fell upon Challcuchima, who was accused
by Pizarro of conspiring with Quizquiz, the other great general, against
the young Inca, and was told that if he did not at once compel the
Peruvians to lay down their arms he should be burnt alive. Challcuchima
denied the charge, and declared that, captive as he was, he had no power
to bring his countrymen to submission. Nevertheless, he was put in irons
and strongly guarded. Unfortunately for him, the young Toparca died just
at this time, and suspicion at once fell on the hapless general, who,
after the mockery of a trial, was burnt to death as soon as Pizarro
reached Almagro's camp--his own followers piling up the faggots. Soon
after this Pizarro was surprised by a friendly visit from the young
brother of Huascar, Manco Capac, and seeing that this prince was likely
to be a useful instrument in his hands, Pizarro acknowledged his claim
to be the Inca, and, keeping him with him, resumed the march to Cuzco,
which they entered on November 15, 1533. The suburbs were thronged with
people, who came from far and near to gaze upon the white faces and the
shining armour of the 'Children of the Sun.' The Spaniards rode directly
to the great square, and took up their quarters in the palaces of the
Incas. They were greatly struck by the beauty and order of the city, and
though Pizarro on entering it had issued an order that the dwellings of
the inhabitants were not to be plundered or injured, the soldiers soon
stripped the palaces and temples of the valuables they contained, even
taking the golden ornaments of the royal mummies and rifling the
Peruvian graves, which often contained precious treasures. Believing
that the natives had buried their wealth, they put some of them to the
torture, to induce them to disclose their hiding-places, and by seeking
everywhere they occasionally stumbled upon mines of wealth. In one cave
near the city the soldiers found a number of vases of pure gold,
embossed with figures of animals, serpents, and locusts. Also there were
four life-sized figures of llamas, and ten or twelve statues of women,
some of gold and some of silver. The magazines were stored with robes of
cotton and featherwork, gold sandals and slippers, and dresses composed
entirely of beads of gold. The stores of grain and other food the
conquerors utterly despised, though the time was to come when they would
have been of far greater value to them than all the treasure. On the
whole, the riches of the capital did not come up to the expectation of
the Spaniards, but they had collected much plunder on the way to it,
securing in one place ten bars of solid silver, each twenty feet in
length, one foot in breadth, and two or three inches thick.
The natural consequence followed the sudden acquisition of so much
wealth. The soldiers, as soon as they had received their share,
squandered it recklessly, or lost it over dice or cards. A man who had
for his portion one of the great golden images of the Sun taken from the
chief temple, lost it in a single night's gaming, whence came the
proverb common to this day in Spain, 'He plays away the sun before
sunrise.' Another effect of such a superfluity of gold and silver was
the instant rise in the prices of all ordinary things, till gold and
silver seemed to be the only things in Cuzco that were not wealth. Yet
very few indeed of the Spaniards were wise enough to be contented and
return to enjoy their spoils in their native country. After the division
of the treasure, Pizarro's first care was to place the Inca Manco upon
the throne, and demand for him the recognition of his countrymen. All
the coronation ceremonies were duly observed. The people acquiesced
readily, and there were the usual feastings and rejoicings, at which the
royal mummies were paraded according to custom, decked with such
ornaments as remained to them. Pizarro then organised a government for
the city of Cuzco after the fashion of his own country, and turned the
temples into churches and monasteries. He himself was henceforward
styled the Governor. Having heard that Atahuallpa's general Quizquiz was
stationed not far from Cuzco with a large force of the men of Quito,
Pizarro sent Almagro and the Inca Manco to dislodge him, which they did
after some sharp fighting. The general fled to the plains of Quito,
where, after holding out gallantly for a long time, he was massacred by
his own soldiers, weary of the ineffectual struggle.
About this time, Don Pedro de Alvarado, with five hundred well-equipped
men, landed at the Bay of Caraques and marched upon Quito, affecting to
believe that it was a separate kingdom, and not part of that conquered
by Pizarro. This Alvarado was the celebrated cavalier who had been with
Cortés in the conquest of Mexico, and earned from the Aztecs the title
of 'Tonatiuh,' or 'Child of the Sun.' He had been made Governor of
Guatemala, but his avarice being aroused by the reports of Pizarro's
conquests, he turned in the direction of Quito a large fleet which he
had intended for the Spice Islands. The Governor was much disturbed by
the news of his landing, but as matters turned out he need not have
been, for Alvarado, having set out to cross the sierra in the direction
of Quito, was deserted in the midst of the snowy passes by his Indian
guide. His unhappy followers, fresh from the warm climate of Guatemala,
were perished with the cold, and still further distressed by suffocating
clouds of dust and ashes from the volcano of Cotopaxi. After days of
incredible suffering they emerged at last, but leaving behind them at
least a fourth of their number, beside two thousand Indians, who had
died of cold and hunger. When, after all, he did reach Quito, he found
it in the hands of Benalcazah, a cavalier who had been left by Pizarro
at San Miguel, and who had deserted his post in order to take possession
of Quito, tempted by the reports of the treasure it contained, which,
however, he failed to find. Almagro, too, had reached the city before
Alvarado got there; moreover, his men had heard so much of the riches of
Cuzco that they were inclined to desert him and join Pizarro. On the
whole, Alvarado judged it expedient to give up all claim to Quito, and
for a sum of money which, though large, did not cover his expenses, to
hand over to the Governor his fleet, forces, stores, and munitions. This
being settled, he went to Pachacamac to meet Pizarro, who had left his
brother Juan in charge of Cuzco, and was inspecting the defences of the
coast. There being now no question of rivalry, the two cavaliers met in
all courtesy, and Alvarado was hospitably entertained by the Governor,
after which he sailed for Guatemala. Peru might now in a manner be
considered as conquered; some of the tribes in the interior still held
out, but an able officer had been told off to subdue them. Quito and
Cuzco had submitted, the army of Atahuallpa had been beaten and
dispersed, the Inca was the mere shadow of a king, ruled by the
conqueror.
The Governor now turned his attention to building a city which should be
the capital of this new colonial empire. Cuzco lay too far inland, San
Miguel too far to the north. Pizarro fixed upon a spot near the mouth of
a wide river which flowed through the Valley of Rimac, and here soon
arose what was then called the 'City of the Kings,' but is now known as
Lima. Meanwhile, Hernando Pizarro returned to Castile with the royal
fifth, as the Spanish Emperor's share of the treasure was called; he
also took with him all the Spaniards who had had enough of the life of
adventure and wished to settle in their native land to enjoy their
ill-gotten spoils. Pizarro judged rightly that the sight of the gold
would bring him ten recruits for every one who thus returned. And so it
was, for when he again sailed for Peru it was at the head of the most
numerous and the best-appointed fleet that had yet set out. But as so
often happened, disaster pursued him, and only a broken remnant finally
reached the Peruvian shore. Quarrels now arose between Almagro and
Pizarro, the former claiming to be Governor of Cuzco; and when after
many difficulties peace was again made, and Almagro, withdrawing his
claim, had led his partisans off to conquer Chili, a new trouble began.
The Inca Manco, under pretext of showing Hernando Pizarro a hidden
treasure, managed to make his escape; the Peruvians flocked to his
banner, and the party of Spaniards under Juan Pizarro who were sent out
to recapture him returned to Cuzco weary and wounded after many
unsuccessful struggles with the enemy, only to find the city closely
surrounded by a mighty host of Indians. They were, however, allowed to
enter the capital, and then began a terrible siege which lasted for more
than five months. Day and night the Spaniards were harassed by showers
of missiles. Sometimes the flights of burning arrows or red-hot stones
wrapped in some inflammable substance would cause fearful fires in all
quarters of the town at once; three times in one day did the flames
attack the very building which sheltered the Spaniards, but fortunately
they were extinguished without doing much harm. In vain did the
besieged make desperate sallies; the Indians planted stakes to entangle
their horses, and took the riders prisoners by means of the lasso, which
they used with great skill. To add to their distress the great citadel
which dominated the town had fallen into the hands of the enemy, and
though after a gallant struggle it was retaken, yet it was at the cost
of Juan Pizarro's life. As for the Inca noble who defended it, when he
saw that the citadel must fall, he cast away his war-club, and, folding
his mantle about him, threw himself headlong from the battlements.
Famine now began to be felt sharply, and it added horror to the
situation of the besieged when, after they had heard no tidings of their
countrymen for months, the blood-stained heads of eight or ten Spaniards
were one day rolled into the market place, leading them to believe that
the rising of the Indians had been simultaneous all over the country,
and that their friends were faring no better than themselves. Things
were not, however, quite so desperate as they imagined, for Francisco
Pizarro when attacked in the City of the Kings had sallied forth and
inflicted such a severe chastisement upon the Peruvians that they
afterwards kept their distance from him, contenting themselves with
cutting off his communication with the interior. Several detachments of
soldiers whom he sent to the relief of his brothers in Cuzco were,
however, enticed by the natives into the mountain passes and there
slain, as also were some solitary settlers on their own estates.
At last, in the month of August, the Inca drew off his forces, and
intrenching himself in Tambo, not far from Cuzco, with a considerable
body of men, and posting another force to keep watch upon Cuzco and
intercept supplies, he dismissed the remainder to the cultivation of
their lands. The Spaniards thereupon made frequent forays, and on one
occasion the starving soldiers joyfully secured two thousand Peruvian
sheep, which saved them from hunger for a time. Once Pizarro desperately
attacked Tambo itself, but was driven off with heavy loss, and hunted
back ignominiously into Cuzco; but this was the last triumph of the
Inca. Soon afterwards Almagro appeared upon the scene, and sent an
embassy to the Inca, with whom he had formerly been friendly. Manco
received him well, but his suspicions being aroused by a secret
conference between Almagro's men and the Spaniards in Cuzco, he fell
suddenly upon the former, and a great battle ensued in which the
Peruvians were decidedly beaten and the power of the Inca was broken. He
died some few years later, leaving the Spaniards still fighting among
themselves for the possession of the country. Almagro after some years
of strife and adventure was put to death by Hernando Pizarro when he was
nearly seventy years old. His son, a gallant and well-beloved youth, who
succeeded him, met the same fate in the same place--the great square of
Cuzco--a few years later. Hernando himself suffered a long imprisonment
in Spain for the murder of Almagro, with serene courage, and even lived
some time after his release, being a hundred years old when he died.
Gonzola Pizarro was beheaded in Peru, at the age of forty-two, for
rebelling against the authority of the Spanish Emperor. Francisco
Pizarro was murdered in his own house in the City of the Kings, in the
month of June 1541, by the desperate adherents of the young Almagro, or
the 'Men of Chili' as they were called, and was buried hastily and
secretly by a few faithful servants in an obscure corner of the
cathedral. Such was the miserable end of the conqueror of Peru. 'There
was none even,' says an old chronicler, 'to cry "God forgive him!"'
PRINTED BY
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors corrected.
Illustrations were moved outside of paragraphs. Due to this movement,
some of the original page numbers in the list of illustrations may not
match the actual location.
Many and varied were the hyphenations in this text due to the different
stories. Examples are: cocoa-nuts and cocoanuts, and head-quarters and
headquarters. These variations were retained.
Page 12, "36 " was changed to "362"
Page 12, the final illustrations page number was obscurred. The number
was added.
Page 21, "litttle" changed to "little" (or very little later)
Page 30, "bele" changed to "belle" (France la belle)
Page 54, "gainst" changed to "against" (led a sally against)
Page 87, Footnote, "litt e" changed to "little" (a little fancy)
Page 270, "Kinlock-moidart" changed to "Kinloch Moidart" to match rest
of usage in text. (Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart)
Page 272, "thec aves" changed to "the caves" (in the caves of)
Page 298, the second digit in "29th" was presumed as the number was only
faintly visible on the original. (the 29th of October)
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