Title: The True Story Book
Author: Lang, Andrew, 1844-1912 [Editor]
Language: English
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THE TRUE STORY BOOK

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WORKS BY ANDREW LANG.


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          THE TRUE STORY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With
          Plates and Illustrations in the Text by H. J.
          Ford, Lucien Davis, Lancelot Speed, and L. Bogle.
          Crown 8vo. 6_s._

          London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
          New York: 15 East 16th Street.

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[Illustration: MONTEZUMA GREETS THE SPANIARDS]


THE TRUE STORY BOOK

Edited by

ANDREW LANG

With Numerous Illustrations by L. Bogle, Lucien Davis, H. J. Ford,
C. H. M. Kerr, and Lancelot Speed



[Illustration]

London
Longmans, Green, and Co
and New York: 15 East 16th Street
1893

All rights reserved



_DEDICATION_

_TO FRANCIS McCUNN_


          _You like the things I used to like,
             The things I'm fond of still,
           The sound of fairy wands that strike
             Men into beasts at will;_

          _The cruel stepmother, the fair
             Stepdaughter, kind and leal,
           The bull and bear so debonair,
             The trenchant fairy steel._

          _You love the world where brute and fish
             Converse with man and bird,
           Where dungeons open at a wish,
             And seas dry at a word._

          _That merry world to-day we leave,
             We list an ower-true tale,
           Of hearts that sore for Charlie grieve,
            When handsome princes fail,_

          _Of gallant races overthrown,
             Of dungeons ill to climb,
           There's no such tale of trouble known,
             In all the fairy time._

          _There Montezuma still were king,
             There Charles would wear the crown,
           And there the Highlanders would ding
             The Hanoverian down:_

          _In Fairyland the Rightful Cause
             Is never long a-winning,
           In Fairyland the fairy laws
             Are prompt to punish sinning:_

          _For Fairyland's the land of joy,
             And this the world of pain,
           So back to Fairyland, my boy,
             We'll journey once again!_



INTRODUCTION


IT is not without diffidence that the editor offers _The True Story
Book_ to children. We have now given them three fairy books, and their
very kind and flattering letters to the editor prove, not only that they
like the three fairy books, but that they clamour for more. What
disappointment, then, to receive a volume full of adventures which
actually happened to real people! There is not a dragon in the
collection, nor even a giant; witches, here, play no part, and almost
all the characters are grown up. On the other hand, if we have no
fairies, we have princes in plenty, and a sweeter young prince than
Tearlach (as far as this part of his story goes) the editor flatters
himself that you shall nowhere find, not in Grimm, or Dasent, or
Perrault. Still, it cannot be denied that true stories are not so good
as fairy tales. They do not always end happily, and, what is worse, they
do remind a young student of lessons and schoolrooms. A child may fear
that he is being taught under a specious pretence of diversion, and that
learning is being thrust on him under the disguise of entertainment.
Prince Charlie and Cortés may be asked about in examinations, whereas no
examiner has hitherto set questions on 'Blue Beard,' or 'Heart of Ice,'
or 'The Red Etin of Ireland.' There is, to be honest, no way of getting
over this difficulty. But the editor vows that he does not mean to teach
anybody, and he has tried to mix the stories up so much that no clear
and consecutive view of history can possibly be obtained from them;
moreover, when history does come in, it is not the kind of history
favoured most by examiners. They seldom set questions on the conquest of
Mexico, for example.

That is a very long story, but, to the editor's taste, it is simply the
best true story in the world, the most unlikely, and the most romantic.
For who could have supposed that the new-found world of the West held
all that wealth of treasure, emeralds and gold, all those people, so
beautiful and brave, so courteous and cruel, with their terrible gods,
hideous human sacrifices, and almost Christian prayers? That a handful
of Spaniards, themselves mistaken for children of a white god, should
have crossed the sea, should have found a lovely lady, as in a fairy
tale, ready to lead them to victory, should have planted the cross on
the shambles of Huitzilopochtli, after that wild battle on the temple
crest, should have been driven in rout from, and then recaptured, the
Venice of the West, the lake city of Mexico--all this is as strange, as
unlooked for, as any story of adventures in a new planet could be. No
invention of fights and wanderings in Noman's land, no search for the
mines of Solomon the king, can approach, for strangeness and romance,
this tale, which is true, and vouched for by Spanish conquerors like
Bernal Diaz, and by native historians like Ixtlilochitl, and by later
missionaries like Sahagun. Cortés is the great original of all
treasure-hunters and explorers in fiction, and here no feigned tale can
be the equal of the real. As Mr. Prescott's admirable history is not a
book much read by children (nor even by 'grown-ups' for that matter),
the editor hopes children will be pleased to find the 'Adventures in
Anahuac' in this collection. Miss Edgeworth tells us in _Orlandino_ how
much the tale delighted the young before Mr. Prescott wrote that
excellent narrative of the world's chief adventure. May it please still,
as it did when the century was young!

The adventures of Prince Charlie are already known, in part, to boys and
girls who have read the _Tales of a Grandfather_, for pleasure and not
as a school book. But here Mrs. McCunn has treated of them at greater
length and more minutely. The source, here, is in these seven brown
octavo volumes, all written in the closest hand, which are a treasure of
the Advocates' Library in Edinburgh. The author is Mr. Forbes, a bishop
of the persecuted Episcopalian Church in Scotland. Mr. Forbes collected
his information very carefully, closely comparing the narratives of the
various actors in the story. Into the boards of his volumes are fastened
a scrap of the Prince's tartan waistcoat, a rag from his sprigged calico
dress, a bit of his brogues--a twopenny treasure that has been wept and
prayed over by the faithful. Nobody, in a book for children, would have
the heart to tell the tale of the Prince's later years, of a moody,
heart-broken, degraded exile. But, in the hills and the isles, bating a
little wilfulness and foolhardiness, and the affair of the broken
punch-bowl, Prince Charles is a model for princes and all men, brave,
gay, much-enduring, good-humoured, kind, royally courteous, and
considerate, even beyond what may be gathered from this part of the
book, while the loyalty of the Highlanders (as in the case of Mackinnon,
flogged nearly to death) was proof against torture as well as against
gold. It is the Sobieski strain, not the Stuart, that we here admire in
Prince Charles; it is a piety, a loyalty, a goodness like Gordon's that
we revere in old Lord Pitsligo in another story.

Many of the tales are concerned with fighting, for that is the most
dramatic part of mortal business. These English captives who retake a
ship from the Turks, these heroes of the _Shannon_ and the _Chesapeake_,
were doubtless good men and true in all their lives, but the light of
history only falls on them in war. The immortal Three Hundred of
Thermopylæ would also have been unknown, had they not died, to a man,
for the sake of the honour of Lacedæmon. The editor conceives that it
would have been easy to give more 'local colour' to the sketch of
Thermopylæ: to have dealt in description of the Immortals, drawn from
the friezes in Susa, lately discovered by French enterprise. But the
story is Greek, and the Greeks did not tell their stories in that way,
but with a simplicity almost bald. Yet who dare alter and 'improve' the
narrative of Herodotus? In another most romantic event, the finding of
Vineland the Good, by Leif the Lucky, our materials are vague with the
vagueness of a dream. Later fancy has meddled with the truth of the
saga. English readers, no doubt, best catch the charm of the adventure
in Mr. Rudyard Kipling's astonishingly imaginative tale called 'The Best
Story in the World.' For the account of Isandhlwana, and Rorke's Drift,
'an ower-true tale,' the editor has to thank his friend Mr. Rider
Haggard, who was in South Africa at the time of the disaster, and who
has generously given time and labour to the task of ascertaining, as far
as it can be ascertained, the exact truth of the melancholy, but,
finally, not inglorious, business. The legend of 'Two Great Cricket
Matches' is taken, in part, from Lillywhite's scores, and Mr. Robert
Lyttelton's spirited pages in the 'Badminton' book of Cricket. The
second match the editor writes of 'as he who saw it,' to quote Caxton on
Dares Phrygius. These legends prove that a match is never lost till it
is won.

Some of the True Stories contain, we may surmise, traces of the
imaginative faculty. The escapes of Benvenuto Cellini, of Trenck, and of
Casanova must be taken as the heroes chose to report them; Benvenuto and
Casanova have no firm reputation for veracity. Again, the escape of
Cæsar Borgia is from a version handed down by the great Alexandre
Dumas, and we may surmise that Alexandre allowed it to lose nothing in
the telling; he may have 'given it a sword and a cocked hat,' as was Sir
Walter's wont. About Kaspar Hauser's mystery we can hardly speak of 'the
truth,' for the exact truth will never be known. The depositions of the
earliest witnesses were not taken at once; some witnesses altered their
evidence in later years; parts of the records of Nuremberg are lost in
suspicious circumstances. The Duchess of Cleveland's book, _Kaspar
Hauser_, is written in defence of her father, Lord Stanhope. The charges
against Lord Stanhope, that he aided in, or connived at, the slaying of
Kaspar, because Kaspar was the true heir of the House of Baden--are as
childish as they are wicked. But the Duchess hardly allows for the
difficulties in which we find ourselves if we regard Kaspar as
absolutely and throughout an impostor. This, however, is not the place
to discuss an historical mystery; this 'true story' is told as a romance
founded on fact; the hypothesis that Kaspar was a son and heir of the
house of Baden seems, to the editor, to be absolutely devoid of
evidence.

To Madame Von Platt Stuart the author owes permission to quote the
striking adventures of her father, or of her uncle, on the flooded
Findhorn. The _Lays of the Deer Forest_, which contain this tale in the
volume of notes, were written by John Sobieski Stuart, and by Charles
Edward Stuart, and the editor is uncertain as to which of those
gentlemen was the hero of these perilous crossings of the Highland
river. Many other good tales, legends, and studies of natural history
and of Highland manners may be found in the _Lays of the Deer Forest_,
apart from the curious interest of the poems. On the whole, with certain
exceptions, the editor has tried to find true stories rather out of the
beaten paths of history; the narrative of John Tanner, for instance, is
probably true, but the book in which his adventures were published is
now rather difficult to procure. For 'A Boy among the Red Indians,' 'Two
Cricket Matches,' 'The Spartan Three Hundred,' 'The Finding of Vineland
the Good,' and 'The Escapes of Lord Pitsligo,' the editor is himself
responsible, as far as they do not consist of extracts from the original
sources. Miss May Kendall translated or adapted Casanova's escape and
the piratical and Algerine tales. Mrs. Lang reduced the narrative of the
Chevalier Johnstone, and did the escapes of Cæsar Borgia, of Trenck, and
Cervantes, while Miss Blackley renders that of Benvenuto Cellini. Mrs.
McCunn, as already said, compiled from the sources indicated the
Adventures of Prince Charles, and she tells the story of Grace Darling;
the contemporary account is, unluckily, rather meagre. Miss Alleyne did
'The Kidnapping of the Princes,' Mrs. Plowden the 'Story of Kaspar
Hauser.' Miss Wright reduced the Adventures of Cortés from Prescott, and
Mr. Rider Haggard has already been mentioned in connection with
Isandhlwana.

Here the editor leaves _The True Story Book_ to the indulgence of
children, explaining, once more, that his respect for their judgment is
very great, and that he would not dream of imposing _lessons_ on _them_,
in the shape of a Christmas book. No, lessons are one thing, and stories
are another. But though fiction is undeniably stranger and more
attractive than truth, yet true stories are also rather attractive and
strange, now and then. And, after all, we may return once more to
Fairyland, after this excursion into the actual workaday world.



CONTENTS


                                                       PAGE

  _A Boy among the Red Indians_                           1

  _Casanova's Escape_                                    16

  _Adventures on the Findhorn_                           29

  _The Story of Grace Darling_                           41

  _The 'Shannon' and the 'Chesapeake'_                   48

  _Captain Snelgrave and the Pirates_                    52

  _The Spartan Three Hundred_                            64

  _Prince Charlie's Wanderings_                          68

  _Two Great Matches_                                   105

  _The Story of Kaspar Hauser_                          113

  _An Artist's Adventure_                               122

  _The Tale of Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift_           132

  _How Leif the Lucky found Vineland the Good_          153

  _The Escapes of Cervantes_                            161

  _The Worthy Enterprise of John Foxe_                  168

  _Baron Trenck_                                        176

  _The Adventure of John Rawlins_                       186

  _The Chevalier Johnstone's Escape from Culloden_      193

  _The Adventures of Lord Pitsligo_                     207

  _The Escape of Cæsar Borgia from the Castle of
       Medina del Campo_                                213

  _The Kidnapping of the Princes_                       219

  _The Conquest of Montezuma's Empire_                  224

  _Adventures of Bartholomew Portugues, a Pirate_       326

  _The Return of the French Freebooters_                330



PLATES


  _Montezuma greets the Spaniards_           _Frontispiece_

  _The Findhorn_                               _To face_ 36

  _Grace Darling_                                  "     44

  _'Some of the Pirates . . . had thrown several
       Buckets of Claret upon him'_                 "     60

  _The Ball hit the Middle Stump_                  "    108

  _He prepared to attack the Sentry_               "    126

  _Montezuma greets the Spaniards_                 "    270

  _Cortés in the Temple of Huitzilopochtli_        "    276

  _Montezuma assailed by Missiles_                 "    296



_A BOY AMONG THE RED INDIANS_


THE earliest event of my life which I distinctly remember (says John
Tanner) is the death of my mother. This happened when I was two years
old, and many of the attending circumstances made so deep an impression
that they are still fresh in my memory. I cannot recollect the name of
the settlement at which we lived, but I have since learned it was on the
Kentucky River, at a considerable distance from the Ohio.

My father, whose name was John Tanner, was an emigrant from Virginia,
and had been a clergyman.

When about to start one morning to a village at some distance, he gave,
as it appeared, a strict charge to my sisters, Agatha and Lucy, to send
me to school; but this they neglected to do until afternoon, and then,
as the weather was rainy and unpleasant, I insisted on remaining at
home. When my father returned at night, and found that I had been at
home all day, he sent me for a parcel of small canes, and flogged me
much more severely than I could suppose the offence merited. I was
displeased with my sisters for attributing all the blame to me, when
they had neglected even to tell me to go to school in the forenoon. From
that time, my father's house was less like home to me, and I often
thought and said, 'I wish I could go and live among the Indians.'

One day we went from Cincinnati to the mouth of the Big Miami, opposite
which we were to settle. Here was some cleared land, and one or two log
cabins, but they had been deserted on account of the Indians. My father
rebuilt the cabins, and inclosed them with a strong picket. It was early
in the spring when we arrived at the mouth of the Big Miami, and we were
soon engaged in preparing a field to plant corn. I think it was not more
than ten days after our arrival, when my father told us in the morning,
that, from the actions of the horses, he perceived there were Indians
lurking about in the woods, and he said to me, 'John, you must not go
out of the house to-day.' After giving strict charge to my stepmother to
let none of the little children go out, he went to the field, with the
negroes, and my elder brother, to drop corn.

Three little children, besides myself, were left in the house with my
stepmother. To prevent me from going out, my stepmother required me to
take care of the little child, then not more than a few months old; but
as I soon became impatient of confinement, I began to pinch my little
brother, to make him cry. My mother, perceiving his uneasiness, told me
to take him in my arms and walk about the house; I did so, but continued
to pinch him. My mother at length took him from me to nurse him. I
watched my opportunity, and escaped into the yard; thence through a
small door in the large gate of the wall into the open field. There was
a walnut-tree at some distance from the house, and near the side of the
field where I had been in the habit of finding some of the last year's
nuts. To gain this tree without being seen by my father and those in the
field, I had to use some precaution. I remember perfectly well having
seen my father, as I skulked towards the tree; he stood in the middle of
the field, with his gun in his hand, to watch for Indians, while the
others were dropping corn. As I came near the tree, I thought to myself,
'I wish I could see these Indians.' I had partly filled with nuts a
straw hat which I wore, when I heard a crackling noise behind me; I
looked round, and saw the Indians; almost at the same instant, I was
seized by both hands, and dragged off betwixt two. One of them took my
straw hat, emptied the nuts on the ground, and put it on my head. The
Indians who seized me were an old man and a young one; these were, as I
learned subsequently, Manito-o-geezhik, and his son Kish-kau-ko.

[Illustration]

After I saw myself firmly seized by both wrists by the two Indians, I
was not conscious of anything that passed for a considerable time. I
must have fainted, as I did not cry out, and I can remember nothing that
happened to me until they threw me over a large log, which must have
been at a considerable distance from the house. The old man I did not
now see; I was dragged along between Kish-kau-ko and a very short thick
man. I had probably made some resistance, or done something to irritate
this last, for he took me a little to one side, and drawing his
tomahawk, motioned to me to look up. This I plainly understood, from the
expression of his face, and his manner, to be a direction for me to look
up for the last time, as he was about to kill me. I did as he directed,
but Kish-kau-ko caught his hand as the tomahawk was descending, and
prevented him from burying it in my brains. Loud talking ensued between
the two. Kish-kau-ko presently raised a yell: the old man and four
others answered it by a similar yell, and came running up. I have since
understood that Kish-kau-ko complained to his father that the short man
had made an attempt to kill his little brother, as he called me. The
old chief, after reproving him, took me by one hand, and Kish-kau-ko by
the other and dragged me betwixt them, the man who had threatened to
kill me, and who was now an object of terror to me, being kept at some
distance. I could perceive, as I retarded them somewhat in their
retreat, that they were apprehensive of being overtaken; some of them
were always at some distance from us.

It was about one mile from my father's house to the place where they
threw me into a hickory-bark canoe, which was concealed under the
bushes, on the bank of the river. Into this they all seven jumped, and
immediately crossed the Ohio, landing at the mouth of the Big Miami, and
on the south side of that river. Here they abandoned their canoe, and
stuck their paddles in the ground, so that they could be seen from the
river. At a little distance in the woods they had some blankets and
provisions concealed; they offered me some dry venison and bear's
grease, but I could not eat. My father's house was plainly to be seen
from the place where we stood; they pointed at it, looked at me, and
laughed, but I have never known what they said.

After they had eaten a little, they began to ascend the Miami, dragging
me along as before.

It must have been early in the spring when we arrived at Sau-ge-nong,
for I can remember that at this time the leaves were small, and the
Indians were about planting their corn. They managed to make me assist
at their labours, partly by signs, and partly by the few words of
English old Manito-o-geezhik could speak. After planting, they all left
the village, and went out to hunt and dry meat. When they came to their
hunting-grounds, they chose a place where many deer resorted, and here
they began to build a long screen like a fence; this they made of green
boughs and small trees. When they had built a part of it, they showed me
how to remove the leaves and dry brush from that side of it to which the
Indians were to come to shoot the deer. In this labour I was sometimes
assisted by the squaws and children, but at other times I was left
alone. It now began to be warm weather, and it happened one day that,
having been left alone, as I was tired and thirsty, I fell asleep. I
cannot tell how long I slept, but when I began to awake, I thought I
heard someone crying a great way off. Then I tried to raise up my head,
but could not. Being now more awake, I saw my Indian mother and sister
standing by me, and perceived that my face and head were wet. The old
woman and her daughter were crying bitterly, but it was some time
before I perceived that my head was badly cut and bruised. It appears
that, after I had fallen asleep, Manito-o-geezhik, passing that way, had
perceived me, had tomahawked me, and thrown me in the bushes; and that
when he came to his camp he had said to his wife, 'Old woman, the boy I
brought you is good for nothing; I have killed him; you will find him in
such a place.' The old woman and her daughter having found me,
discovered still some signs of life, and had stood over me a long time,
crying, and pouring cold water on my head, when I waked. In a few days I
recovered in some measure from this hurt, and was again set to work at
the screen, but I was more careful not to fall asleep; I endeavoured to
assist them at their labours, and to comply in all instances with their
directions, but I was notwithstanding treated with great harshness,
particularly by the old man, and his two sons She-mung and Kwo-tash-e.
While we remained at the hunting camp, one of them put a bridle in my
hand, and pointing in a certain direction motioned me to go. I went
accordingly, supposing he wished me to bring a horse: I went and caught
the first I could find, and in this way I learned to discharge such
services as they required of me.

I had been about two years at Sau-ge-nong, when a great council was
called by the British agents at Mackinac. This council was attended by
the Sioux, the Winnebagoes, the Menomonees, and many remote tribes, as
well as by the Ojibbeways, Ottawwaws, &c. When old Manito-o-geezhik
returned from this council, I soon learned that he had met there his
kinswoman, Net-no-kwa, who, notwithstanding her sex, was then regarded
as principal chief of the Ottawwaws. This woman had lost her son, of
about my age, by death; and, having heard of me, she wished to purchase
me to supply his place. My old Indian mother, the Otter woman, when she
heard of this, protested vehemently against it. I heard her say, 'My son
has been dead once, and has been restored to me; I cannot lose him
again.' But these remonstrances had little influence when Net-no-kwa
arrived with plenty of whisky and other presents. She brought to the
lodge first a ten-gallon keg of whisky, blankets, tobacco, and other
articles of great value. She was perfectly acquainted with the
dispositions of those with whom she had to negotiate. Objections were
made to the exchange until the contents of the keg had circulated for
some time; then an additional keg, and a few more presents, completed
the bargain, and I was transferred to Net-no-kwa. This woman, who was
then advanced in years, was of a more pleasing aspect than my former
mother. She took me by the hand, after she had completed the negotiation
with my former possessors, and led me to her own lodge, which stood
near. Here I soon found I was to be treated more indulgently than I had
been. She gave me plenty of food, put good clothes upon me, and told me
to go and play with her own sons. We remained but a short time at
Sau-ge-nong. She would not stop with me at Mackinac, which we passed in
the night, but ran along to Point St. Ignace, where she hired some
Indians to take care of me, while she returned to Mackinac by herself,
or with one or two of her young men. After finishing her business at
Mackinac, she returned, and, continuing on our journey, we arrived in a
few days at Shab-a-wy-wy-a-gun.

The husband of Net-no-kwa was an Ojibbeway of Red River, called
Taw-ga-we-ninne, the hunter. He was seventeen years younger than
Net-no-kwa, and had turned off a former wife on being married to her.
Taw-ga-we-ninne was always indulgent and kind to me, treating me like an
equal, rather than as a dependent. When speaking to me, he always called
me his son. Indeed, he himself was but of secondary importance in the
family, as everything belonged to Net-no-kwa, and she had the direction
in all affairs of any moment. She imposed on me, for the first year,
some tasks. She made me cut wood, bring home game, bring water, and
perform other services not commonly required of the boys of my age; but
she treated me invariably with so much kindness that I was far more
happy and content than I had been in the family of Manito-o-geezhik. She
sometimes whipped me, as she did her own children: but I was not so
severely and frequently beaten as I had been before.

Early in the spring, Net-no-kwa and her husband, with their family,
started to go to Mackinac. They left me, as they had done before, at
Point St. Ignace, as they would not run the risk of losing me by
suffering me to be seen at Mackinac. On our return, after we had gone
twenty-five or thirty miles from Point St. Ignace, we were detained by
contrary winds at a place called Me-nau-ko-king, a point running out
into the lake. Here we encamped with some other Indians, and a party of
traders. Pigeons were very numerous in the woods, and the boys of my
age, and the traders, were busy shooting them. I had never killed any
game, and, indeed, had never in my life discharged a gun. My mother had
purchased at Mackinac a keg of powder, which, as they thought it a
little damp, was here spread out to dry. Taw-ga-we-ninne had a large
horseman's pistol; and, finding myself somewhat emboldened by his
indulgent manner toward me, I requested permission to go and try to kill
some pigeons with the pistol. My request was seconded by Net-no-kwa, who
said, 'It is time for our son to begin to learn to be a hunter.'
Accordingly, my father, as I called Taw-ga-we-ninne, loaded the pistol
and gave it to me, saying, 'Go, my son, and if you kill anything with
this, you shall immediately have a gun and learn to hunt.' Since I have
been a man, I have been placed in difficult situations; but my anxiety
for success was never greater than in this, my first essay as a hunter.
I had not gone far from the camp before I met with pigeons, and some of
them alighted in the bushes very near me. I cocked my pistol, and raised
it to my face, bringing the breech almost in contact with my nose.
Having brought the sight to bear upon the pigeon, I pulled trigger, and
was in the next instant sensible of a humming noise, like that of a
stone sent swiftly through the air. I found the pistol at the distance
of some paces behind me, and the pigeon under the tree on which he had
been sitting. My face was much bruised, and covered with blood. I ran
home, carrying my pigeon in triumph. My face was speedily bound up; my
pistol exchanged for a fowling-piece; I was accoutred with a
powder-horn, and furnished with shot, and allowed to go out after birds.
One of the young Indians went with me, to observe my manner of shooting.
I killed three more pigeons in the course of the afternoon, and did not
discharge my gun once without killing. Henceforth I began to be treated
with more consideration, and was allowed to hunt often, that I might
become expert.

Game began to be scarce, and we all suffered from hunger. The chief man
of our band was called As-sin-ne-boi-nainse (the Little Assinneboin),
and he now proposed to us all to move, as the country where we were was
exhausted. The day on which we were to commence our removal was fixed
upon, but before it arrived our necessities became extreme. The evening
before the day on which we intended to move my mother talked much of all
our misfortunes and losses, as well as of the urgent distress under
which we were then labouring. At the usual hour I went to sleep, as did
all the younger part of the family; but I was wakened again by the loud
praying and singing of the old woman, who continued her devotions
through great part of the night. Very early on the following morning she
called us all to get up, and put on our moccasins, and be ready to
move. She then called Wa-me-gon-a-biew to her, and said to him, in
rather a low voice, 'My son, last night I sung and prayed to the Great
Spirit, and when I slept, there came to me one like a man, and said to
me, "Net-no-kwa, to-morrow you shall eat a bear. There is, at a distance
from the path you are to travel to-morrow, and in such a direction"
(which she described to him), "a small round meadow, with something like
a path leading from it; in that path there is a bear." Now, my son, I
wish you to go to that place, without mentioning to anyone what I have
said, and you will certainly find the bear, as I have described to you.'
But the young man, who was not particularly dutiful, or apt to regard
what his mother said, going out of the lodge, spoke sneeringly to the
other Indians of the dream. 'The old woman,' said he, 'tells me we are
to eat a bear to-day; but I do not know who is to kill it.' The old
woman, hearing him, called him in, and reproved him; but she could not
prevail upon him to go to hunt.

I had my gun with me, and I continued to think of the conversation I had
heard between my mother and Wa-me-gon-a-biew respecting her dream. At
length I resolved to go in search of the place she had spoken of, and
without mentioning to anyone my design, I loaded my gun as for a bear,
and set off on our back track. I soon met a woman belonging to one of
the brothers of Taw-ga-we-ninne, and of course my aunt. This woman had
shown little friendship for us, considering us as a burthen upon her
husband, who sometimes gave something for our support; she had also
often ridiculed me. She asked me immediately what I was doing on the
path, and whether I expected to kill Indians, that I came there with my
gun. I made her no answer; and thinking I must be not far from the place
where my mother had told Wa-me-gon-a-biew to leave the path, I turned
off, continuing carefully to regard all the directions she had given. At
length I found what appeared at some former time to have been a pond. It
was a small, round, open place in the woods, now grown up with grass and
small bushes. This I thought must be the meadow my mother had spoken of;
and examining around it, I came to an open space in the bushes, where,
it is probable, a small brook ran from the meadow; but the snow was now
so deep that I could see nothing of it. My mother had mentioned that,
when she saw the bear in her dream, she had, at the same time, seen a
smoke rising from the ground. I was confident this was the place she had
indicated, and I watched long, expecting to see the smoke; but, wearied
at length with waiting, I walked a few paces into the open place,
resembling a path, when I unexpectedly fell up to my middle in the snow.
I extricated myself without difficulty, and walked on; but, remembering
that I had heard the Indians speak of killing bears in their holes, it
occurred to me that it might be a bear's hole into which I had fallen,
and, looking down into it, I saw the head of a bear lying close to the
bottom of the hole. I placed the muzzle of my gun nearly between his
eyes and discharged it. As soon as the smoke cleared away, I took a
piece of stick and thrust it into the eyes and into the wound in the
head of the bear, and, being satisfied that he was dead, I endeavoured
to lift him out of the hole; but being unable to do this, I returned
home, following the track I had made in coming out. As I came near the
camp, where the squaws had by this time set up the lodges, I met the
same woman I had seen in going out, and she immediately began again to
ridicule me. 'Have you killed a bear, that you come back so soon, and
walk so fast?' I thought to myself, 'How does she know that I have
killed a bear?' But I passed by her without saying anything, and went
into my mother's lodge. After a few minutes, the old woman said, 'My
son, look in that kettle, and you will find a mouthful of beaver meat,
which a man gave me since you left us in the morning. You must leave
half of it for Wa-me-gon-a-biew, who has not yet returned from hunting,
and has eaten nothing to-day.' I accordingly ate the beaver meat, and
when I had finished it, observing an opportunity when she stood by
herself, I stepped up to her, and whispered in her ear, 'My mother, I
have killed a bear.' 'What do you say, my son?' said she. 'I have killed
a bear.' 'Are you sure you have killed him?' 'Yes.' 'Is he quite dead?'
'Yes.' She watched my face for a moment, and then caught me in her arms,
hugging and kissing me with great earnestness, and for a long time. I
then told her what my aunt had said to me, both going and returning, and
this being told to her husband when he returned, he not only reproved
her for it, but gave her a severe flogging. The bear was sent for, and,
as being the first I had killed, was cooked all together, and the
hunters of the whole band invited to feast with us, according to the
custom of the Indians. The same day one of the Crees killed a bear and a
moose, and gave a large share of the meat to my mother.

[Illustration]

One winter I hunted for a trader called by the Indians Aneeb, which
means an elm-tree. As the winter advanced, and the weather became more
and more cold, I found it difficult to procure as much game as I had
been in the habit of supplying, and as was wanted by the trader. Early
one morning, about mid-winter, I started an elk. I pursued until night,
and had almost overtaken him; but hope and strength failed me at the
same time. What clothing I had on me, notwithstanding the extreme
coldness of the weather, was drenched with sweat. It was not long after
I turned towards home that I felt it stiffening about me. My leggings
were of cloth, and were torn in pieces in running through the bush. I
was conscious I was somewhat frozen before I arrived at the place where
I had left our lodge standing in the morning, and it was now midnight.
I knew it had been the old woman's intention to move, and I knew where
she would go; but I had not been informed she would go on that day. As I
followed on their path, I soon ceased to suffer from cold, and felt that
sleepy sensation which I knew preceded the last stage of weakness in
such as die of cold. I redoubled my efforts, but with an entire
consciousness of the danger of my situation; it was with no small
difficulty that I could prevent myself from lying down. At length I lost
all consciousness for some time, how long I cannot tell, and, awaking as
from a dream, I found I had been walking round and round in a small
circle not more than twenty or twenty-five yards over. After the return
of my senses, I looked about to try to discover my path, as I had missed
it; but, while I was looking, I discovered a light at a distance, by
which I directed my course. Once more, before I reached the lodge, I
lost my senses; but I did not fall down; if I had, I should never have
got up again; but I ran round and round in a circle as before. When I at
last came into the lodge, I immediately fell down, but I did not lose
myself as before. I can remember seeing the thick and sparkling coat of
frost on the inside of the pukkwi lodge, and hearing my mother say that
she had kept a large fire in expectation of my arrival; and that she had
not thought I should have been so long gone in the morning, but that I
should have known long before night of her having moved. It was a month
before I was able to go out again, my face, hands, and legs having been
much frozen.

There is, on the bank of the Little Saskawjewun, a place which looks
like one the Indians would always choose to encamp at. In a bend of the
river is a beautiful landing-place, behind it a little plain, a thick
wood, and a small hill rising abruptly in the rear. But with that spot
is connected a story of fratricide, a crime so uncommon that the spot
where it happened is held in detestation, and regarded with terror. No
Indian will land his canoe, much less encamp, at '_the place of the two
dead men_.' They relate that many years ago the Indians were encamped
here, when a quarrel arose between two brothers, having she-she-gwi for
totems.[1] One drew his knife and slew the other; but those of the band
who were present, looked upon the crime as so horrid that, without
hesitation or delay, they killed the murderer, and buried them together.

As I approached this spot, I thought much of the story of the two
brothers, who bore the same totem with myself, and were, as I supposed,
related to my Indian mother. I had heard it said that, if any man
encamped near their graves, as some had done soon after they were
buried, they would be seen to come out of the ground, and either re-act
the quarrel and the murder, or in some other manner so annoy and disturb
their visitors that they could not sleep. Curiosity was in part my
motive, and I wished to be able to tell the Indians that _I_ not only
stopped, but slept quietly at a place which they shunned with so much
fear and caution. The sun was going down as I arrived; and I pushed my
little canoe in to the shore, kindled a fire, and, after eating my
supper, lay down and slept. Very soon I saw the two dead men come and
sit down by my fire, opposite me. Their eyes were intently fixed upon
me, but they neither smiled nor said anything. I got up and sat opposite
them by the fire, and in this situation I awoke. The night was dark and
gusty, but I saw no men, or heard any other sound than that of the wind
in the trees. It is likely I fell asleep again, for I soon saw the same
two men standing below the bank of the river, their heads just rising to
the level of the ground I had made my fire on, and looking at me as
before. After a few minutes, they rose one after the other, and sat down
opposite me; but now they were laughing, and pushing at me with sticks,
and using various methods of annoyance. I endeavoured to speak to them,
but my voice failed me; I tried to fly, but my feet refused to do their
office. Throughout the whole night I was in a state of agitation and
alarm. Among other things which they said to me, one of them told me to
look at the top of the little hill which stood near. I did so, and saw a
horse fettered, and standing looking at me. 'There, my brother,' said
the ghost, 'is a horse which I give you to ride on your journey
to-morrow; and as you pass here on your way home, you can call and leave
the horse, and spend another night with us.'

At last came the morning, and I was in no small degree pleased to find
that with the darkness of the night these terrifying visions vanished.
But my long residence among the Indians, and the frequent instances in
which I had known the intimations of dreams verified, occasioned me to
think seriously of the horse the ghost had given me. Accordingly I went
to the top of the hill, where I discovered tracks and other signs, and,
following a little distance, found a horse, which I knew belonged to the
trader I was going to see. As several miles travel might be saved by
crossing from this point on the Little Saskawjewun to the Assinneboin, I
left the canoe, and, having caught the horse, and put my load upon him,
led him towards the trading-house, where I arrived next day. In all
subsequent journeys through this country, I carefully shunned 'the place
of the two dead'; and the account I gave of what I had seen and suffered
there confirmed the superstitious terrors of the Indians.

I was standing by our lodge one evening, when I saw a good-looking young
woman walking about and smoking. She noticed me from time to time, and
at last came up and asked me to smoke with her. I answered that I never
smoked. 'You do not wish to touch my pipe; for that reason you will not
smoke with me.' I took her pipe and smoked a little, though I had not
been in the habit of smoking before. She remained some time, and talked
with me, and I began to be pleased with her. After this we saw each
other often, and I became gradually attached to her.

I mention this because it was to this woman that I was afterwards
married, and because the commencement of our acquaintance was not after
the usual manner of the Indians. Among them it most commonly happens,
even when a young man marries a woman of his own band, he has previously
had no personal acquaintance with her. They have seen each other in the
village; he has perhaps looked at her in passing, but it is probable
they have never spoken together. The match is agreed on by the old
people, and when their intention is made known to the young couple, they
commonly find, in themselves, no objection to the arrangement, as they
know, should it prove disagreeable mutually, or to either party, it can
at any time be broken off.

I now redoubled my diligence in hunting, and commonly came home with
meat in the early part of the day, at least before night. I then dressed
myself as handsomely as I could, and walked about the village, sometimes
blowing the Pe-be-gwun, or flute. For some time Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa
pretended she was not willing to marry me, and it was not, perhaps,
until she perceived some abatement of ardour on my part that she laid
this affected coyness entirely aside. For my own part, I found that my
anxiety to take a wife home to my lodge was rapidly becoming less and
less. I made several efforts to break off the intercourse, and visit her
no more; but a lingering inclination was too strong for me. When she
perceived my growing indifference, she sometimes reproached me, and
sometimes sought to move me by tears and entreaties; but I said nothing
to the old woman about bringing her home, and became daily more and
more unwilling to acknowledge her publicly as my wife.

About this time I had occasion to go to the trading-house on Red River,
and I started in company with a half-breed belonging to that
establishment, who was mounted on a fleet horse. The distance we had to
travel has since been called by the English settlers seventy miles. We
rode and went on foot by turns, and the one who was on foot kept hold of
the horse's tail, and ran. We passed over the whole distance in one day.
In returning, I was by myself, and without a horse, and I made an
effort, intending, if possible, to accomplish the same journey in one
day; but darkness, and excessive fatigue, compelled me to stop when I
was within about ten miles of home.

When I arrived at our lodge, on the following day, I saw
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa sitting in my place. As I stopped at the door of the
lodge, and hesitated to enter, she hung down her head; but Net-no-kwa
greeted me in a tone somewhat harsher than was common for her to use to
me. 'Will you turn back from the door of the lodge, and put this young
woman to shame, who is in all respects better than you are? This affair
has been of your seeking, and not of mine or hers. You have followed her
about the village heretofore; now you would turn from her, and make her
appear like one who has attempted to thrust herself in your way.' I was,
in part, conscious of the justness of Net-no-kwa's reproaches, and in
part prompted by inclination; I went in and sat down by the side of
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, and thus we became man and wife. Old Net-no-kwa had,
while I was absent at Red River, without my knowledge or consent, made
her bargain with the parents of the young woman, and brought her home,
rightly supposing that it would be no difficult matter to reconcile me
to the measure. In most of the marriages which happen between young
persons, the parties most interested have less to do than in this case.
The amount of presents which the parents of a woman expect to receive in
exchange for her diminishes in proportion to the number of husbands she
may have had.

I now began to attend to some of the ceremonies of what may be called
the initiation of warriors, this being the first time I had been on a
war-party. For the first three times that a man accompanies a war-party,
the customs of the Indians require some peculiar and painful
observances, from which old warriors may, if they choose, be exempted.
The young warrior must constantly paint his face black; must wear a
cap, or head-dress of some kind; must never precede the old warriors,
but follow them, stepping in their tracks. He must never scratch his
head, or any other part of his body, with his fingers, but if he is
compelled to scratch he must use a small stick; the vessel he eats or
drinks out of, or the knife he uses, must be touched by no other person.

The young warrior, however long and fatiguing the march, must neither
eat, nor drink, nor sit down by day; if he halts for a moment, he must
turn his face towards his own country, that the Great Spirit may see
that it is his wish to return home again.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Tanner's wish to return home again, and after many dangerous and
disagreeable adventures he did at last, when almost an old man, come
back to the Whites and tell his history, which, as he could not write,
was taken down at his dictation.[2]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The totem is the crest of the Indians.

[2] From _Tanner's Captivity_. New York, 1830.



_CASANOVA'S ESCAPE_


IN July 1755 Casanova di Seingalt, a Venetian gentleman, who, by reason
of certain books of magic he possessed, fell under the displeasure of
the Church, was imprisoned by order of the Inquisition in a cell in the
ducal palace.

The cell in which he was imprisoned was one of seven called 'The Leads,'
because they were under the palace roof, which was covered neither by
slates nor bricks, but great heavy sheets of lead. They were guarded by
archers, and could only be reached by passing through the hall of
council. The secretary of the Inquisition had charge of their key, which
the gaoler, after going the round of the prisoners, restored to him
every morning. Four of the cells faced eastward over the palace canal,
the other three westward over the court. Casanova's was one of the
three, and he calculated that it was exactly above the private room of
the inquisitors.

For many hours after the gaoler first turned the key upon Casanova he
was left alone in the gloomy cell, not high enough for him to stand
upright in, and destitute even of a couch. He laid aside his silk
mantle, his hat adorned with Spanish lace and a white plume--for, when
roused from sleep and arrested by the Inquisition, he had put on the
suit lying ready, in which he intended to have gone to a gay
entertainment. The heat of the cell was extreme: the prisoner leaned his
elbows on the ledge of the grating which admitted to the cell what light
there was, and fell into a deep and bitter reverie. Eight hours passed,
and then the complete solitude in which he was left began to trouble
him. Another hour, another, and another; but when night really fell, to
take Casanova's own account,

'I became like a raging madman, stamping, cursing, and uttering wild
cries. After more than an hour of this furious exercise, seeing no one,
not hearing the least sign which could have made me imagine that anyone
was aware of my fury, I stretched myself on the ground. . . . But my
bitter grief and anger, and the hard floor on which I lay, did not
prevent me from sleeping.

'The midnight bell woke me: I could not believe that I had really passed
three hours without consciousness of pain. Without moving, lying as I
was on my left side, I stretched out my right hand for my handkerchief,
which I remembered was there. Groping with my hand--heavens! suddenly it
rested upon _another_ hand, icy cold! Terror thrilled me from head to
foot, and my hair rose: I had never in all my life known such an agony
of fear, and would never have thought myself capable of it.

'Three or four minutes I passed, not only motionless, but bereft of
thought; then, recovering my senses, I began to think that the hand I
touched was imaginary. In that conviction I stretched out my arm once
more, only to encounter the same hand, which, with a cry of horror, I
seized, and let go again, drawing back my own. I shuddered, but being
able to reason by this time, I decided that while I slept a corpse had
been laid near me--for I was sure there was nothing when I lay down on
the floor. But whose was the dead body? Some innocent sufferer, perhaps
one of my own friends, whom they had strangled, and laid there that I
might find before my eyes when I woke the example of what my own fate
was to be? That thought made me furious: for the third time I approached
the hand with my own: I clasped it, and at the same instant I tried to
rise, to draw this dead body towards me, and be certain of the hideous
crime. But, as I strove to prop myself on my left elbow, the cold hand I
was clasping became alive, and was withdrawn--and I knew that instant,
to my utter astonishment, that I held none other than my own left hand,
which, lying stiffened on the hard floor, had lost heat and sensation
entirely.'

That incident, though comic, did not cheer Casanova, but gave him matter
for the darkest reflections--since he saw himself in a place where, if
the unreal seemed so true, reality might one day become a dream. In
other words, he feared approaching madness.

But at last came daybreak, and by-and-by the gaoler returned, asking the
prisoner if he had had time to find out what he would like to eat.
Casanova was allowed to send for all he needed from his own apartments
in Venice, but writing-implements, any metal instruments whatever, even
knife and fork, and the books he mentioned, were struck from his list.
The inquisitors sent him books which they themselves thought suitable,
and which drove him, he said, to the verge of madness.

He was not ill-treated--having a daily allowance given him to buy what
food he liked, which was more than he could spend. But the loss of
liberty soon became insupportable. For months he believed that his
deliverance was close at hand; but when November came, and he saw no
prospect of release, he began to form projects of escape. And soon the
idea of freeing himself, however wild and impossible it seemed, took
complete possession of him.

[Illustration]

By-and-by he was allowed half an hour's daily promenade in the corridor
(galetas) outside his cell--a dingy, rat-infested place, into which old
rubbish was apt to drift. One day Casanova noticed a piece of black
marble on the floor--polished, an inch thick and six inches long. He
picked it up stealthily, and without any definite intention, managed to
hide it away in his cell.

Another morning his eyes fell upon a long iron bolt, lying on the floor
with other old odds and ends, and that also, concealed in his dress, he
bore into his cell. When left alone, he examined it carefully, and
realised that if pointed, it would make an excellent spontoon. He took
the black marble, and after grinding one end of the bolt against it for
a long while, he saw that he had really succeeded in wearing the iron
down. For fifteen days he worked, till he could hardly stir his right
arm, and his shoulder felt almost dislocated. But he had made the bolt
into a real tool; or, if necessary, a weapon, with an excellent point.
He hid it in the straw of his armchair so carefully that, to find it,
one must have known that it was there; and then he began to consider
what use he should make of it.

He was certain that the room underneath was the one in which on entering
he had seen the secretary of the Inquisition, and which was probably
opened every morning. A hole once made in the floor, he could easily
lower himself by a rope made of the sheets of his bed, and fastened to
one of the bed-posts. He might hide under the great table of the
tribunal till the door was opened, and then make good his escape. It was
probable, indeed, that one of the archers would mount guard in this room
at night; but him Casanova resolved to kill with his pointed iron. The
great difficulty really was that the hole in the floor was not to be
made in a day, but might be a work of months. And therefore some pretext
must be found to prevent the archers from sweeping out the cell, as they
were accustomed to do every morning.

Some days after, alleging no reason, he ordered the archers not to
sweep. This omission was allowed to pass for several mornings, and then
the gaoler demanded Casanova's reason. He answered, that the dust
settled on his lungs, and made him cough, and might give him a mortal
disease. Laurent, the gaoler, offered to throw water on the floor before
sweeping it; but Casanova's arguments against the dampness of the
atmosphere that would result were equally ingenious. Laurent's
suspicions, however, were roused, and one day he ordered the room to be
swept most carefully, and even lit a candle, and on the pretence of
cleanliness, searched the cell thoroughly. Casanova seemed indifferent,
but the next day, having pricked his finger, he showed his handkerchief
stained with blood, and said that the gaoler's cruelty had brought on so
severe a cough that he had actually broken a small blood-vessel. A
doctor was sent for, who took the prisoner's part, and forbade sweeping
out the cell in future. One great point was gained; but the work could
not begin yet, owing to the fearful cold. The prisoner would have been
forced to wear gloves, and the sight of a worn glove might have excited
suspicion. So he occupied himself with another stratagem--the creation,
little by little, of a lamp, for the solace of the endless winter
nights. One by one, the gaoler himself, unsuspectingly, brought the
different ingredients: oil was imported in salads, wick the prisoner
himself made from threads pulled from the quilt, and in time the lamp
was complete.

The very unwelcome sojourn of a Jewish usurer, like himself captive of
the Inquisition, in his cell, forced Casanova to delay his projects of
escape till after Easter, when the Jew was imprisoned elsewhere.

No sooner had he left than Casanova, by the light of the lamp
constructed with so much difficulty, began his task. Drawing his bed
away, he set to work to bore through the plank underneath, gathering the
fragments of wood in a napkin--which the next morning he contrived to
empty out behind a heap of old cahier books in the corridor--and after
six hours' labour, pulling back his bed, which concealed all trace of it
from the gaoler's eyes.

The first plank was two inches thick; the next day he found another
plank beneath it, and he pierced this only to find a third plank. It was
three weeks before he dug out a cavity large enough for his purpose in
this depth of wood, and his disappointment was great when, underneath
the planks, he came to a marble pavement which resisted his one tool.
But he remembered having read of a general who had broken with an axe
hard stones, which he first made brittle by vinegar, and this Casanova
possessed. He poured a bottle of strong vinegar into the hole, and the
next day, whether it was the effect of the vinegar or of his stronger
resolution, he managed to loosen the cement which bound the pieces of
marble together, and in four hours had destroyed the pavement, and found
another plank, which, however, he believed to be the last.

At this point his work was once more interrupted by the arrival of a
fellow prisoner, who only stayed, however, for eight days. A more
serious delay was caused by the fact that unwittingly a part of his work
had been just above one of the great beams that supported the ceiling,
and he was forced to enlarge the hole by one-fourth. But at last all was
done. Through a hole so thin as to be quite imperceptible from below he
saw the room underneath. There was only a thin film of wood to be broken
through on the night of his escape. For various reasons, he had fixed on
the night of August 27. But hear his own words:

'On the 25th,' writes Casanova, 'there happened what makes me shudder
even as I write. Precisely at noon I heard the rattling of bolts, a
fearful beating of my heart made me think that my last moment had come,
and I flung myself on my armchair, stupefied. Laurent entered, and said
gaily:

'"Sir, I have come to bring you good news, on which I congratulate you!"

'At first I thought my liberty was to be restored--I knew no other news
which _could_ be good; and I saw that I was lost, for the discovery of
the hole would have undone me. But Laurent told me to follow him. I
asked him to wait till I got ready.

'"No matter," he said, "you are only going to leave this dismal cell for
a light one, quite new, where you can see half Venice through the two
windows; where you can stand upright; where----"

'But I cannot bear to write of it--I seemed to be dying. I implored
Laurent to tell the secretary that I thanked the tribunal for its mercy,
but begged it in Heaven's name to leave me where I was. Laurent told me,
with a burst of laughter, that I was mad, that my present cell was
execrable, and that I was to be transferred to a delightful one.

'"Come, come, you must obey orders," he exclaimed.

'He led me away. I felt a momentary solace in hearing him order one of
his men to follow with the armchair, where my spontoon was still
concealed. That was always something! If my beautiful hole in the floor,
that I had made with such infinite pains, could have followed me
too--but that was impossible! My body went; my soul stayed behind.

'As soon as Laurent saw me in the fresh cell, he had the armchair set
down. I flung myself upon it, and he went away, telling me that my bed
and all my other belongings should be brought to me at once.'

For two hours Casanova was left alone in his new cell, utterly hopeless,
and expecting to be consigned for the rest of his life to one of the
palace dungeons, from which no escape could be possible. Then the gaoler
returned, almost mad with rage, and demanded the axe and all the
instruments which the prisoner must have employed in penetrating the
marble pavement. Calmly, without stirring, Casanova told him that he
did not know what he was talking about, but that, if he _had_ procured
tools, it could only have been from Laurent himself, who alone had
entrance to the cell.

Such a reply did not soften the gaoler's anger, and for some time
Casanova was very badly treated. Everything was searched; but his tool
had been so cleverly concealed that Laurent never found it. Fortunately
it was the gaoler's interest not to let the tribunal know of the
discovery he had made. He had the floor of the cell mended without the
knowledge of the secretary of the Inquisition, and when this was done,
and he found himself secure from blame, Casanova had little difficulty
in making peace with him, and even told him the secret of the lamp's
construction.

Fortunately, out of the tribunal's allowance to the prisoner enough was
always left, after he had provided for his own needs, for a gift--or
bribe, to the gaoler. But Laurent did not relax his vigilance, and every
morning one of the archers went round the cell with an iron bar, giving
blows to walls and floor, to assure himself that there was nothing
broken. But he never struck the ceiling, a fact which Casanova resolved
to turn to account at the first opportunity.

One day the prisoner ordered his gaoler to buy him a particular book,
and Laurent, objecting to an expense which seemed to him quite needless,
offered to borrow him a book of one of the other prisoners, in exchange
for one of his own. Here at last was an opportunity. Casanova chose a
volume out of his small library, and gave it to the gaoler, who returned
in a few minutes with a Latin book belonging to one of the other
prisoners.

Pen and ink were forbidden, but in this book Casanova found a fragment
of paper; and he contrived, with the nail of his little finger, dipped
in mulberry juice, to write on it a list of his library--and returned
the volume, asking for a second. The second came, and in it a short
letter in Latin. The correspondence between the prisoners had really
begun.

The writer of the Latin letter was the monk Balbi, imprisoned in the
Leads with a companion, Count André Asquin. He followed it by a much
longer one, giving the history of his own life, and all that he knew of
his fellow-prisoners. Casanova formed a very poor opinion of Father
Balbi's character from his letters; but assistance of some kind he must
have, since the gaoler must needs discover any attempt to break through
the ceiling, unless that attempt was made from above. But Casanova soon
thought of a plan by which Balbi could break through _his_ ceiling,
undiscovered.

'I wrote to him,' he relates, 'that I would find some means of sending
him an instrument with which he could break through the roof of his
cell, and having climbed upon it, go to the wall separating his roof
from mine. Breaking through that, he would find himself on _my_ roof,
which also must be broken through. That done, I would leave my cell, and
he, the Count, and I together, would manage to raise one of the great
leaden squares that formed the highest palace roof. Once outside _that_,
I would be answerable for the rest.

'But first he must tell the gaoler to buy him forty or fifty pictures of
saints, and by way of proving his piety, he must cover his walls and
ceiling with these, putting the largest on the ceiling. When he had done
this, I would tell him more.

'I next ordered Laurent to buy me the new folio Bible that was just
printed; for I fancied its great size might enable me to conceal my tool
there, and so send it to the monk. But when I saw it, I became
gloomy--the bolt was two inches longer than the Bible. The monk wrote to
me that the cell was already covered according to my direction, and
hoped I would lend him the great Bible which Laurent told him I had
bought. But I replied that for three or four days I needed it myself.

'At last I hit upon a device. I told Laurent that on Michaelmas Day I
wanted two dishes of macaroni, and one of these must be the largest dish
he had, for I meant to season it, and send it, with my compliments, to
the worthy gentleman who had lent me books. Laurent would bring me the
butter and the Parmesan cheese, but I myself should add them to the
boiling macaroni.

'I wrote to the monk preparing him for what was to happen, and on St.
Michael's Day all came about as I expected. I had hidden the bolt in the
great Bible, wrapped in paper, one inch of it showing on each side. I
prepared the cheese and butter; and in due time Laurent brought me in
the boiling macaroni and the great dish. Mixing my ingredients, I filled
the dish so full that the butter nearly ran over the edge, and then I
placed it carefully on the Bible, and put that, with the dish resting on
it, into Laurent's hand, warning him not to spill a drop. All his
caution was necessary: he went away with his eyes fixed on his burden,
lest the butter should run over; and the Bible, with the bolt projecting
from it, were covered, and more than covered, by the huge dish. His one
care was to hold that steady, and I saw that I had succeeded. Presently
he came back to tell me that not a drop of butter had been spilt.'

Father Balbi next began his work, detaching from the roof one large
picture, which he regularly put back in the same place to conceal the
hole. In eight days he had made his way through the roof, and attacked
the wall. This was harder work, but at last he had removed six and
twenty bricks, and could pass through to Casanova's roof. This he was
obliged to work at very carefully, lest any fracture should appear
visible below.

One Monday, as Father Balbi was busy at the roof, Casanova suddenly
heard the sound of opening doors. It was a terrible moment, but he had
time to give the alarm signal, two quick blows on the ceiling. Then
Laurent entered, bringing another prisoner, an ugly, ill-dressed little
man of fifty, in a black wig, who looked like what he was, a spy of the
Inquisition.

Casanova soon learned the history of Soradici--for this was the spy's
name--and when his new companion was asleep he wrote to Balbi the
account of what had happened. For the present, evidently the work must
be given up, no confidence whatever could be placed in Soradici. Yet
soon Casanova thought of a plan of making use even of this traitor.

First he ordered Laurent to buy him an image of the Virgin Mary, holy
water, and a crucifix. Next he wrote two letters, addressed to friends
in Venice--letters in which he made no complaint, but spoke of the
benevolence of the Inquisition, and the blessing that his trials had
been to him. These letters, which, even if they reached the hands of the
secretary, could do him no possible harm, he entrusted to Soradici, in
case he should soon be set free; exacting the spy's solemn oath, on the
crucifix and the image of the Virgin, not to betray him, but to give the
letters to his friends.

Soradici took the oath required of him, and sewed the letters into his
vest. None the less, Casanova felt confident that he would be betrayed,
and this was exactly what happened. Two days after the spy was sent for
to the secretary, and when he returned to the cell, his companion soon
discovered that he had given up the letters.

Casanova affected the utmost anguish and despair. He flung himself down
before the image of the Virgin, and demanded vengeance on the monster
who had ruined him by breaking so solemn a pledge. Then he lay down with
his face to the wall, and for the whole day uttered no single word to
the spy, who, terrified at his companion's prayer for vengeance,
entreated his forgiveness. But when the spy slept he wrote to Father
Balbi and told him to go on with his work the next day, beginning at
exactly three o'clock, and working four hours.

The next day, after the gaoler had left them, bearing with him the book
of Father Balbi in which the prisoner's letter was concealed, Casanova
called his companion. The spy, by this time, was really ill with terror;
for he believed that he had provoked the wrath of the Virgin Mary by
breaking his oath. He was ready to do anything his companion told him to
do, and weak enough to credit any falsehood.

Casanova put on a look of inspiration, and said:

'Learn that at break of day the Holy Virgin appeared to me, and
commanded me to forgive you. You shall not die. The grief that your
treachery caused me made me pass all the night sleepless, since I knew
that the letters you had given to the secretary would prove my ruin--and
my one consolation was to believe that in three days I should see you
die in this very cell. But though my mind was full of my
revenge--unworthy of a Christian--at break of day the image of the
Blessed Virgin that you see moved, opened her lips, and said: "Soradici
is under my protection: I would have you pardon him. In reward of your
generosity I will send one of my angels in figure of a man, who shall
descend from heaven to break the roof of the cell, and in five or six
days to release you. To-day this angel will begin his work at three
o'clock, and will work till half an hour before the sun sets, for he
must return to me by daylight. When you escape you will take Soradici
with you, and you will take care of him all his life, on condition that
he quits the profession of a spy for ever." With these words the Blessed
Virgin disappeared.'

At first even the spy's credulity would hardly be persuaded that
Casanova had not dreamed; but when at the appointed hour the sound of
the angel working in the roof was really to be heard, when it lasted
four hours, and ceased again as foretold, all his doubt vanished, and he
was ready to follow Casanova blindly. The thought of once more betraying
him never entered his mind; he believed that the Blessed Virgin herself
was on the side of his companion.

The angel would appear, Casanova told him, on the evening of October 31.
And at the hour appointed Father Balbi, not looking in the least like an
angel, came feet foremost through the ceiling. Casanova embraced him,
left him to guard the spy, and himself ascending through the roof,
crossed over into the other cell and greeted the monk's fellow-prisoner,
Count André, who had all this time kept their secret, but, being old and
infirm, had no desire to fly with them.

The next thing was to return into the garret above the two cells, and
set to work to break through the palace roof itself. Most of this task
fell to Casanova, till he reached the great sheet of lead surmounting
the planks, and there the monk's help was necessary. Uniting their
strength, they raised it till an opening was made wide enough to pass
through. But outside the moonlight was too strong, and they would have
been seen from below had they ventured on the roof. They returned into
the cell and waited. Casanova had made strong ropes by tying together
sheets, towels, and whatever else would serve. Now, since there was
nothing to be done till the moon sank, he sat down and wrote a courteous
letter to the Inquisition, explaining his reasons for attempting to
escape.

The spy, too cowardly to risk his life in so daring a venture, and
beginning to see that he had been imposed upon, begged Casanova on his
knees to leave him behind, praying for the fugitives--and this Casanova
was thankful to do, for Soradici could only have encumbered him. Father
Balbi, though for the last hour he had been heaping reproaches on his
friend's rashness, was less of a coward than the spy, and as the time
had come to start he followed Casanova. They crept out on the roof, and
began cautiously to ascend it. Half-way up the monk begged his companion
to stop, saying that he had lost one of the packages tied round his
neck.

'Was it the package of cord?' asked Casanova.

'No,' replied the monk, 'but a black coat, and a very precious
manuscript.'

'Then,' said Casanova, resisting a sudden temptation to throw Balbi
after his packet, 'you must be patient, and come along.'

The monk sighed, and followed. Soon they had reached the highest point
of the roof, and here Balbi contrived to lose his hat, which rolled down
the roof, failed to lodge in the gutter, and fell into the canal below.
The poor fellow grew desperate, and said it was a bad omen. Casanova
soothed him, and left him seated where he was, while he himself went to
investigate, his faithful tool in his hand.

Now fresh difficulties began. For a long time Casanova could find no way
of re-entering the palace, except into the cell they had quitted. He was
growing hopeless, when he saw a skylight, that he was sure was too far
away from their starting point to belong to any of the cells. He made
his way to it; it was barred with a fine iron grating that needed a
file. And Casanova only had one tool!

Sitting on the roof of the skylight, he nearly abandoned himself to
despair, till the bell striking midnight suddenly roused him. It was the
first of November: All Saint's Day--the day on which he had long had a
curious foreboding that he should recover his liberty. Fired with hope,
he set his tool to work at the grating, and in a quarter of an hour he
had wrenched it away entire. He set it down by the skylight, and went
back for the monk. They regained the skylight together.

Casanova let down his companion through the skylight by the cord, and
found that the floor was so far away that he himself dared not risk the
leap. And though the cord was still in his hands, he had nowhere to
fasten it. The monk, inside, could give him no help--and, not knowing
what to do, he set out on another voyage of discovery.

It was successful, for in a part of the roof which he had not yet
visited he found a ladder left by some workmen, and long enough for his
purpose. Indeed, it seemed likely to be too long, for when he tried to
introduce it into the skylight, it only entered as far as the sixth
round, and then was stopped by the roof. However, with a superhuman
effort Casanova, hanging to the roof, below the skylight, managed to
lift the other end of the ladder, nearly, in the action, flinging
himself down into the canal. But he had succeeded in forcing the ladder
farther in, and the rest was comparatively easy. He climbed up again to
the skylight, lowered the ladder, and in another moment was standing by
his companion's side.

They found themselves in a garret opening into another room, well barred
and bolted. But just then Casanova was past all exertion. He flung
himself on the ground, the packet of cord under his head, and fell into
a sleep of utter exhaustion. It was dawn when he was roused at last by
the monk's despairing efforts. For two hours the latter had been shaking
him, and even shouting in his ears, without the slightest effect!

Casanova rose, saying:

'This place must have a way out. Let us break everything--there is no
time to lose!'

They found, at last, a door, of which Casanova's tool forced the lock,
and which led them into the room containing the archives or records of
the Venetian Republic. From this they descended a staircase, then
another, and so made their way into the chancellor's office. Here
Casanova found a tool which secretaries used to pierce parchment, and
which was some little help to them--for he found it impossible to force
the lock of the door through which they had next to part, and the only
way was to break a hole in it. Casanova set to work at the part of the
door that looked most likely to yield, while his companion did what he
could with the secretary's instrument--they pushed, rent, tore the wood;
the noise that they made was alarming, but they were compelled to risk
it. In half an hour they had made a hole large enough to get through.
The monk went first, being the thinner; he pulled Casanova after
him--dusty, torn, and bleeding, for he had worked harder than Father
Balbi, who still looked respectable.

They were now in a part of the palace guarded by doors against which no
possible effort of theirs could have availed. The only way was to wait
till they were opened, and then take flight. Casanova tranquilly changed
his tattered garments for a suit which he had brought with him, arranged
his hair, and made himself look--except for the bandages he had tied
round his wounds--much more like a strayed reveller than an escaped
prisoner. All this time the monk was upbraiding him bitterly, and at
last, tired of listening, Casanova opened a window, and put out his
head, adorned with a gay plumed hat. The window looked out upon the
palace court, and Casanova was seen at once by people walking there. He
drew back his head, thinking that he had brought destruction upon
himself; but after all the accident proved fortunate. Those who had seen
him went immediately to tell the authority who kept the key of the hall
at the top of the grand staircase, at whose window Casanova's head had
appeared, that he must unwittingly have shut someone in the night
before. Such a thing might easily have happened, and the keeper of the
keys came immediately to see if the news were true.

Presently the door opened, and quite at his ease, the keeper appeared,
key in hand. He looked startled at Casanova's strange figure, but the
latter, without stopping or uttering a word, passed him, and descended
the stairs, followed by the frightened monk. They did not run, nor did
they loiter; Casanova was already, in spirit, beyond the confines of the
Venetian Republic. Still followed by the monk, he reached the
water-side, stepped into a gondola, and flinging himself down
carelessly, promised the rowers more than their fare if they would reach
Fusina quickly. Soon they had left Venice behind them; and a few days
after his wonderful escape Casanova was in perfect safety beyond Italy.



_ADVENTURES ON THE FINDHORN_


THE following adventures in crossing the Findhorn are extracted from
'Lays of the Deer Forest,' by John Sobieski and Charles Edward Stuart
(London, 1848).

       *       *       *       *       *

I had lost my boat in the last speat; it was the third which had been
taken away in that year, and, until I obtained another, I was obliged to
ford the river. I went one day as usual; there was a dark bank of cloud
lying in the west upon Beann-Drineachain, but all the sky above was blue
and clear, and the water moderate, as I crossed into the forest. I
merely wanted a buck, and, therefore, only made a short circuit to the
edge of Dun-Fhearn, and rolled a stone down the steep into the deep,
wooded den. As it plunged into the burn below, I heard the bound of feet
coming up; but they were only two small does, and I did not 'speak' to
them, but amused myself with watching their uneasiness and surprise as
they perked into the bosky gorge, down which the stone had crashed like
a nine-pounder; and, as their white targets jinked over the brae, I went
on to try the western terraces.

[Illustration]

There is a smooth dry brae opposite to Logie Cumming, called 'Braigh
Choilich-Choille,'[3] great part of the slope of which is covered with a
growth of brackens from five to six feet high, mixed with large masses
of foxgloves, of such luxuriance that the stems sometimes rise five from
a single root, and more than seven feet in height, of which there is
often an extent of five feet of blossoms, loaded with a succession of
magnificent bells. As we crossed below this beautiful covert, I observed
Dreadnought suddenly turn up the wind towards it. I immediately made for
the crest beyond where the bank rises smooth and open, and whence I had
a free sweep of the summit and of both sides. I had just reached the top
when the dog entered the thicket of the ferns, and I saw their tall
heads stir about twenty yards before him, followed by a roar from his
deep tongue, and a fine buck bolted up the brae. I gave a short whistle
to stop him, and immediately he stood to listen, but behind a great
spruce fir, which then, with many others, formed a noble group upon the
summit of the terrace. The sound of the dog dislodged him in an instant,
and he shot out through the open glade, when I followed him with the
rifle, and sent him over on his horns like a wheel down the steep, and
splash, like a round shot, into the little rill at its foot. We
brittled him on the knog of an old pine, and rewarded the dog, and drank
the Dochfalla; when, having occasion to send the piper to the other side
of the wood, and being so near home, I shouldered the roe, and took the
way for the ford of Craig-Darach, a strong wide broken stream with a
very bad bottom, but the nearest then passable.

As I descended the Bruach-gharbh, Dreadnought stopped and looked up into
a pine, then approaching the tree, searched it all round with his nose.
I scanned the branches, but could see nothing except an old hawk's nest,
which had been disused long ago; and if it had not, I do not understand
how it should be interesting to a hound. The dog, however, continued to
investigate the stump and stem of the fir, gaze into the branches,
turning his head from side to side, and setting up his ears like a
cocked-hat. I laid down the buck, and unslung my double gun, and threw a
stick at the nest, when out shot a large pine-martin, and, like a
squirrel, sprung along the branches from tree to tree, till I brought
him to the ground. Dreadnought examined him with a sort of wrinkle in
his whiskers, and turned away, and sat down in dignified abstraction;
while I remounted the buck, and braced the martin to his feet with the
little 'ial-chas,' or foot-straps used for trussing the legs of the roe.
We then resumed our path for the ford.

As I descended through the Boat-Shaw, I heard a heavy sound from the
water, but when I came out from the birches upon the green bank on its
brink, I saw that the river had come down, and was just lipping with the
top of the stone, the sight of whose head was the mark for the last
possibility of crossing. As I looked upon its contracting ring, I
perceived that the stream was still growing; there was no time to be
lost, for the alternative now was to go round by the bridge of
Daltulich, a circuit of four miles; and I knew that, before I reached
the next good ford, the water would be a continuous rapid, probably six
feet deep: I decided, therefore, upon trying the chance where I was.
Dreadnought, who had gone about thirty yards up the stream to take the
deep water in the pool of Craig-Darach, had observed my hesitation with
one leg out and one in the water, and was standing on the point of the
rock waiting the result. As soon as I made another step he plunged into
the river, and in a few moments was rolling on the bank of silver sand
thrown up by the back-water upon the opposite side of the river. As I
advanced through the stream, he looked at me occasionally, and I at
him, and the beautiful smooth sand and green bank upon his side--for by
that time I began to wish I was there too. I was then in pretty deep
water for a ford, but still some distance from the deepest part; my kilt
was floating round me in the boiling water, and the strong eddy, formed
by the stream running against my legs, gulped and gushed with increasing
weight. I moved slowly and carefully, for the whole ford was filled with
large round slippery stones from the size of a sixty-pound shot to a
two-hundredweight shell. I stopped to rest, and looked back to the ford
mark: it was wholly gone, and I saw only the broad smooth wave of water
which slipped over its head. Ten paces more, and I should be through the
deepest part. I stepped steadily and rigidly, but I wanted the use of my
balancing limbs and the freedom of my breath; for the barrels of the
double gun and rifle, which were slung at my back, were passed under my
arms to keep them out of the water; and I was also obliged to hold the
legs of the buck, which, loaded with the 'wood-cat,' were crossed upon
my breast. At every step the round and slidering stones endangered my
footing, rendered still more unsteady by the upward pressure of the
water. In this struggle the current gave a great gulp, and a wave
splashed up over my guns. I staggered downwards with the stream, and
could not recover a sure footing for several yards. At last I secured my
hold against a large fixed stone, and paused to rest. After a little I
made another effort to proceed.

The water was now running above my belt, and at the first step which I
made from the stone I found that it deepened abruptly before me. I felt
that in six inches more that strong stream would lift me off my legs;
and with great difficulty I gained about two yards up the current to
ascertain if the depth was continuous, but the bottom still shelved
before me, and, as I persisted in attempting it, I was turned round by
the stream, the waves were leaping through the deep channel before me,
and having no arms to balance my steps, I began to think of the bonnie
banks on _either_ side the river. In this jeopardy poor Dreadnought had
not been unconcerned; at the first moment of my struggle he had gone
down the great stony beach which lay before me, and, sitting down by the
water, watched me with great anxiety, and at last began to whine, and
whimper, and tremble with agitation. But when he saw me stagger down the
stream, he rose, went in up to his knees, howled, pawed the water, and
lapped the waves with impatience. Meanwhile I was obliged to come to a
rest, with my left foot planted strongly against a stone, for the mere
resistance to the pressure of water, which, rushing with a white foam
from my side, was sufficient exertion without the weight of the buck and
the two guns, which amounted to more than seventy pounds.

After a few moments' pause I made a last effort to reach the east bank;
but it was now impossible, and I turned to make an attempt to regain the
Tarnaway side. I was at least thirty yards lower down than when I
entered the stream, and the water was rushing and foaming all round me;
another stagger nearly carried me off my feet, and, in the exertion to
keep them, a thick transpiration rose upon my forehead, my ears began to
sing, and my head to swim, while, disordered in their balance, the buck
and the guns almost strangled me, I looked down the channel; the water
was running in a white, broken rapid into the black pool below, and
swept with a wide, foaming back-water under the steep rock which turned
its force. The soft green bank before me was sleeping beneath the shade
of the weeping birches, where bluebells and primroses grew thick in the
short smooth turf, and, though they had long shed their blossoms, the
bright patches of their clusters were yet visible among the tall
foxgloves, which still retained the purple bells upon their tops. The
bank looked softer, and greener, and more inviting than ever it had done
before; but my eyes grew dim and my limbs faint with that last struggle.
I felt for my dirk knife, for a desperate rolling swim for life seemed
now inevitable, and, steadying myself in the stream, I cut loose the
straps of the buck and the slings of the guns, and retaining them only
with my hands, held them ready to let go as soon as I should be taken
off my legs. When they were free, I dipped my hand in the water, and
laved it over my brow and face. The singing of my ears ceased, and my
sight came clear, and I discovered that I had lost my bonnet in the
struggle, and distinguished the white cockade dancing like a little
'cailleach' of foam in the vortex of the pool below.

Being now _morally_ relieved from the weight of the roe and guns--though
resolved to preserve them to the last--I resumed my attempt for the west
bank; but when I reached a similar distance to that which I had gained
for the other, I found an equally deep channel before me, and that the
diminished water by which I had been encouraged was only the shoaling of
a long bank which extended with the stream. I now saw that before I
joined my bonnet, which still danced and circled in the pool below,
there was only one effort left--to struggle up the stream, and reach the
point from which I had taken the water. But this was a desperate
attempt; for at every step I had to find a safe footing at the upper
side of some stone, and then with all my strength to force myself
against the current. But often the stones gave way, and, loosening from
their bed, went rolling and rumbling down the rapid, and I was driven
back several feet, to recommence the same struggle. The river also was
still increasing, and the flat sand, which was dry when I left it, was
now a sheet of water. While I was thus wrestling with the stream, I saw
Dreadnought enter, not at his usual place in the pool, but at the tail,
just above the run of the stream in which I was struggling. He came
whimpering over, and crossed about a yard or two above me; but instead
of making for the bank, he turned in the water, and swam towards me. The
stream, however, was too strong for him, and carried him down. I called
and waved to the forest, and he turned and steered for its bank, but did
not reach the shelving sand till he was well tumbled in the top of the
rapid, out of which he only emerged in time to catch a little
back-water, which helped him on to the shore. The attempt of the dog to
reach me had passed while I rested: and when he gained the bank, I
resumed my effort to make the shallower water.

[Illustration]

Dreadnought's eye was turned towards me as he came dripping up the bank,
and seeing me move forward, he ran before me to the water's edge, at the
right entrance of the ford, whining, and howling, and baying, as if he
knew as well as I that it was the place to make for. In a few steps the
stones became less slippery, and the bottom more even, and I began to
think that I might gain it, when, at the rocky point above, I saw a
white mass of foam, loaded with brushwood, sticks, and rubbish, borne
along by a ridge of yellow curdling water, at least two feet higher than
the stream. I gathered all my strength, and made a struggle for the bank
opposite to where I was. The water was already above my belt, and
rushing between my arms as I bore up the guns. I felt myself lifted off
my legs; again I held the ground. The green bank was only a few yards
distant, but the deep water was close below, and the yellow foaming
flood above. As I staggered on, I heard it coming down, crumpling up and
crackling the dead boughs which it bore along. I stumbled upon a round
stone, and nearly fell backward, but it was against the stream which
forced me forward. I felt the spray splash over my head: I was nearly
blind and deaf. I made a desperate effort with the last strength which I
had left, and threw myself gasping on the bank.

Dreadnought sprang forward, jumped over and over me, whined, and kissed
my face and hands, and tried to turn me over with his snout, and
scratched and pawed me to make me speak; but I could not yet, and
gasped, and choked, and felt as if my heart would burst. I lay, dripping
and panting, with my arms stretched out on the grass, unable to move,
except with the convulsive efforts of my breath. At last I sat up, but I
could scarcely see: a thin gauzy cloud was over my eyes, a heavy
pressure rung in my ears, my feet still hung in the water, which was now
sweeping a wide white torrent from bank to bank, and running with a
fierce current through both the pools below. The back-water, where my
bonnet had danced, no longer remained; all was carried clear out in one
long rush down to the Cluag. 'Benedictum sit nomen Domini!' I thought,
as I crossed myself. I stretched out my hand, and plucked the nearest
flowers, and smelled their sweet greenwood scent with inexpressible
delight. I never thought that flowers looked so beautiful, or had half
so much perfume, though they were only the pale wild blossoms of the
fading year. I placed them in my breast, and have them still, and never
look upon them without repeating--

          'DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI AD TE, DOMINE!'

[Illustration: THE FINDHORN.]

Such were the hazards on the fords of the Findhorn; but even by boat the
struggle was sometimes no less arduous, though it enabled us to cross
the water at a height otherwise impassable, of which the following
passage is an example:--

One evening I was returning with the piper, and the old hound which had
accompanied me at the ford. As we descended towards the pool of Cluag,
where I had left the coble quietly moored in the morning, Dreadnought
frequently turned and looked at me with hanging ears and a heavy
cheerless eye; and when we came to the path which led down to the river
he stopped, and dropped behind, and followed at my heel, though usually
he trotted on before, and instead of waiting for the boat, took the
water, which he preferred to the coble. When we came out from the trees
upon the steep bank above the river, I understood his altered manner.
From rock to rock the stream was running a white, furious, rushing
torrent, and the little boat tugging and jibbing on her chain, and
swinging and bobbing upon the top of the froth, like the leaves which
danced upon the eddy. Dreadnought had heard the sound of the river, and
knew what there was at work before us. The boat was moored near the
throat of the pool, in the back-water of a little bay, now entirely
filled with froth and foam up to the gunwale of the coble, which was
defended by a sharp point of rock, from whose breakwater the stream was
thrown off in a wild shooting torrent. Within the bay the reaction of
the tide formed a quick back-water, which raised the stream without
nearly two feet higher than the level within, and at times sucked the
boat on to the point, where she was struck in the stem by the gushing
stream and sent spinning round at the full swing of her 'tether.'

Donald looked at me. There was no alternative but the bridge of
Daltullich, more than four miles about, with two bucks to carry, and
ourselves well run since four o'clock in the morning. I stood for some
moments considering the chances, and the manifest probability of going
down the stream. Immediately after emerging from the little mooring bay
there was a terrific rush of water discharged through the narrow throat
of the pool, and raised to the centre in a white fierce tumbling ridge,
for which the shortness of the pool afforded no allowance for working,
while the little back-water, which, in ordinary cases, caught us on the
opposite side, and took us into the bank, was lost in a flood, which ran
right through the basin like a mill-lead. 'Can you swim, Donald?' said I
mechanically. '_Swim_, Sir!' said he, who knew how often I had seen
him tumbled by the waves both in salt water and fresh. 'Oh yes, I know
you can. But I was thinking of that stream.' 'Ougudearbh!' replied
Donald: 'But it was myself that never tried it yon way!' 'And what do
you think of her?' 'Faith, Thighearna, you know best--but if you try it,
I shall not stay behind.'

We had often ridden the water together by day and night, in flood and
fair; and, narrow as the pool was, I thought we could get through it. We
threw in a broken branch to prove the speed of the current, but it
leaped through the plunging water like a greyhound, and was away in a
moment down to the fierce white battling vortex of the Scuddach, where
there was no salvation for thing alive; a few moments it disappeared in
the wild turmoil, and then came up beyond--white and barked, and
shivered like a splintered bone. Donald, however, saw that I was going
to try the venture, and he was already up the bank unlocking the chain
without a word. The bucks were deposited in the stern of the boat, the
guns laid softly across them, covered with a plaid, and Dreadnought
followed slowly and sternly, and laid himself down with an air as if,
like Don Alphonso of Castile, 'the body trembled at the dangers into
which the soul was going to carry it.' I took the oars--there were no
directions to be given--Donald knew how to cross the pool, and every
other where we were used to ferry.

The boat's head was brought round to the stream, for it was necessary to
run her into it with the impulse of the back-water to shoot her forward,
or she would have been drawn back, stern foremost, into the eddy, where
the jaw of the water, over the point of the rock, would have swamped us
in an instant. Donald knelt at the bows, and held fast by a light
painter till I cried 'Ready!' when the little shallop sprung from the
rope, tilted away like a sea-bird, and glided towards the roaring
torrent. I looked over my shoulder; Donald was gripping the bows, his
teeth set fast, but a gleam of light was in his eye as we plunged
headlong into the bursting stream. A blow like the stroke of a mighty
wooden hammer lifted the boat into the surf; there was a crack as if her
bows were stove in, and she shot shivering through the pool, filled with
water to our knees, and sending the spray over us like a sheet. The
rocks and trees seemed to fly away; the roaring water spouted and
boiled, as it lifted up the boat, which spun round like a leaf, with her
starboard gunwale lipping with the waves; but a few seconds swept us
through the pool, and we were flying into the mad tumbling thunder of
the rapid below. I kept the larboard bow to the stream, and pulled with
all my might; but I thought she did not move, the eddy of the great
mid-stream seemed to fix her in the ridge of the torrent, and take her
along with it; the oars bent like willows to the strain, a boiling gush
from below lifted her bows, and threw her gunwale under the froth. I
thought we were gone, but I redoubled the last desperate strokes, and we
shot out of the foaming ridge towards the opposite bank, rolling, and
leaping, and plunging into the throat of the rapid. Donald sat like a
tiger ready for the spring, and as we neared the shore, bounded on the
grass with the chain. This checked the speed of the boat; I unshipped
the oars, and sprung out just as the coble came crash alongside the
bank, then swirling round, her head flew out to the stream, dragging
Donald along the grass after her. I jumped into the water, and caught
hold of the bow; for two minutes the struggle was doubtful and she
continued to drag us along: at last Donald reached the stump of a tree,
and, running round it, made a turn of the chain and brought her up.

We sat down, and wiped our faces, and looked at each other in silence.
The incredibly short space of time which had elapsed since we stood on
the '_other side_,' with the mysterious future before us, and now to be
sitting on '_this_,' and call it the _past_, was like a dream. The
tumult, the flying shoot, the concussion at parting and arriving, seemed
like an explosion, as if we had been blown up and thrown over. 'I don't
think that boat will ever go back again, Thighearna,' said Donald. 'Why
not?' 'Did you not feel her twist, and hear her split, when we came into
the burst of the stream?' replied Donald. 'I don't know,' said I; 'I
felt and heard a great many things, but there was no time to think what
they were.' 'Oh, it was not _thinking_ that I was,' answered Donald;
'but the water came squirting up in my face through her ribs, and I held
on by both bows, expecting at every stroke to see them open and let me
through.' We got up and examined the boat's bottom; there was a yawning
rent from the stem to the centre, and part of the torn planks lapped one
over the other by the twist, the bows being only held together by the
iron band which bound the gunwale.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] The woodcocks' brae, from the frequency with which they breed there.



_THE STORY OF GRACE DARLING_


A CAREFUL reader of the 'Times' on the morning of Tuesday, September 11,
1838, might have found, if he cared to look, a certain paragraph in an
obscure corner headed 'The Wreck of the "Forfarshire."' It is printed in
the small type of that period; the story is four days old, for in those
days news was not flashed from one end of the country to the other; and,
moreover, the story is very incomplete.

On the evening of Wednesday, September 5, the steamship 'Forfarshire'
left Hull for Dundee, carrying a cargo of iron, and having some forty
passengers on board. The ship was only eight years old; the master, John
Humble, was an experienced seaman; and the crew, including firemen and
engineers, was complete. But even before the vessel left the dock one
passenger at least had felt uneasily that something was wrong--that
there was an unusual commotion among officials and sailors. Still, no
alarm was given, and at dusk the vessel steamed prosperously down the
Humber.

The next day (Thursday, the 6th) the weather changed, the wind blowing
N.N.W., and increasing towards midnight to a perfect gale. On the
morning of Friday, the 7th, a sloop from Montrose, making for South
Shields, saw a small boat labouring hard in the trough of the sea. The
Montrose vessel bore down on it, and in spite of the state of the
weather managed to get the boat's crew on board.

They were nine men in all, the sole survivors, as they believed
themselves to be, of the crew and passengers of the 'Forfarshire,' which
was then lying a total wreck on Longstone, one of the outermost of the
Farne Islands.

It was a wretched story they had to tell of lives thrown away through
carelessness and negligence, unredeemed, as far as their story went, by
any heroism or unselfish courage.

While still in the Humber, and not twenty miles from Hull, it was found
that one of the boilers leaked, but the captain refused to put about.
The pumps were set to work to fill the boiler, and the vessel kept on
her way, though slowly, not passing between the Farne Islands and the
mainland till Thursday evening. It was eight o'clock when they entered
Berwick Bay; the wind freshened and was soon blowing hard from the
N.N.W. The motion of the vessel increased the leakage, and it was now
found that there were holes in all the three boilers. Two men were set
to work the pumps, one or two of the passengers also assisting, but as
fast as the water was pumped into the boilers it poured out again. The
bilge was so full of steam and boiling water that the firemen could not
get to the fires. Still the steamer struggled on, labouring heavily, for
the sea was running very high. At midnight they were off St. Abbs Head,
when the engineers reported that the case was hopeless; the engines had
entirely ceased to work. The ship rolled helplessly in the waves, and
the rocky coast was at no great distance. They ran up the sails fore and
aft to try and keep her off the rocks, and put her round so that she
might run before the wind, and as the tide was setting southward she
drifted fast with wind and tide. Torrents of rain were falling, and in
spite of the wind there was a thick fog. Some of the passengers were
below, others were on deck with crew and captain, knowing well their
danger.

About three the noise of breakers was distinctly heard a little way
ahead, and at the same time a light was seen away to the left,
glimmering faintly through the darkness. It came home to the anxious
crew with sickening certainty that they were being driven on the Farne
Islands. [Now these islands form a group of desolate whinstone rocks
lying off the Northumbrian coast. They are twenty in number, some only
uncovered at low tide, and all offering a rugged iron wall to any
ill-fated boat that may be driven upon them. Even in calm weather and by
daylight seamen are glad to give them a wide berth.]

The master of the 'Forfarshire' in this desperate strait attempted to
make for the channel which runs between the Islands and the mainland. It
was at best a forlorn chance; it was hopeless here; the vessel refused
to answer her helm! On she drove in the darkness, nearer and nearer came
the sound of the breakers; the fear and agitation on board the boat grew
frantic. Women wailed and shrieked; the captain's wife clung to him,
weeping; the crew lost all instinct of discipline, and thought of
nothing but saving their skins.

Between three and four the shock came--a hideous grinding noise, a
strain and shiver of the whole ship, and she struck violently against a
great rock. In the awful moment which followed five of the crew
succeeded in lowering the larboard quarter-boat and pushed off in her.
The mate swung himself over the side, and also reached her; and a
passenger rushing at this moment up from the cabin and seeing the boat
already three yards from the ship, cleared the space with a bound and
landed safely in her, though nearly upsetting her by his weight. She
righted, and the crew pulled off with the desperate energy of men rowing
for their lives. The sight of agonised faces, the shrieks of the
drowning were lost in the darkness and in the howling winds, and the
boat with the seven men on board was swept along by the rapidly-flowing
tide.

Such was the story the exhausted boat's crew told next morning to their
rescuers on board the Montrose sloop. And the rest of the ship's
company--what of them? Had they all gone down by the island crag with
never a hand stretched out to help them?

Hardly had the boat escaped from the stranded vessel when a great wave
struck her on the quarter, lifted her up bodily, and dashed her back on
the rock. She struck midships on the sharp edge and broke at once into
two pieces. The after part was washed clean away with about twenty
passengers clinging to it, the captain and his wife being among them. A
group of people, about nine in number, were huddled together near the
bow; they, with the whole fore part of the ship, were lifted right on to
the rock. In the fore cabin was a poor woman, Mrs. Dawson, with a child
on each arm. When the vessel was stranded on the rock the waves rushed
into the exposed cabin, but she managed to keep her position, cowering
in a corner. First one and then the other child died from cold and
exhaustion, and falling from the fainting mother were swept from her
sight by the waves, but the poor soul herself survived all the horrors
of the night.

[Illustration: GRACE DARLING.]

It was now four o'clock; the storm was raging with unabated violence,
and it was still two hours to daybreak. About a mile from Longstone, the
island on which the vessel struck, lies Brownsman, the outermost of the
Farne Islands, on which stands the lighthouse. At this time the keeper
of the lighthouse was a man of the name of William Darling. He was an
elderly, almost an old man, and the only other inmates of the
lighthouse were his wife and daughter Grace, a girl of twenty-two. On
this Friday night she was awake, and through the raging of the storm
heard shrieks more persistent and despairing than those of the wildest
sea-birds. In great trouble she rose and awakened her father. The cries
continued, but in the darkness they could do nothing. Even after day
broke it was difficult to make out distant objects, for a mist was still
hanging over the sea. At length, with a glass they could discern the
wreck on Longstone, and figures moving about on it. Between the two
islands lay a mile of yeasty sea, and the tide was running hard between
them. The only boat on the lighthouse was a clumsily built jolly-boat,
heavy enough to tax the strength of two strong men in ordinary weather,
and here there was but an old man and a young girl to face a raging sea
and a tide running dead against them. Darling hesitated to undertake
anything so dangerous, but his daughter would hear of no delay. On the
other side of that rough mile of sea men were perishing, and she _could_
not stay where she was and see them die.

So off they set in the heavy coble, the old man with one oar, the girl
with the other, rowing with straining breath and beating hearts. Any
moment they might be whelmed in the sea or dashed against the rocks.
Even if they got the crew off it would be doubtful if they could row
them to the lighthouse; the tide was about to turn, and would be against
them on their homeward journey; death seemed to face them on every side.

When close to the rock there was imminent danger of their being dashed
to pieces against it. Steadying the boat an instant, Darling managed to
jump on to the rock, while Grace rapidly rowed out a little and kept the
boat from going on the rocks by rowing continually. It is difficult to
imagine how the nine shipwrecked people, exhausted and wearied as they
were, were got into the boat in such a sea, especially as the poor
woman, Mrs. Dawson, was in an almost fainting condition; but finally got
on board they all were. Fortunately, one or two of the rescued crew were
able to assist in the heavy task of rowing the boat back to Brownsman.

The storm continued to rage for several days after, and the whole party
had to remain in the lighthouse. Moreover, a boatload which had come to
their rescue from North Shields was also storm-stayed, twenty guests in
all, so that the housewifely powers of Grace and her mother were taxed
to the utmost.

It is told of this admirable girl that she was the tenderest and
gentlest of nurses and hostesses, as she was certainly one of the most
singularly courageous of women.

She could never be brought to look upon her exploit as in any way
remarkable, and when by-and-by honours and distinctions were showered
upon her, and people came from long distances to see her, she kept
through it all the dignity of perfect simplicity and modesty.

Close to Bamborough, on a windy hill, lie a little grey church and a
quiet churchyard. At all seasons high winds from the North Sea blow over
the graves and fret and eat away the soft grey sandstone of which the
plain headstones are made. So great is the wear and tear of these winds
that comparatively recent monuments look like those which have stood for
centuries. On one of these stones lies a recumbent figure, with what
looks not unlike a lance clasped in the hand and laid across the breast.
Involuntarily one thinks of the stone Crusaders, who lie in their
armour, clasping their half-drawn swords, awaiting the Resurrection
morning. It is the monument of Grace Darling, who here lies at rest with
her oar still clasped in her strong right hand.



_THE 'SHANNON' AND THE 'CHESAPEAKE'_


AMONG the captains of British 38-gun frigates who ardently longed for a
meeting with one of the American 44-guns, in our war with the United
States, was Captain Philip Bowesbere Broke, of the 'Shannon.' The desire
sprang from no wish to display his own valour, only to show the world
what wonderful deeds could be done when the ship and crew were in all
respects fitted for battle. He had put his frigate in fighting order,
taught his men the art of attack and defence, and out of a crew not very
well disposed and got together in a rather haphazard manner, had made a
company as pleasant to command as it was dangerous to meet.

With this desire, in March 1813 Captain Broke sailed from Halifax on a
cruise in Boston Bay. But to his disappointment two American frigates,
the weather being foggy, left the harbour without his having a chance to
encounter them. Two remained, however, and one of these, the
'Chesapeake,' commanded by Captain James Lawrence, was nearly ready for
sea. When her preparations were complete, Captain Broke addressed to her
commanding officer a letter of challenge, having previously sent a
verbal message, which had met with no reply.

'As the "Chesapeake" appears now ready for sea,' began this letter, 'I
request you will do me the favour to meet the "Shannon" with her, ship
to ship, to try the fortune of our respective flags.'

He then gave an account of the 'Shannon's' forces, which were somewhat
inferior to the 'Chesapeake's.' The 'Chesapeake' had 376 men, the
'Shannon' 306 men and 24 boys, and the American vessel also had the
advantage in guns.

'I entreat you, sir,' Captain Broke concluded, 'not to imagine that I am
urged by mere personal vanity to the wish of meeting the "Chesapeake,"
or that I depend only upon your personal ambition for your acceding to
this invitation. We have both nobler motives. . . . Favour me with a
speedy reply. We are short of provisions and water, and cannot stay long
here.'

This letter he entrusted to Captain Plocum, a discharged prisoner; but
it so happened that before his boat reached the shore, the American
frigate left it--Captain Lawrence having received permission from
Commodore Bairbridge to sail and attack the 'Shannon' in response to
Captain Broke's verbal challenge.

Some manoeuvring between the two ships took place; but at last, in the
evening of June 1, 1813, the 'Chesapeake,' with three ensigns flying,
steered straight for the 'Shannon's' starboard quarter. Besides the
ensigns, she had flying at the fore a large white flag, inscribed with
the words: 'Sailors' Rights and Free Trade,' with the idea, perhaps,
that this favourite American motto would damp the energy of the
'Shannon's' men. The 'Shannon' had a Union Jack at the fore, an old
rusty blue ensign at the mizzen peak, and two other flags rolled up,
ready to be spread if either of these should be shot away. She stood
much in need of paint, and her outward appearance hardly inspired much
belief in the order and discipline that reigned within.

At twenty minutes to six Captain Lawrence came within fifty yards of the
'Shannon's' starboard quarter, and gave three cheers. Ten minutes after
the 'Shannon' fired her first gun, then a second. Then the 'Chesapeake'
returned fire, and the remaining guns on the broadside of each ship went
off as fast as they could be discharged.

Four minutes before six the 'Chesapeake's' helm, probably from the death
of the men stationed at it, being for the moment unattended to, the ship
lay with her stem and quarter exposed to her opponent's broadside, which
did terrible execution. At six o'clock, the 'Chesapeake' and 'Shannon'
being in close contact, the 'Chesapeake,' endeavouring to make a little
ahead, was stopped by becoming entangled with the anchor of the
'Shannon.' Captain Broke now ran forward, and, seeing the 'Chesapeake's'
men deserting the quarter-deck guns, he ordered the two ships to be
lashed together, the great guns to cease firing, and Lieutenant Watt to
bring up the quarter-deck men, who were to act as boarders. This was
done instantly, and at two minutes past six Captain Broke leaped aboard
the 'Chesapeake,' followed by twenty men, and reached her quarter-deck.

Here not an officer or man was to be seen. Upon the 'Chesapeake's'
gangways, twenty-five or thirty Americans made a slight resistance, but
were quickly driven towards the forecastle. Several fled over the bows,
some, it is believed, plunged into the sea, the rest laid down their
arms and submitted.

Lieutenant Watt, with others, followed quickly. Hardly had he stepped
upon the taffrail of the 'Chesapeake' when he was shot through the foot
by a musket ball; but, rising in spite of it, he ordered one of the
'Shannon's' 9-pounders to be directed at the 'Chesapeake's' mizzen top,
whence the shot had come. The second division of the Marines now rushed
forward, and while one party kept down the Americans who were ascending
the main hatchway, another party answered a destructive fire which still
continued from the main and mizzen tops. The 'Chesapeake's' main top was
presently stormed by midshipman William Smith. This gallant young man
deliberately passed along the 'Shannon's' foreyard, which was braced up
to the 'Chesapeake's' mainyard, and thence into her top. All further
annoyance from the 'Chesapeake's' mizzen top was put a stop to by
another of the 'Shannon's' midshipmen, who fired at the Americans from
the yardarm as fast as his men could load the muskets and hand them to
him.

After the Americans upon the forecastle had submitted, Captain Broke
ordered one of his men to stand sentry over them, and sent most of the
others aft, where the conflict was still going on. He was in the act of
giving them orders when the sentry called out lustily to him. On
turning, the captain found himself opposed by three of the Americans,
who, seeing they were superior to the British then near them, had armed
themselves afresh. Captain Broke parried the middle fellow's pike, and
wounded him in the face, but instantly received from the man on the
pikeman's right a blow with the butt-end of a musket, which bared his
skull and nearly stunned him. Determined to finish the British
commander, the third man cut him down with his broadsword, but at that
very instant was himself cut down by Mindham, one of the 'Shannon's'
seamen. Can it be wondered if all concerned in this breach of faith fell
victims to the indignation of the 'Shannon's' men? It was as much as
Captain Broke could do to save from their fury a young midshipman, who,
having slid down a rope from the 'Chesapeake's' foretop, begged his
protection.

While in the act of tying a handkerchief round his commander's head,
Mindham, pointing aft, called out:

'There, sir--there goes up the old ensign over the Yankee colours!'

Captain Broke saw it hoisting (with what feelings may be imagined), and
was instantly led to the 'Chesapeake's' quarter-deck, where he sat down.

That act of changing the 'Chesapeake's' colours proved fatal to a
gallant British officer and four or five fine fellows of the 'Shannon's'
crew. We left Lieutenant Watt just as, having raised himself on his feet
after his wound, he was hailing the 'Shannon' to fire at the
'Chesapeake's' mizzen top. He then called for an English ensign, and
hauling down the American flag, bent, owing to the ropes being tangled,
the English flag below instead of above it. Observing the American
stripes going up first, the 'Shannon's' people reopened their fire, and,
directing their guns with their accustomed precision at the lower part
of the 'Chesapeake's' mizzen mast, killed Lieutenant Watt and four or
five of their comrades. Before the flags had got halfway to the mizzen
peak, they were pulled down and hoisted properly, and the men of the
'Shannon' ceased their fire.

An unexpected fire of musketry, opened by the Americans who had fled to
the hold, killed a fine young marine, William Young. On this, Lieutenant
Falkiner ordered three or four muskets that were ready to be fired down
the hold, and Captain Broke, from the quarter-deck, told the lieutenant
to summon. The Americans replied, 'We surrender'; and all hostilities
ceased. Almost immediately after Captain Broke's senses failed him from
loss of blood, and he was conveyed on board his own ship.

Between the discharge of the first gun and the time of Captain Broke's
boarding only eleven minutes had passed, and in four minutes more the
'Chesapeake' was completely his. As a rule, however, this good fortune
did not attend our arms in the conflict with the American marine.



_CAPTAIN SNELGRAVE AND THE PIRATES_


IN the year 1719, I, being appointed commander of the 'Bird' galley,
arrived at the River Sierra Leone, on the north coast of Guinea. There
were, at the time of our unfortunate arrival in that river, three pirate
ships, who had then taken ten English ships in that place. The first of
these was the 'Rising Sun,' one Cochlyn commander, who had not with him
above twenty-five men; the second was a brigantine commanded by one Le
Bouse, a Frenchman, whose crew had formerly served with Cochlyn's under
the pirate Moody; the third was a large ship commanded by Captain Davis,
with a crew of near one hundred and fifty men. This Davis was a generous
man, nor had he agreed to join with the others when I was taken by
Cochlyn; which proved a great misfortune to me, for I found Cochlyn and
his crew to be a set of the basest and most cruel villains that ever
were.

I come now to give an account of how I was taken by them. It becoming
calm about seven o'clock, and growing dark, we anchored in the river's
mouth, soon after which I went to supper with the officers that usually
ate with me. About eight o'clock the officer of the watch upon deck sent
me word, 'He heard the rowing of a boat.' Whereupon we all immediately
went on deck, and the night being very dark, I ordered lanterns and
candles to be got ready, supposing the boat might come from the shore
with some white gentlemen that lived there as free merchants. I ordered
also, by way of precaution, the first mate, Mr. Jones, to go into the
steerage to put things in order, and to send me twenty men on the
quarter-deck with firearms and cutlasses, which I thought he went about,
for I did not in the least suspect Mr. Jones would have proved such a
villain as he did afterwards.

As it was dark, I could not yet see the boat, but heard the noise of
the rowing very plain. Whereupon I ordered the second mate to hail the
boat, to which the people in it answered, 'They belonged to the "Two
Friends," Captain Elliot, of Barbadoes.' At this, one of the officers
who stood by me said he knew that captain very well. I replied, 'It
might be so, but I would not trust any boat in such a place,' and
ordered him to hasten the first mate, with the people and arms, on deck.
By this time our lanterns and candles were brought up, and I ordered the
boat to be hailed again; to which the people in it answered, 'They were
from America,' and at the same time fired a volley of small shot at us,
which showed the boldness of these villains. For there were in the boat
only twelve of them, as I understood afterwards, who knew nothing of the
strength of our ship, which was indeed considerable, we having sixteen
guns and forty-five men on board. But, as they told me after we were
taken, 'they depended on the same good-fortune as in the other ships
they had taken, having met with no resistance, for the people were
generally glad of an opportunity of entering with them.'

Which last was but too true.

When they first began to fire, I called aloud to the first mate to fire
at the boat out of the steerage portholes, which not being done, and the
people I had ordered upon deck with small arms not appearing, I was
extremely surprised, and the more when an officer came and told me 'The
people would not take arms.'

I went down into the steerage, where I saw a great many of them looking
at one another, little thinking that my first mate had prevented them
from taking arms. I asked them with some roughness why they had not
obeyed my orders, saying it would be the greatest reproach in the world
to us all to be taken by a boat.

Some of them answered that they would have taken arms, but the chest
they were kept in could not be found.

By this time the boat was along the ship's side, and there being nobody
to oppose them, the pirates immediately boarded us, and coming on the
quarter-deck, fired their pieces several times down into the steerage,
giving one sailor a wound of which he died afterwards.

At last some of our people bethought themselves to call out for quarter,
which the pirates granting, their quartermaster came down into the
steerage, asking where the captain was. I told him I had been so till
now. On that he asked me how I durst order my people to fire at their
boat out of the steerage.

I answered, 'I thought it my duty to defend my ship if my people would
have fought.'

On that he presented a pistol to my breast, which I had but just time to
parry before it went off, so that the bullet passed between my side and
arm. The rogue, finding he had not shot me, turned the butt-end of the
pistol, and gave me such a blow on the head as stunned me, so that I
fell on my knees, but immediately recovering myself, I jumped out of the
steerage upon the quarter-deck, where the pirate boatswain was.

He was a bloodthirsty villain, having a few days before killed a poor
sailor because he did not do something as soon as he ordered him. This
cruel monster was asking some of my people where their captain was, so
at my coming upon deck one of them pointed me out. Though the night was
very dark, yet, there being four lanterns with candles, he had a full
sight of me; whereupon, lifting up his broadsword, he swore that no
quarter should be given to any captain that defended his ship, at the
same time aiming a full stroke at my head. To avoid it I stooped so low
that the quarter-deck rail received the blow, and was cut in at least an
inch deep, which happily saved my head from being cleft asunder, and the
sword breaking at the same time with the force of his blow on the rail,
it prevented his cutting me to pieces.

By good fortune his pistols, that hung at his girdle, were all
discharged, otherwise he would doubtless have shot me. But he took one
of them and endeavoured to beat out my brains, which some of my people
observing, cried:

'For God's sake don't kill our captain, for we never were with a better
man.'

This turned the rage of him and two other pirates on my people, and
saved my life; but they cruelly used my poor men, cutting and beating
them unmercifully. One of them had his chin almost cut off, and another
received such a wound on the head that he fell on the deck as dead, but
afterwards, by the care of our surgeon, he recovered.

Then the quartermaster, coming on deck, took me by the hand, and told me
my life was safe, provided none of my people complained of me. I
answered that I was sure none of them could.

By this time the pirate ship had drawn near, for they had sent their
boat before to discover us; and on approaching, without asking any
questions, gave us a great broadside, believing, as it proved
afterwards, that we had taken their boat and people. So the
quartermaster told them, through the speaking-trumpet, that they had
taken a brave prize, with all manner of good victuals and fresh
provisions on board.

Just after this, Cochlyn, the pirate captain, ordered them to dress a
quantity of these victuals; so they took many geese, turkeys, fowls, and
ducks, making our people cut their heads off and pull the great feathers
out of their wings, but they would not stay till the other feathers were
pulled off. All these they put into our great furnace, which would boil
victuals for five hundred negroes, together with several Westphalia hams
and a large pig. This strange medley filled the furnace, and the cook
was ordered to boil them out of hand.

As soon as the pirate ship had done firing, I asked the quartermaster's
leave for our surgeon to dress my poor people that had been wounded, and
I likewise went to have my arm dressed, it being very much bruised by
the blow given me by the pirate boatswain. Just after that a person came
to me from the quartermaster, desiring to know what o'clock it was by my
watch; which, judging to be a civil way of demanding it, I sent it him
immediately, desiring the messenger to tell him it was a very good gold
watch. When it was delivered to the quartermaster he held it up by the
chain, and presently laid it down on the deck, giving it a kick with his
foot, saying it was a pretty football. On which one of the pirates
caught it up, saying he would put it in the common chest to be sold at
the mast.

By this time I was loudly called upon to go on board the pirate ship,
and there was taken to the commander, who asked me several questions
about my ship, saying she would make a fine pirate man-of-war.

As soon as I had done answering the captain's questions, a tall man,
with four pistols in his girdle and a broadsword in his hand, came to me
on the quarter-deck, telling me his name was James Griffin, and we had
been schoolfellows. Though I remembered him very well, yet having
formerly heard it had proved fatal to some who had been taken by pirates
to own any knowledge of them, I told him I could not remember any such
person by name. On that he mentioned some boyish pranks that had
formerly passed between us. But I, still denying any knowledge of him,
he told me that he supposed I took him to be one of the pirate's crew
because I saw him dressed in that manner, but that he was a forced man,
and since he had been taken, though they spared his life, they had
obliged him to act as master of the pirate ship. And the reason of his
being so armed was to prevent their ill-using him, for there were hardly
any among the crew but what were cruel villains. But he would himself
take care of me that night, when I should be in the greatest danger,
because many of their people would soon get drunk with the good liquors
found in my ship.

I then readily owned my former acquaintance with him, and he turned to
Captain Cochlyn and desired that a bowl of punch might be made. So we
went into the cabin, where there was not chair, nor anything else to sit
upon, for they always kept a clear ship, ready for an engagement. So a
carpet was spread on the deck, on which we sat down cross-legged, and
Captain Cochlyn drank my health, desiring that I would not be cast down
at my misfortune, for my ship's company in general spoke well of me, and
they had goods enough left in the ships they had taken to make a man of
me. Then he drank several other healths, among which was that of the
Pretender, by the name of King James the Third.

It being by this time midnight, my schoolfellow desired the captain to
have a hammock hung up for me to sleep in, for it seemed everyone lay
rough, as they call it, that is, on the deck, the captain himself not
being allowed a bed. This being granted, and soon after done, I took
leave of the captain, and got into my hammock, but I could not sleep in
my melancholy circumstances. Moreover, the execrable curses I heard
among the ship's company kept me awake, though Mr. Griffin, according to
his promise, walked by me with his broadsword in his hand, to protect me
from insults.

Some time after, it being about two o'clock in the morning, the pirate
boatswain (that attempted to kill me when taken) came on board very
drunk, and being told I was in a hammock, he came near me with his
cutlass. My generous schoolfellow asked him what he wanted; he answered,
'To kill me, for I was a vile dog.' Then Griffin bade the boatswain keep
his distance, or he would cleave his head asunder with his broadsword.
Nevertheless, the bloodthirsty villain came on to kill me; but Mr.
Griffin struck at him with his sword, from which he had a narrow escape;
and then he ran away. So I lay unmolested till daylight.

[Illustration]

I come now to relate how Mr. Simon Jones, my first mate, and ten of my
men entered with the pirates. The morning after we were taken he came to
me and told me that his circumstances were bad at home; moreover, he had
a wife whom he could not love; and for these reasons he had entered
with the pirates and signed their articles. I was greatly surprised at
this declaration, and told him I believed he would repent when too late.
And, indeed, I saw the poor man afterwards despised by his brethren in
iniquity, and have been told he died a few months after they left Sierra
Leone. However, I must do him the justice to own he never showed any
disrespect to me, and the ten people he persuaded to enter with him
remained very civil to me. But I learned afterwards from one of them
that, before we came to Sierra Leone, Jones had said that he hoped we
should meet with pirates, and that it was by his contrivance that the
chest of arms was hid out of the way when we were taken. And when I
called on the people in the steerage to fire on the pirate boat, Jones
prevented them, declaring that this was an opportunity he had long
wished for, and that if they fired a musket they would all be cut to
pieces. Moreover, to induce them to enter with the pirates, he had
assured them that I had promised to enter myself. So it was a wonder I
escaped so well, having such a base wretch for my first officer.

As soon as the fumes of the liquor were out of the pirates' heads they
went on board the prize, as they called my ship, and all hands went to
work to clear it, by throwing over bales of woollen goods, with many
other things of great value, so that before night they had destroyed
between three and four thousand pounds worth of the cargo--money and
necessaries being what they wanted. The sight of this much grieved me,
but I was obliged in prudence to be silent.

That afternoon there came on board to see me Captain Henry Glynn, with
whom I was acquainted, who resided at Sierra Leone, but though an
honest, generous person, was on good terms with the pirates. He brought
with him the captains of the two other pirate ships, and Captain Davis
generously said he was ashamed to hear how I had been used, for their
reasons for going a-pirating were to revenge themselves on base
merchants and cruel commanders, but none of my people gave me the least
ill character; and, indeed, it was plain that they loved me.

This was by no means relished by Cochlyn; however, he put a good face on
it.

That night the boatswain came down into the steerage, where he had seen
me sitting with the ship's carpenter, but since we happened to have
changed places, and it had grown so dark he could not distinguish our
faces, he, thinking I sat where he had seen me before, presented a
pistol and drew the trigger, swearing he would blow my brains out. By
good fortune the pistol did not go off, but only flashed in the pan; by
the light of which the carpenter, observing that he should have been
shot instead of me, it so provoked him that he ran in the dark to the
boatswain, and having wrenched the pistol out of his hand, he beat him
to such a degree that he almost killed him. The noise of the fray being
heard on board the pirate ship that lay close to us, a boat was sent
from her, and they being told the truth of the matter, the officer in
her carried away this wicked villain, who had three times tried to
murder me.

I had one bundle of my own things left to me, in which was a black suit
of clothes. But a pirate, who was tolerably sober, came in and said he
would see what was in it. He then took out my black suit, a good hat and
wig, and some other things. Whereon I told him I hoped he would not
deprive me of them, for they would be of no service to him in so hot a
country, but would be of great use to me, as I hoped soon to return to
England.

I had hardly done speaking, when he lifted up his broadsword and gave me
a blow on the shoulder with the flat side of it, whispering in my ear at
the same time:

'I give you this caution, never to dispute the will of a pirate; for,
supposing I had cleft your skull asunder for your impudence, what would
you have got by it but destruction?'

I gave him thanks for his warning, and soon after he put on the clothes,
which in less than half an hour after I saw him take off and throw
overboard, for some of the pirates, seeing him dressed in that manner,
had thrown several buckets of claret upon him. This person's true name
was Francis Kennedy.

The next day, understanding that the three pirate captains were on shore
at my friend Captain Glynn's, I asked leave to go to them, which was
granted, and next day I went on board in company with them. Captain
Davis desired Cochlyn to order all his people on the quarter-deck, and
made a speech to them on my behalf, which they falling in with, it was
resolved to give me the ship they designed to leave to go into mine,
with the remains of my cargo, and further, the goods remaining in the
other prizes, worth, with my own, several thousand pounds. Then one of
the leading pirates proposed that I should go along with them down the
coast of Guinea, where I might exchange the goods for gold, and that, no
doubt, as they went they should take some French and Portuguese vessels,
and then they might give me as many of their best slaves as would fill
the ship; that then he would advise me to go to the island of St. Thomas
and sell them there, and after rewarding my people in a handsome manner,
I might return with a large sum of money to London and bid the merchants
defiance.

This proposal was approved of, but it struck me with a sudden damp. So I
began to say it would not be proper for me to accept of such a quantity
of other people's goods as they had so generously voted for me. On which
I was interrupted by several, who began to be very angry.

[Illustration: 'SOME OF THE PIRATES . . . HAD THROWN SEVERAL BUCKETS OF
CLARET UPON HIM.']

On this Captain Davis said: 'I know this man, and can easily guess his
thoughts; for he thinks, if he should act in the manner you have
proposed, he will ever after lose his reputation. Now I am for allowing
everybody to go to the devil their own way, so desire you will give him
the remains of his own cargo and let him do with it what he thinks
fitting.'

This was readily granted; and now, the tide being turned, they were as
kind to me as they had at first been severe, and we employed ourselves
in saving what goods we could.

And through the influence of Captain Davis, one of the ships the pirates
had taken, called the 'Bristol Snow,' was spared from burning--for they
burned such prizes as they had no use for. And I was set entirely at
liberty, and went to the house of Captain Glynn, who, when the pirates
left the river of Sierra Leone, together with other English captains who
had been hiding from the pirates in the woods, their ships having been
taken, helped me to fit up the 'Bristol Snow' that we might return to
England in it. And we left the river Sierra Leone the 10th day of May,
and came safe to Bristol, where I found a letter from the owner of the
ship I had gone out with, who had heard of my misfortune, and most
generously comforted me, giving money for my poor sailors and promising
me command of another ship--a promise which he soon after performed.

I shall now inform the reader what became of my kind schoolfellow,
Griffin, and my generous friend Davis. The first got out of the hands of
the pirates by taking away a boat from the stern of the ship he was in
when on the coast of Guinea, and was driven on shore there. But
afterwards he went passenger to Barbadoes in an English ship, where he
was taken with a violent fever, and so died.

As for Davis, he sailed to the island Princess, belonging to the
Portuguese, which is in the Bay of Guinea. Here the people soon
discovered they were pirates by their lavishness; but the Governor
winked at it, because of the great gain he made by them. But afterwards,
someone putting it into his mind that if the King of Portugal heard of
this it would be his ruin, he plotted to destroy Davis. And when, before
sailing, Captain Davis came on shore with the surgeon and some others to
bid farewell to the Governor, they found no Governor, but many people
with weapons were gathered together in the street, who at a word from
the Governor's steward fired at Davis and his men. The surgeon and two
others were killed on the spot, but Davis, though struck by four shots,
went on running towards the boat. But being closely pursued, a fifth
shot made him fall; and the Portuguese, being amazed at his great
strength and courage, cut his throat that they might be sure of him.
Thus fell Captain Davis, who, allowing for the course of life he had
been unhappily engaged in, was a most generous, humane person.

[Illustration]



_THE SPARTAN THREE HUNDRED_


THIS is the story of the greatest deed of arms that was ever done. The
men who fought in it were not urged by ambition or greed, nor were they
soldiers who knew not why they went to battle. They warred for the
freedom of their country, they were few against many, they might have
retreated with honour, after inflicting great loss on the enemy, but
they preferred, with more honour, to die.

It was four hundred and eighty years before the birth of Christ. The
Great King, as the Greeks called Xerxes, the Persian monarch, was
leading the innumerable armies of Asia against the small and divided
country of Greece. It was then split into a number of little States, not
on good terms with each other, and while some were for war, and freedom,
and ruin, if ruin must come, with honour, others were for peace and
slavery. The Greeks, who determined to resist Persia at any cost, met
together at the Isthmus of Corinth, and laid their plans of defence. The
Asiatic army, coming by land, would be obliged to march through a narrow
pass called Thermopylæ, with the sea on one side of the road, and a
steep and inaccessible precipice on the other. Here, then, the Greeks
made up their minds to stand. They did not know, till they had marched
to Thermopylæ, that behind the pass there was a mountain path, by which
soldiers might climb round and over the mountain, and fall upon their
rear. As the sea on the right hand of the Pass of Thermopylæ lies in a
narrow strait, bounded by the island of Euboea, the Greeks thought
that their ships would guard their rear and prevent the Persians from
landing men to attack it. Their army encamped in the Pass, having wide
enough ground to manoeuvre in, between the narrow northern gateway, so
to speak, by which the invaders would try to enter, and a gateway to the
south. Their position was also protected by an old military wall, which
they repaired.

The Greek general was Leonidas, the Spartan king. He chose three hundred
men, all of whom had sons at home to maintain their families and to
avenge them if they fell. Now the manner of the Spartans was this: to
die rather than yield. However sorely defeated, or overwhelmed by
numbers, they never left the ground alive and unvictorious, and as this
was well known, their enemies were seldom eager to attack such resolute
fighters.

Besides the Spartans, Leonidas led some three or four thousand men from
other cities, and he was joined at Thermopylæ by the Locrians and a
thousand Phocians. Perhaps he may have had six or eight thousand
soldiers under him, while the Persians may have outnumbered them by the
odds of a hundred to one. Why, you may ask, did the Greeks not send a
stronger force? The reason was very characteristic. They were holding
their sports at the time, racing, running, boxing, jumping, and they
were also about to be engaged in another festival. They would not omit
or put off their games however many thousand barbarians might be
knocking at their gates. There is something boyish, and something fine
in this conduct, but we must remember, too, that the games were a sacred
festival, and that the Gods might be displeased if they were omitted.

Leonidas, then, thought that at least he could hold the Pass till the
games were over, and his countrymen could join him. But when he found,
on arriving at Thermopylæ, that he would have to hold two positions, the
Pass itself, and the mountain path, of whose existence he had not been
aware, then some of his army wished to return home. But Leonidas refused
to let them retreat, and bade the Phocians guard the path across the
hills, while he sent home for reinforcements. He could not desert the
people whom he had come to protect. Meanwhile the Greek fleet was also
alarmed, but was rescued by a storm which wrecked many of the Persian
vessels.

Xerxes was now within sight of Thermopylæ. He sent a horseman forward to
spy out the Greek camp, and this man saw the Spartans amusing themselves
with running and wrestling, and combing their long hair, outside the
wall. They took no notice of him, and he returning, told Xerxes how few
they were, and how unconcerned. Xerxes then sent for Demaratus, an
exiled king of Sparta in his camp, and asked what these things meant. 'O
king!' said Demaratus, 'this is what I told you of yore, when you
laughed at my words. These men have come to fight you for the Pass, and
for that battle they are making ready, for it is our country fashion to
comb and tend our hair when we are about to put our heads in peril.'

Xerxes would not believe Demaratus. He waited four days, and then, in a
rage, bade his best warriors, the Medes and Cissians, bring the Greeks
into his presence. The Medes, who were brave men, and had their defeat
at Marathon, ten years before, to avenge, fell on, but their spears were
short, their shields were thin, and they could not break a way into the
stubborn forest of bronze and steel. In wave upon wave, all day long,
they dashed against the Greeks, and left their best lying at the mouth
of the Pass. 'Thereby was it made clear to all men, and not least to the
king, that men are many, but heroes are few.'

Next day Xerxes called on his bodyguard, the Ten Thousand Immortals, and
they came to close quarters, but got no more glory than the Medes.
Thrice the King leaped from his chair in dismay as thrice the Greeks
drove the barbarians in rout. And on the third day they had no better
fortune.

But there was a man, a Malian, whose name is a scorn to this hour; he
was called Epialtes. He betrayed to Xerxes the secret of the mountain
path, probably for money. He later fled to Thessaly with a price on his
head, but returned to Anticyra, and there he was slain by Athenades.
Then Xerxes was glad beyond measure when he heard of the path, and sent
his men along the path by night. They found the Phocians guarding it,
but the Phocians disgracefully fled to the higher part of the mountain.
The Persians, disdaining to pursue them, marched to the pass behind the
Spartan camp, and the Greeks were now surrounded in van and rear. But
news of this had come to Leonidas, and his army was not of one mind as
to what they should do. Some were for retreating and abandoning a
position which it was now impossible to hold. Leonidas bade them depart;
but for him and his countrymen it was not honourable to turn their backs
on any foe. He sent away the soothsayer, or prophet, Megistias, but he
returned, and bade his son go home. The Thespians, to their immortal
honour, chose to bide the brunt with Leonidas. There thus remained what
was left of the Three Hundred, their personal attendants, seven hundred
Thespians, and some Thebans, about whose conduct it is difficult to
speak with certainty, as accounts differ. Leonidas, on this last day of
his life, did not wait to be attacked in front and rear, but, sallying
into the open, himself assailed the Persians. They drove the barbarians
like cattle with their spears; the captains of the barbarians drove them
back on the spears with whips. Many fell from the path into the sea, and
there perished, and many more were trodden down and died beneath the
feet of their own companions. But the spears of the Greeks broke at last
in their hands, so they drew their swords, and rushed to yet closer
quarters. In this charge fell Leonidas, 'the bravest man,' says the
Greek historian, 'of men whose names I know,' and he knew the names of
all the Three Hundred. Over the body of Leonidas fell the two brothers
of Xerxes, for they fought for the corpse, and four times the Greeks
drove back the Persians. Now came up the Persians with the traitor
Epialtes, attacking the Greeks in the rear. Now was their last hour
come, so they bore the body of the king within the wall. There they
occupied a little mound in a sea of enemies, and there each man fought
till he died, stabbing with his dagger when his sword was broken, and
biting, and striking with the fist, when the dagger-point was blunted.
Among them all, none made a better end than Eurytus. He was suffering
from a disease of the eyes, but he bade them arm him, and lead him into
the thick of the battle. Of another, Dieneces, it is told that hearing
the arrows of the Persians would darken the sun, he answered, 'Good
news! we shall fight in the shade.' One man only, Aristodemus, who also
was suffering from a disease of the eyes, did not join his countrymen,
but returned to Sparta. There he was scouted for a coward, but, in the
following year, he fell at Platæa, excelling all the Spartans in deeds
of valour.

This is the story of the Three Hundred. The marble lion erected where
Leonidas fell has perished, and perished has the column engraved with
their names, but their glory is immortal.[4]

FOOTNOTE:

[4] Herodotus.



[Illustration]



_PRINCE CHARLIE'S WANDERINGS_


CHAPTER I

THE FLIGHT

APRIL 16, 1746. It was an April afternoon, grey and cold, with gleams of
watery sunshine, for in the wilds of Badenoch the spring comes but
slowly, and through April on to May the mountains are as black and the
moors as sombre and lifeless as in the dead of winter. In a remote
corner of this wild track stood, in 1746, a grey, stone house with
marsh-lands in front, severe and meagre as the houses were at that time
in the Highlands. Upstairs in a room by herself a little girl of ten was
looking out of the window. She had been sent up there to be out of the
way, for this was a very busy day in the household of Gortuleg. The
Master, Mr. Fraser, was entertaining the chief of his clan, old Lord
Lovat, who, in these anxious days, when the Prince was at Inverness and
the Duke of Cumberland at Aberdeen, had thought fit to retire into the
wilds of Badenoch, to the house of his faithful clansman.

[Illustration]

Downstairs, the astute old man of eighty was sitting in his armchair by
the fire, plotting how he could keep in with both parties and secure his
own advantage whichever side might win. By some strange infatuation the
household at Gortuleg were cheerful and elate. A battle was imminent,
nay, might have been fought even now, and they were counting securely on
another success to the Prince's army. So the ladies of the
family--staunch Jacobites every one of them (as, indeed, most ladies
were even in distinctly Whig households)--were busy preparing a feast
in honour of the expected victory. The little girl sat alone upstairs,
hearing the din and commotion and looking out on the vacant marsh-land
outside. Suddenly and completely the noise ceased below, and the child
seized her opportunity and crept downstairs. All was still in the big
living-room, only in the dim recess of the fireplace the old lord was
sitting, a silent, brooding figure, in his deep armchair. The rest of
the household, men and women, gentle and simple, were all crowded in the
doorway, breathlessly intent on something outside. Threading her way
through them the child crept outside the circle and looked eagerly to
see what this might be. Across the grey marshes horsemen were riding,
riding fast, though the horses strained and stumbled, and the riders had
a weary, dispirited air. 'It is the fairies' was the idea that flashed
through her brain, and in a moment she was holding her eyelids open with
her fingers, for she knew that the 'good people,' if they do show
themselves, are only visible between one winking of the eyes and
another. But this vision did not pass away, and surely never were fairy
knights in such a sorry plight as was this travel-stained, dishevelled
company that drew rein at the door of Gortuleg.

The leader of the band was a young man in Highland dress, tall and fair,
and with that 'air' of which his followers fondly complained afterwards
that no disguise could conceal it. At the sight of him, arriving in this
plight at their doors, a great cry of consternation broke from the
assembled household. There was no need to tell the terrible news: the
Prince was a fugitive, a battle had been lost, and the good cause was
for ever undone! It was no time for idle grieving, immediate relief and
refreshment must be provided, and the Prince sent forward without delay
on his perilous flight. The ladies tore off their laces and
handkerchiefs to bind up wounds, and wine was brought out for the
fugitives. There is no certain account of Charles's interview with Lord
Lovat; we do not know whether the cunning old man turned and upbraided
the Prince in his misfortune, or whether the instincts of a Highland
gentleman overcame for a moment the selfishness of the old chief.
Anyway, this was no time to bandy either upbraidings or compliments.
Forty minutes of desperate fighting on the field of Culloden that
morning had broken for ever the strength of the Jacobite cause. Hundreds
lay dead where they fell, hundreds were prisoners in the hands of the
most relentless of enemies, hundreds were fleeing in disarray to their
homes among the mountain fastnesses. For the Prince the only course
seemed to be flight to the West coast. There, surely, some vessel might
be found to convey him to France, there to await better times and to
secure foreign allies. A price was on his head, his enemies would
certainly be soon on his traces, he dared not delay longer than to
snatch a hasty meal and drink some cups of wine.

At Gortuleg the party broke up and went their several ways. The Prince
was accompanied by the Irish officers of his household, Sir Thomas
Sheridan, O'Neal, and O'Sullivan, gentlemen-adventurers who had
accompanied him from France and whose advice in his day of triumph had
often been injudicious. Let it be said for them that they were at least
faithful and devoted when his fortunes were desperate. As guide went a
certain Edward Burke, who, fortunately for the party, knew every yard of
rugged ground between Inverness and the Western sea. During all the time
that he shared the Prince's wanderings this Edward Burke acted as his
valet, giving him that passionate devotion which Charles seems to have
inspired in all who knew him personally at this time. Reduced now to a
handful of weary, wounded men, the Prince's party continued their flight
through the chilly April night. At two o'clock next morning they had
passed the blackened ruins of Fort George. As dawn broke they drew rein
at the house of Invergarry. But the gallant chief of the Macdonells was
away, and the hospitable house was deserted and silent; the very rooms
were without furniture or any accommodation, and the larder was bare of
provisions. But wearied men are not fastidious, and without waiting to
change their clothes, they rolled themselves up in their plaids on the
bare boards, and slept the sleep of utter weariness. It was high noon
before they woke up again--woke up to find breakfast unexpectedly
provided, for the faithful Burke had risen betimes and drawn two fine
salmon from the nets set in the river. Here for greater security the
Prince and his valet changed clothes, and the journey was continued
through Lochiel's country. The next stage was at the head of Loch
Arkaig, where they were the guests of a certain Cameron of Glenpean, a
stalwart, courageous farmer, whom the Prince was destined to see more of
in his wanderings. Here the country became so wild and rugged that they
had to abandon their horses and clamber over the high and rocky
mountains on foot. In his boyhood in Italy the Prince had been a keen
sportsman, and had purposely inured himself to fatigue and privations.
These habits stood him now in good stead; he could rival even the
light-footed Highlanders on long marches over rough ground; the
coarsest and scantiest meals never came amiss to him; he could sleep on
the hard ground or lie hid in bogs for hours with a stout heart and a
cheerful spirit.

Here on the night of Saturday, the 19th, among the mountains that
surround Loch Morar, no better shelter could be found than a shieling
used for shearing sheep.

The next day, Sunday, the 20th, they came down to the coast and found
refuge in the hospitable house of Borodale, belonging to Mr. Angus
Macdonald, a clansman of Clanranald's. Nine months before, when the
Prince had landed from France and had thrown himself without arms or
following on the loyalty of his Highland friends, this Angus Macdonald
had been proud to have him as his guest. One of his sons, John, had
joined the Prince's army and had fought under his own chief, young
Clanranald. This young man was at this time supposed to have been killed
at Culloden, though in fact he had escaped unhurt. When the Prince,
therefore, entered this house of mourning he went up to Mrs. Macdonald
and asked her with tears in his eyes if she could endure the sight of
one who had caused her such distress. 'Yes,' said the high-hearted old
Highland-woman, 'I would be glad to have served my Prince though all my
sons had perished in his service, for in so doing they would only have
done their duty.'[5]

While resting here at Borodale, Charles sent his final orders to the
remnant of his gallant army, which under their chiefs had drawn to a
head at Ruthven. They were to disperse, he wrote, and secure their own
safety as best they could; they must wait for better times, when he
hoped to return bringing foreign succours. Heartbreaking orders these
were for the brave men who had lost all in the Prince's cause, and who
were now proscribed and homeless fugitives.

Charles and the handful of men who accompanied him had expected that,
once safely arrived at the coast, their troubles would be over and the
way to France clear. But at Borodale they learned that the Western seas
swarmed with English ships of war and with sloops manned by the local
militia. A thorough search was being made of every bay and inlet of the
mainland, and of every island, even to the Outer Hebrides, and further,
to remote St. Kilda! This disconcerting news was brought by young
Clanranald and Mr. Æneas Macdonald of Kinloch Moidart, the Parisian
banker who had accompanied Charles from France. The latter had just
returned from an expedition to South Uist, where he had more than once
narrowly escaped being taken by some vigilant English cruiser. It was
impossible, he urged, for a ship of any size to escape through such a
closely-drawn net; the idea of starting directly for France must be
abandoned, but could the Prince escape to the outer islands and there
secure a suitable vessel, he _might_ be out upon the wide seas before
his departure was discovered. It was therefore decided that the little
party should cross the Minch in an open boat and make for the Long
Island. For this expedition the very man was forthcoming in the person
of the Highland pilot who had accompanied Mr. Macdonald to South Uist.
This was old Donald MacLeod of Guatergill, in Skye, a trader of
substance and a man of shrewdness and experience. In spite of being a
MacLeod he was a staunch Jacobite, and had joined the Prince's army at
Inverness. He had a son, a mere lad, at school in that place; this boy,
hearing that a battle was likely to take place, flung aside his book,
borrowed a dirk and a pistol, and actually fought in the battle of
Culloden. More lucky than most, he escaped from the fight, tracked the
Prince to Borodale, and arrived in time to take his place as one of the
eight rowers whom his father had collected for the expedition. The boat
belonged to the missing John Macdonald, for the Borodale family gave
life and property equally unhesitatingly in the Prince's service.

On April 26, in the deepening twilight, the party started from
Lochnanuagh. Hardly had they set out when they were overtaken by a
terrible storm, the worst storm, Donald declared, that he had ever been
out in, and he was an experienced sailor. The Prince demanded vehemently
that the boat should be run on shore, but Donald, knowing the rock-bound
coast, answered that to do so would be to run on certain death. Their
one chance was to hold out straight to sea. It was pitch dark, the rain
fell in torrents; they had neither lantern, compass, nor pump on board.
Charles lay at the bottom of the boat, with his head between Donald's
knees. No one spoke a word; every moment they expected to be overwhelmed
in the waves or dashed against a rock, and for several hours the vessel
rushed on in the darkness. 'But as God would have it,' to use Donald's
words, 'by peep of day we discovered ourselves to be on the coast of the
Long Isle. We made directly for the nearest land, which was Rossinish in
Benbecula.'

Here they found only a deserted hut, low, dark, and destitute of window
or chimney; the floor was clay, and when they had lit a fire, the peat
smoke was blinding and stifling. Still, they could dry their clothes and
sleep, even though it were on a bed no better than a sail spread on the
hard ground. Here they rested two days, and then found a more
comfortable refuge in the Island of Scalpa, where the tacksman--although
a Campbell--was a friend of Donald MacLeod's and received them
hospitably.


CHAPTER II

ON THE LONG ISLAND

THE object of the expedition was, of course, to find some vessel big
enough to carry the Prince and his friends over to France. Such ships
were to be had in Stornoway, and Donald MacLeod, being a man well known
in these parts, undertook to secure a vessel and pilot, under the
pretence of going on a trading expedition to the Orkneys. The Prince and
his party were to remain at Scalpa till Donald should send for them. On
May 3 came the message that vessel and pilot were in readiness, and that
they should come to Stornoway without a moment's delay.

Owing to the wind being ahead it was impossible to go by sea, and the
Prince and his two Irish followers were forced to go the thirty miles to
Stornoway on foot. No footpath led through the wastes of heavy, boggy
moorlands, the rain fell with an even downpour, and the guide stupidly
mistook the way and added eight long Highland miles to the distance.
They were thoroughly drenched, exhausted, and famished when Donald met
them at a place a mile or two out of Stornoway. Having cheered their
bodies with bread and cheese and brandy, and their souls with the
hopeful prospect of starting the next day for France, he took them to a
house in the neighbourhood, Kildun, where the mistress, though a
MacLeod, was, like most of her sex, an ardent Jacobite. Leaving the
Prince and his friends to the enjoyment of food, dry clothes, a good
fire, and the prospect of comfortable beds for tired limbs, Donald went
back to Stornoway in hopeful spirits to complete his arrangements for
taking the Prince on board. Another twenty-four hours and the ship would
have weighed anchor, and the worst difficulties would be left behind.
But as soon as he entered Stornoway he saw that something was wrong.
Three hundred men of the militia were in arms, and the whole place was
in an uproar. The secret had leaked out; one of the boat's crew, getting
tipsy, had boasted that the Prince was at hand with five hundred men,
ready to take by force what he could not obtain by good-will.

The inhabitants of Stornoway were all Mackenzies, pledged by their
chief, Seaforth, to loyal support of the Government. It is eternally to
their honour that all that they demanded was that the Prince should
instantly remove himself from their neighbourhood. Not one amongst them
seems to have suggested that a sum of 30,000_l._ was to be gained by
taking the Prince prisoner. So complete was Donald's confidence in their
honesty that he did not hesitate to say to a roomful of armed
militiamen, 'He has only two companions with him, _and when I am there I
make a third_, and yet let me tell you, gentlemen, that if Seaforth
himself were here he durst not put a hand to the Prince's breast.'
Donald doubtless looked pretty formidable as he said these words; at any
rate, the 'honest Mackenzies' had no sinister intentions, only they
vehemently insisted that the party should depart at once, and, what was
worse, absolutely refused to give them a pilot. In vain Donald offered
500_l._; fear made them obdurate; and so, depressed and crestfallen,
Donald returned to Kildun and urged the Prince to instant flight. But
not even the fear of immediate capture could induce the three wearied
men to set out again in the wet and darkness to plod over rocks and
morasses with no certain goal. So Donald had to control his fears and
impatience till next day.

At eight next morning they started in the boat, hospitable Mrs. MacLeod
insisting on their taking with them beef, meal, and even the luxuries of
brandy, butter, and sugar. The weather being stormy they landed on a
little desert island called Eiurn, which the Stornoway fishermen used as
a place for drying fish. Between some fish which they found drying on
the rocks and Mrs. MacLeod's stores they lived in comparative luxury for
the next few days. Ned Burke, the valet, was told off as cook; but he
soon found that the Prince was far more skilful in the art of cookery
than himself. It was his Royal Highness who suggested the luxury of
butter with the fish, and who made a quite original cake by mixing the
brains of a cow with some meal, giving orders to 'birsle the bannock
weel, or it would not do at all.' Donald used to declare that in all his
life 'he never knew anyone better at a shift than the Prince when he
happened to be at a pinch.' Like many another unfortunate man, whether
prince or peasant, Charles found unfailing comfort in tobacco. He seems
to have smoked nothing more splendid than clay pipes, and 'as in his
wanderings these behoved to break, he used to take quills, and putting
one into the other and all into the end of the "cutty," this served to
make it long enough, and the tobacco to smoke cool.'

Donald records another characteristic little trait of the Prince at this
time. On quitting the island he insisted on leaving money on the rocks
to pay for the fish they had consumed.[6]

In the meantime the situation was growing more and more dangerous.
Rumours had got abroad that the Prince was in the Long Island, and the
search was being actively pursued. Two English men-of-war were stationed
near the island, and sloops and gunboats ran up every bay and sound,
while bodies of militia carried on the search by land. These, from their
intimate knowledge of the country, would have been the more formidable
enemy of the two if many of their officers had not had a secret sympathy
with the Jacobite cause and very lukewarm loyalty to the Government.

For several days the Prince's boat had been so constantly pursued that
it was impossible for the crew to land. They ran short of food, and were
reduced to eating oatmeal mixed with salt water, a nauseous mixture
called in Gaelic, Drammach. At last they ran into a lonely bay in
Benbecula, where they were free from pursuit. It is characteristic of
the Prince's irrepressible boyishness that he and the boatmen here went
lobster-hunting with great enjoyment and success.

Without help at this juncture the little party must either have starved
or fallen into the hands of their enemies. Charles therefore sent a
message to the old chief of Clanranald--the largest proprietor in South
Uist--begging him to come and see him.

Nine months before, when the Prince had landed on that island on his way
from France, the old gentleman had refused to see him, pleading old age
and infirmity. His brother, Macdonald of Boisdale, had seen the Prince
and had vehemently urged him to give up so hopeless a design and to
return to France; and, when he found that all persuasion was in vain,
had roundly refused to promise him any assistance from his brother's
clan. And though young Clanranald had, indeed, joined the Prince's
standard, it was with many misgivings and against his better judgment.

But now, in the hour of Charles's total abandonment and distress, this
gallant family laid aside all selfish prudence. The old chief, in spite
of age and ill-health, came immediately to the wretched hut where
Charles had taken refuge, bringing with him Spanish wines, provisions,
shoes, and stockings. He found the young man, whom he reverenced as his
rightful king, in a hut as big as, and no cleaner than, a pig-stye,
haggard and worn with hardship and hunger. 'His shirt,' as Dougal
Graham, the servant, was quick to observe, 'was as dingy as a
dish-clout.' That last little detail of misery appealed strongly to the
womanly heart of Lady Clanranald, who immediately sent six good shirts
to the Prince.

For the next three weeks Charles enjoyed a respite under the vigilant
protection of Clanranald and his brother Boisdale. They found a
hiding-place for him in the Forest-house of Glencoridale, a hut rather
bigger and better than most. By a system of careful spies and watchers
they kept the Prince informed of every movement of the enemy. It was the
month of June--June as it is in the North, when days are warm and sunny
and the evening twilight is prolonged till the early dawn, and there is
no night at all. South Uist, beyond all other islands of the Hebrides,
abounds in game of all kinds, and the Prince was always a keen
sportsman. He delighted his followers by shooting birds on the wing, he
fished (though it was only sea-fishing from a boat), and he shot
red-deer on the mountains.

Once, when Ned Burke was preparing some collops from a deer the Prince
had shot, a wild, starved-looking lad approached, and seeing the food,
thrust his hand into the dish without either 'with your leave or by your
leave,' and began devouring it like a savage. Ned in a rage very
naturally began to beat the boy, but the gentle Prince interfered, and
reminded his servant of the Christian duty of feeding the hungry,
adding, 'I cannot see anyone perish for lack of food or raiment if I
have it in my power to help them.' Having been fed and clothed the
wretched boy went off straight to a body of militia in the neighbourhood
and tried to betray the Prince to them. Fortunately, his appearance and
manners were such that no one believed him, and he was laughed at for
his pains. Out of at least a hundred souls, gentle and simple, who knew
of the Prince's hiding-place, this 'young Judas' was the only one who
dropped the slightest hint of his whereabouts.

Nor was it only among the Jacobite clans that Charles found devoted and
vigilant friends.

The two most powerful chiefs in the North-west of Scotland were at this
time MacLeod of MacLeod and Sir Alexander Macdonald of Mugstatt, or
Mouggestot, in Skye. These two had, to the great disappointment of the
Jacobites, declared for the Government, and had shown considerable zeal
in trying to suppress the rising; but in the very household of Mugstatt
Charles had a romantic and zealous adherent in the person of Lady
Margaret, Sir Alexander Macdonald's wife. A daughter of the house of
Eglintoun, she had been brought up in Jacobite principles, and now, in
the absence of her husband, did all she could to help the Prince in his
distress. Through the help of a certain Mr. Hugh Macdonald of Belshair
she kept Charles informed of the enemy's movements and sent him
newspapers. Towards the end of June the Government authorities were
pretty certain that the Prince was hiding somewhere in the Long Island,
and attention began to be concentrated on that spot. Two more English
cruisers were sent there, under Captains Scott and Fergusson--men who
had learnt lessons of cruelty from the greatest master of that art, the
Duke of Cumberland--and militia bands patrolled the whole island. It was
quite necessary to remove the Prince from Glencoridale, and the faithful
Belshair was at once despatched by Lady Margaret to consult with Charles
about his further movements. This Mr. Macdonald of Belshair arranged
with Macdonald of Boisdale--one of the shrewdest as well as kindest of
the Prince's friends--that they should meet at the Forest-house of
Glencoridale. The meeting, in spite of hardships and danger and a worse
than uncertain future, was a merry one. The two Highland gentlemen dined
with the Prince (on 'sooty beef' and apparently a plate of butter!), and
the talk was cheerful and free. Forgetful of the gloomy prospects of the
Jacobite cause, and ignoring the victorious enemies encamped within a
few miles of them, they talked hopefully of future meetings at St.
James's, the Prince declaring that 'if he had never so much ado he would
be at least one night merry with his Highland friends.' But St. James's
was far enough off from Coridale, and in the meantime it became daily
more certain that there was no longer safety for the Prince in Uist.

The pleasant life in the Forest-house had to be broken up, and for the
next ten weary days the little party lived in their boat, eluding as
well as they could their enemies by sea and by land.

Their difficulties were much increased and their spirits sadly disturbed
by the fact that their generous friend Boisdale had been taken prisoner.

It is one of the most singular facts of the Prince's wanderings that as
soon as he lost one helpful friend another immediately rose up to take
his place. This time an ally was found literally in the enemy's camp.
One of the officers in command of the militia in Benbecula was a certain
Hugh Macdonald of Armadale, in Skye, a clansman of Sir Alexander's, but,
like many another Macdonald, a Jacobite at heart. It is very uncertain
how far he was personally responsible for the plan that was at this time
being formed for the Prince's escape. Donald MacLeod and others of the
Prince's party were certain that Charles had met and talked with him at
Rossinish and had presented him with his pistols. This gentleman had a
step-daughter, a certain Flora Macdonald, a girl of remarkable
character, courage, and discretion. She generally lived with her mother
at Armadale, in Skye, but just now she was paying a visit to her brother
in South Uist. It is difficult to make out how or when or by whom the
idea was first started that this lady should convey the Prince to Skye
disguised as her servant, but it appears that she had had more than one
interview with O'Neal on the subject. On Saturday, June 21, being
closely pursued by the implacable Captain Scott, Charles parted with his
faithful little band of followers in Uist, paying the boatmen as
generously as his slender purse would allow. With two clean shirts under
his arm and with only O'Neal as his companion he started for Benbecula.
Arriving at midnight in a small shieling belonging to Macdonald of
Milton, 'by good fortune,' as O'Neal puts it, 'we met with Miss Flora
Macdonald, whom I formerly knew.' It is a little difficult to believe
that young ladies of Miss Flora's discretion were in the habit of
frequenting lonely shielings far from their homes at midnight, at a time
when the whole country was infested with soldiers. Nor does the
beginning of her interview with O'Neal sound like the language of
surprise. 'Then I told her I brought a friend to see her; and she, with
some emotion, asked me if it was the Prince. I answered that it was, and
instantly brought him in.' Among all the stout Highland hearts which
were ready to risk everything for him, Charles never found one more
brave and pitiful than that of the girl who was introduced to him in
this strange and perilous situation.

The plan was at once proposed to her that she should convey the Prince
with her to Skye disguised in female attire as her maid. Flora was no
mere romantic miss, eager for adventure and carried away by her
feelings. She was quite aware of the danger she would bring on herself,
and more especially on her friends, by this course. It was with some
reluctance that she at last gave her consent, but once her word was
pledged she was ready to go to the death if need were, and threw all her
feminine ingenuity into carrying out the scheme. They arranged that she
was to go next day to consult with Lady Clanranald and to procure
feminine attire as a disguise for the Prince. As soon as all was
prepared they were to meet at Rossinish in Benbecula; in the meantime
O'Neal undertook to come and go between the Prince and Miss Macdonald to
report progress and convey messages.

The two men seem to have returned to a hiding-place in the neighbourhood
of Glencoridale, and Miss Flora returned to Milton. She had to pass one
of the narrow sea fords next day on her way to Ormaclade, the
Clanranalds' house; this ford was guarded by a body of militia, and
having no passport, she and her servant, Neil MacKechan, were taken
prisoners. The situation was awkward in the extreme, and every hour's
delay was an added danger. To her great relief she learned that the
officer in command, who was expected that morning, was her stepfather,
Mr. Hugh Macdonald. On his arrival he was (or affected to be) extremely
surprised to find his stepdaughter a prisoner in the guard-room; but
with a complaisance very remarkable in an officer of the Government, he
drew her out passports for herself, for her servant Neil, and for a new
Irish servant, Betty Burke, whom she desired to take with her to Skye.
So great was Macdonald's interest in this unknown Betty that he actually
wrote a letter to his wife in Skye recommending the girl.

'I have sent your daughter from this country,' he wrote, 'lest she
should be frightened by the troops lying here. She has got one Betty
Burke, an Irish girl, who, she tells me, is a good spinster. If her
spinning pleases you, you may keep her till she spins all your lint.' In
spite of the gravity of the situation, one cannot help thinking that
Flora and her stepfather must have had a good deal of amusement
concocting this circumstantial and picturesque falsehood.

As soon as she was set at liberty Flora went to Ormaclade, where Lady
Clanranald entered heartily into the plan. Among her stores they chose a
light coloured quilted petticoat, a flowered gown--lilac flowers on a
white ground, to be particular--an apron and a long duffle cloak.
Fortunately Highland women are tall and large, for the Prince's height,
5 feet 10 inches, though moderate for a man, looked ungainly enough in
petticoats.

[Illustration]

It was Friday the 25th before the way was clear for Flora and Lady
Clanranald to meet the Prince at the rendezvous at Rossinish in
Benbecula. The four intervening days had been full of difficulties for
Charles and O'Neal. The fords between the two islands were so well
guarded that there was no chance of their being able to cross them on
foot; they had no boat, and the hours were passing for them in an agony
of suspense. At last they risked asking a chance boat which was passing
to set them across, and accomplished the passage in safety. But when
they did arrive at the hut at Rossinish, cold, wet, and wearied, they
found that a party of militia were encamped within half a mile, and that
the soldiers came every morning to that very hut for milk. Charles was
by this time accustomed to the feeling that he was carrying his life in
his hands. At daybreak he had to leave the hut to make room for his
pursuers, all day he had to lie in an unsheltered fissure of a rock,
where the rain--the heavy, relentless rain of the West Highlands--poured
down on him; if it did clear at all, then that other plague of the
Highlands, swarms of midges, nearly drove him distracted. On Friday the
militiamen moved off, and the way being clear, Lady Clanranald, Miss
Flora Macdonald, and a certain Mrs. Macdonald of Kirkibost came to visit
him and O'Neal in their hut, bringing the female attire with them.
These loyal ladies found their lawful sovereign roasting a sheep's liver
on a spit; but neither discomfort, danger, nor dirt could do away with
the courtly charm of his manner or the fine gaiety of his address. He
placed Miss Macdonald on his right hand--he always gave his preserver
the seat of honour--and Lady Clanranald at his left, and the strange
little dinner-party proceeded merrily. But before it was finished a
messenger broke in to tell Lady Clanranald that the infamous Captain
Fergusson had arrived at Ormaclade, and was demanding the mistress of
the house with angry suspicion.

The Prince had now to part with O'Neal, in spite of the poor fellow's
entreaties to be allowed to remain with him. Miss Macdonald had only
passports for three and the danger was urgent. He was a faithful and
affectionate friend, this O'Neal, if a little boastful and
muddle-headed. He could shortly afterwards have escaped to France--as
O'Sullivan did--in a French ship, if he had not insisted on going to
Skye to try to fetch off the Prince. He missed the Prince, and fell into
the hands of Captain Fergusson.


CHAPTER III

IN SKYE

ON Saturday (June 26) the Prince put on his female attire for the first
time, and very strange he must have felt as he sat in flowered calico on
wet, slippery rocks, trying to keep himself warm beside a fire kindled
on the beach. It was eight in the evening when they started, and the
storm broke on them as soon as they were out at sea. The whole party was
distressed and anxious, apparently, except Charles himself, who sang
songs and told stories to keep up the spirits of his companions. Long
afterwards Flora Macdonald loved to tell how chivalrously and
considerately he looked after her comfort on that dangerous journey.

Going round the north end of the Isle of Skye, they came ashore close to
Mugstatt, Sir Alexander Macdonald's place. That chief was himself away
at Fort Augustus with the Duke of Cumberland, but his wife, Lady
Margaret, who, as we have seen, was a staunch friend to the Prince, was
at home. Still, in her position it was most undesirable that Charles
should present himself at her house. Miss Macdonald and her servant Neil
went up to the house--the garden sloped down to the part of the shore
where they had landed--leaving Betty Burke sitting on the boxes in her
flowered gown and duffle cloak.

Miss Macdonald had good reason to congratulate herself on her prudence
when she found Lady Margaret's drawing-room full of guests. Among these
was Mrs. Macdonald of Kirkibost, but she was already in the secret; Mr.
Macdonald of Kingsburgh was also there, but he was a man of such a
chivalrous spirit and so kindly in his disposition, that the secret
would have been safe with him even if he had not been--as he was--a
staunch Jacobite at heart. Far more formidable was a third guest, young
Lieutenant MacLeod, a militia officer who, with a small body of men, was
stationed at Mugstatt for the express purpose of examining every boat
that might arrive from the Long Island. He certainly neglected this duty
as far as Miss Macdonald's boat was concerned, possibly out of
complaisance to her hostess, Lady Margaret, possibly because the young
lady's careless demeanour disarmed all suspicion.

The situation was a most anxious one for Miss Macdonald; she had to
carry on an easy flow of chat with a young officer while all the time
she could think of nothing but Betty Burke sitting on her box on the
shore. Every moment was precious and nothing was being done.

At last, during dinner, she managed to confide the whole situation to
Kingsburgh, and while she kept the lieutenant engaged, the latter left
the room and sent for Lady Margaret to speak to him on business. (He was
her husband's factor, and there was nothing to excite remark in his
wanting a private talk with her.) On learning the news she for a moment
lost her head, and screamed out that they were undone. But with much
sense and kindness Kingsburgh reassured her, saying that if necessary he
would take the Prince to his own house, adding, with a touch of his
characteristic chivalry, that he was now an old man, and it made very
little difference to him whether he should die with a halter round his
neck or await a death which could not be far distant.

As for the immediate future, the first idea that occurred both to Lady
Margaret and Kingsburgh was, 'Let us send for Donald Roy.' This Donald
was a brother of the Macdonald of Belshair who had visited the Prince at
Coridale. He had been 'out' with the Prince's army, and was now living
with a surgeon near Mugstatt, trying to recover from a serious wound in
his foot received at Culloden. This Donald must have been a good fellow,
popular, and liked by all; for even in those dangerous times he seems
to have lived on an intimate footing with the very militia officers who
were sent to search for hidden Jacobites.

No man could have been more suited for Kingsburgh's purpose than Donald.
Not only was he sensible, honourable, and brave, but as an acknowledged
Jacobite he had less to lose if discovered, and as a young and amiable
man his person could not fail to be acceptable to the Prince.

On his arrival he found Kingsburgh and Lady Margaret walking up and down
the garden. 'O Donald!' cried the lady, 'we are undone for ever!' After
much rapid, anxious talk, the three agreed that the safest place for the
Prince would be the Island of Rasay. Old Rasay had been 'out' and was in
hiding, his second son was recovering from a wound received at Culloden,
and the eldest, though he had kept quiet from motives of prudence, was
quite as keen a Jacobite as the other two. Their eagerness to serve the
Prince could be relied on, and as the island had been recently
devastated by the Government soldiers, it was not likely to be visited
again.

Donald Roy undertook to see young MacLeod of Rasay and to make
arrangements for meeting the Prince at Portree next day, while
Kingsburgh promised to carry the Prince off with him to his own house
and to send him next day under safe guidance to Portree. In this way,
whatever happened, Lady Margaret would not be compromised.

So the garden conclave broke up, and the three separated. Lady Margaret
returned to her drawing-room, where, poor woman, she sadly disconcerted
Miss Macdonald by nervously going in and out of the room. However, the
lieutenant seems to have been too much taken up with his companion to
notice his hostess's demeanour. Donald Roy, in spite of his lame foot,
set off for Portree in search of young Rasay, and old Kingsburgh hurried
off to look for Charles, carrying refreshments with him. Not finding him
on the shore below the garden, the old man walked on rather anxiously
till, seeing some sheep running, he concluded that someone must have
disturbed them, and went to the spot. A tall, ungainly woman in a long
cloak started forward to meet him brandishing a big knotted stick. As
soon as Kingsburgh named himself the Prince knew that he had found a
friend, and placed himself in his hands with the frank confidence he
always showed in dealing with his Highland followers, a confidence which
they so nobly justified.

After the Prince had had something to eat and drink, the pair set out to
walk to Kingsburgh, a considerable distance off. Unfortunately it was
Sunday, and they met many country people returning from church, who were
all eager to have a little business chat with Sir Alexander's factor. He
got rid of most of them by slyly reminding them of the sacredness of the
day, for the Prince's awkward movements and masculine stride made his
disguise very apparent. 'They may call you the Pretender,' cried
Kingsburgh, between annoyance and amusement, 'but I never knew anyone so
bad at your trade.'

At the first stream they had to cross the Prince lifted his skirts with
a most masculine disregard of appearances, and to mend matters, when he
came to the next, let his petticoats float in the water with a most
unfeminine disregard of his clothes.

Halfway on their road Miss Macdonald rode past them on horseback,
accompanied by Mrs. Macdonald of Kirkibost and the latter's maid. 'Look,
look,' cried that damsel, 'what strides the jade takes! I dare say she's
an Irishwoman or else a man in woman's clothes.' Miss Macdonald thought
it best to quicken her pace and make no reply.

She was already at Kingsburgh when the Prince and his host arrived there
at about eleven o'clock. All the household were in bed. A message was
sent up to Mrs. Macdonald to tell her of the arrival of guests, but she
very naturally refused to get up, and merely sent her compliments to
Miss Macdonald and begged she would help herself to everything she
wanted. When, however, her husband came up to her room and gravely
requested her to come down and attend to his guest, she felt that
something was wrong. Nor did it allay her fears when her little daughter
ran up crying that 'the most odd, muckle, ill-shaken-up wife' she had
seen in all her life was walking up and down in the hall. Mrs. Macdonald
entered the main room with some misgiving, and in the uncertain
firelight saw a tall, ungainly woman striding up and down. The figure
approached her and, according to the manners of the time, saluted her.
The rough touch of the unshaven lip left no doubt on the lady's mind;
her husband's guest was certainly a man in disguise, probably a
proscribed Jacobite. She hurried out of the room and met Kingsburgh in
the hall. It did not occur to this good woman to upbraid her husband for
bringing danger on his family; her first question was, 'Do you think the
stranger will know anything about the Prince?'

'My dear,' said Kingsburgh very gravely, taking her hands in his, '_this
is the Prince himself_!'

'The Prince!' cried Mrs. Macdonald, rather overwhelmed, 'then we shall
all be hanged!'

'We can die but once,' said her husband, 'could we ever die in a better
cause?'

Then, returning to the homely necessities of the hour, he begged her to
bring bread and cheese and eggs.

Bread and cheese and eggs to set before Royalty! This disgrace to her
housewifery affected Mrs. Macdonald almost as feelingly as the danger
they were in. The idea, too, of sitting down at supper with her lawful
sovereign caused the simple lady the greatest embarrassment. However,
she was prevailed upon to take the seat at the Prince's left hand, while
Miss Macdonald had her usual place at his right. After the ladies had
retired Charles lighted his 'cutty,' and he and Kingsburgh had a
comfortable chat and a bowl of punch over the fire. Indeed, good food,
good fires, and good company were such congenial luxuries after the life
he had been leading, that Charles sat on and on in his chair, and the
hospitable Kingsburgh had at last to insist upon his guest going to bed.

Hour after hour the Prince slept on next morning, Kingsburgh being
unwilling to disturb the one good rest he might have for weeks; Miss
Macdonald was growing impatient and Mrs. Macdonald anxious, and at last
Kingsburgh consented to rouse him at about one o'clock. Portree was
seven miles off, and had to be reached before dark. It was decided that
the Prince might resume male attire _en route_, but in case of exciting
suspicion among the servants he had still to masquerade as Betty Burke
till he left the house. Mrs. Macdonald, her daughter, and Miss Flora all
came up to assist at his toilet, for 'deil a preen could he put in,' as
his hostess expressed herself. He laughed so heartily over his own
appearance that they could hardly get his dress fastened. Before he left
the room he permitted Flora Macdonald to cut off a lock of his hair,
which she divided with Mrs. MacLeod. What is a still more touching proof
of the devotion of these two good women is that they carefully took off
the sheets of the Prince's bed, vowing that these should be neither
washed nor used again till they should serve each of them as
winding-sheets. Kingsburgh accompanied his guests part of the way,
assisted Charles to change his dress in a little wood, and then, with
tears, bade him farewell.

Flora Macdonald rode on to Portree by another road, leaving her
servant, Neil MacKechan, and a little herd-boy to act as guides to the
Prince.

In the meantime, Donald Roy had been active in the Prince's service. At
Portree he had met young Rona MacLeod of Rasay and his brother Murdoch,
and, as he had expected, found them eager to face any danger or
difficulty for their Prince. They had a cousin rather older than
themselves, Malcolm MacLeod, who had been a captain in the Prince's
army. He entered into the scheme as heartily as the other two, and only
suggested prudently that Rona should leave the matter to himself and
Murdoch, who were 'already as black as black can be.' But Rona was not
to be baulked of his share of the danger and glory of serving the
Prince, and vowed that he _would_ go even if it should cost him his
estate and his head. So with two stout faithful boatmen they arrived
within a mile of Portree, drew up their boat among the rocks where it
could be hid, and remained waiting for the Prince, while the night fell
and the rain came down in sheets.

It had been arranged at Mugstatt that Donald Roy was to meet the Prince
late on Monday afternoon in the one public-house that Portree could
boast. This public-house consisted of one large, dirty, smoky room, and
people of all kinds kept going in and out, and here Donald took up his
post. Flora Macdonald was the first to arrive, and she, Donald Roy, and
Malcolm MacLeod sat together over the fire waiting anxiously. It was
already dark when a small, wet herd-boy slipped in and going up to
Donald whispered that a gentleman wanted to see him. The poor Prince was
standing in the darkness outside drenched to the skin. As soon as they
were at the inn Donald insisted on his changing his clothes, and Malcolm
at once gave him his own dry philibeg. Food they could get, and water
was brought in an old, battered, rusty tin from which the Prince drank,
being afraid of arousing suspicion by any fastidiousness. He also bought
sixpennyworth of the coarsest tobacco, and nearly betrayed his quality
to the already suspicious landlord by a princely indifference to his
change, but Malcolm prudently secured the 'bawbees' and put them into
the Prince's sporran.

Miss Flora now rose very sadly to go, as she had to continue her journey
that night. The Prince kissed her and said farewell with much suppressed
emotion, but with his usual hopefulness added that he trusted that they
might yet meet at St. James's. These constant partings from so many
faithful, warm-hearted friends were among the hardest trials of
Charles's wandering life. He seems to have clung with special affection
to Donald Roy, and urged him again and again not to leave him, but to go
with him to Rasay. Donald could only reply that the state of his wounded
foot made it impossible.

This conversation took place as they plunged through wet and darkness
from Portree down to the shore where the boat was lying. Malcolm
MacLeod, who made a third in the little party, had a spirit as firm and
a heart as warm as Donald's own, and before the end of the week the
Prince was clinging with the same affection to this new friend.

The wild and desolate island of Rasay offered the Prince a comparatively
secure hiding-place, and the three MacLeods had both the will and the
power to protect him, and to provide a reasonable amount of comfort for
him. But a kind of restlessness seems to have come over the Prince at
this time. It was only by being constantly on the move that he could
escape from anxious and painful thoughts. Possibly he may have felt a
little insecure in the midst of the Clan MacLeod (though he had met
nowhere with more devotion than that of the three cousins); he certainly
seems to have bestowed far more affection and confidence on Malcolm than
on the other two.

On Thursday he insisted on starting for Skye, in spite of the entreaties
of the young MacLeods, nor would he turn back when a storm broke and
threatened to overwhelm them. It was night before they landed at
Trotternish, a night such as had become familiar to the Prince, dark and
chill and pouring with rain. They made for a byre on the property of Mr.
Nicholson of Scorobeck. Young Rasay went on in front to see that no one
was there. 'If there had been anyone in it, what would you have done?'
he asked the Prince rather reproachfully; for Charles's self-will and
foolhardiness must at times have been very trying to those who were
risking life and estate for him. In the byre they lighted a fire, dried
their clothes, and slept for some hours. The next day, Rona being away,
the Prince asked Murdoch if he would accompany him into the country of
the Mackinnons in the south of Skye (the old chief of that clan had been
in the Prince's army, and Charles felt that he would be safe amongst
them). Murdoch's wound prevented his undertaking such a journey--it was
thirty miles over the wildest part of Skye--but Malcolm could go, and
his cousin assured the Prince that he could nowhere find a more faithful
and devoted servant. So the pair set out in the morning for their wild
tramp. To prevent discovery the Prince affected to be Malcolm's
servant, walked behind him, and, further to disguise himself, put his
periwig in his pocket and bound a dirty cloth round his head--a disguise
specially calculated, one would think, to excite attention. The two
young men talked frankly and confidentially, making great strides in
friendship as they went along. Once a covey of partridges rose, and,
with a true British instinct for sport at all hazards,[7] the Prince
raised his gun and would have fired if Malcolm had not caught his arm.
They were careful to pass through the hostile MacLeod country at night,
and at break of day arrived in Strath, the country of the Mackinnons.
Malcolm MacLeod had a sister married to a Mackinnon, an honest,
warm-hearted follow who had followed his chief and served as captain in
the Prince's army. To his house they directed their steps; Mackinnon
himself was away, but his wife received her brother and his friend with
the utmost kindness. The Prince passed for a certain Lewis Caw, a
surgeon's apprentice (who was actually 'skulking' in Skye at the time),
and acted his part of humble retainer so well that poor Malcolm was
quite embarrassed; and the rough servant-lass treated him with the
contempt Highland servants seem to have for their own class, if 'Lowland
bodies.' Both the tired travellers lay down to sleep, and when Malcolm
awoke late in the afternoon he found the sweet-tempered Prince playing
with Mrs. Mackinnon's little child. 'Ah, little man,' he cried, in a
moment of forgetfulness, 'you may live to be a captain in my service
yet.' 'Or you an old sergeant in his,' said the indignant nurse, jealous
of her charge's position.

Next day Malcolm went out to meet his brother-in-law. He had absolute
confidence in Mackinnon's faithfulness and loyalty, but he feared that
his warm-hearted feelings might lead him into indiscretions which would
betray the Prince; and in spite of all warnings Mackinnon could not
restrain his tears when he saw his Prince under his roof in such a
wretched plight.

It was important that Charles should be at once taken to the mainland,
and John Mackinnon went off at noon to the house of the chief of the
Mackinnons to borrow a boat. This old man was a fine type of a Highland
gentleman. It was his daily--probably his only--prayer that he might die
on the field of battle fighting for his king and country. He was
simple-minded, brave, and faithful, and though now between sixty and
seventy, as active and courageous as any young man. John had received
injunctions not to betray the Prince's presence in the neighbourhood to
the laird, but to keep such a piece of news from his chief was quite
beyond honest John's powers. Nothing would restrain the old man from
going off at once with his wife to pay their homage to the Prince. Nor
would he hear of anyone conducting Charles to the mainland but himself.

[Illustration: PRINCE CHARLIE'S WANDERINGS.

The black lines indicating land and the dotted lines sea journeys.]

At eight o'clock that night the little party embarked. The Prince took a
most affecting farewell of Malcolm MacLeod. With courtly punctilio he
sent a note to Donald Roy to tell of his safe departure, then pressed
ten guineas--almost his last--on his friend's acceptance, smoked a last
pipe with him, and finally presented him with the invaluable 'cutty.'


CHAPTER IV

ON THE MAINLAND

TO understand the Prince's proceedings for the next few weeks it is
necessary to have a clear idea of the country which was the scene of his
wanderings. From Loch Hourn (which opens opposite Sleat in Skye) on the
north down to Loch Shiel on the south a little group of wild and rugged
peninsulas run out into the Atlantic, called respectively Knoydart,
Morar, Arisaig, and Moidart. Between these deep narrow lochs run far
inland. Loch Nevis lies between Knoydart and Morar; Loch Morar, a
freshwater loch, cuts off the peninsula of the same name from Arisaig,
and this again is separated from Moidart by Lochs Nanuagh and Aylort,
and Loch Shiel separates the whole group from Ardnamurchan in the south.
The wild, inaccessible nature of the country, the deep valleys and many
rocky hollows in the hills offered many hiding-places; but a glance at
the map will show that a vigilant enemy by stationing men-of-war in all
the lochs and drawing a cordon of soldiers from the head of Loch Hourn
to the head of Loch Shiel, could draw the net so tightly that escape
would be nearly impossible.

In these first days of July, however, the search was still chiefly
confined to the Long Island and Skye, and Charles got a clear start of
his enemies. On July 5, in the early morning, he and his faithful
Mackinnons landed at a place named Mallach on Loch Nevis, and spent the
next three days in the open. They were in a good deal of perplexity as
to their next movements, and when Charles learned that old Clanranald
was staying in the neighbourhood, at the home of his kinsman Scothouse,
he sent to ask his advice and help, expecting confidently to find the
old faithful kindness that had helped him in Uist. But the old gentleman
had had enough of danger and suffering in the Prince's cause; his son
was a fugitive, his brother a prisoner, he himself was in hiding. The
sudden appearance of Mackinnon startled him into a state of nervous
terror, and he declared querulously that he could do no more nor knew
anyone else who could give any help. Mackinnon returned indignant and
mortified, but the Prince received the news philosophically, 'Well, Mr.
Mackinnon, we must do the best we can for ourselves.'

It was the first rebuff he had met with; but a day or two later he found
the same lukewarm spirit in Mr. Macdonald of Morar, a former friend. The
poor man had had his house burnt over his head and was living with his
family in a wretched hut, and probably thought that he had suffered
enough for the cause. This desertion cut the Prince to the quick. 'I
hope, Mackinnon,' he cried, addressing John, 'that you will not desert
me too.' The old chief thought that the words were addressed to him. 'I
will never leave your Royal Highness in the hour of danger,' he
declared, with tears, and John's reply was no less fervent.

There was one house in the neighbourhood where the Prince could always
count on a welcome whether he came at midnight, at cockcrow, or at noon,
whether as a Prince on his way to win a crown or as a beggar with
neither home nor hope. The hospitable house of Borodale was a mass of
blackened ruins, but the laird--'my kind old landlord,' as the Prince
fondly called him--and his two sons had still strong hands, shrewd
heads, and warm hearts ready for the Prince's service.

From Morar the Prince and the two Mackinnons walked through the summer
night over the wildest mountain track and arrived at Borodale in the
early morning. Old Angus was still in bed when they knocked at the door
of the bothy where the family was living. He came to the door, wrapt in
his blanket. When Mackinnon explained who it was that desired his
hospitality, the old man's welcome came prompt and unhesitating. '_I_
have brought him here,' said Mackinnon, 'and will commit him to _your_
charge. I have done my duty, do you do yours.'

'I am glad of it,' said Angus, 'and shall not fail to take care of him.
I shall lodge him so securely that all the forces in Great Britain shall
not find him.'

[Illustration]

So John Mackinnon, having done all he could, parted from the Prince with
the same affectionate sorrow that had marked the farewells of all his
faithful Highlanders. He was caught on his return to Skye, by the cruel
Captain Scott, and five days later was brought back to Lochnanuagh, a
prisoner on board an English man-of-war. Opposite the place where the
ship cast anchor was a fissure in the rock, and halfway up was what
looked like a mere grassy bank. In reality it was a small hut roofed
with sods, so contrived that no one unless he were in the secret would
have suspected it of being anything but a grassy slope. Here the Prince
had spent the preceding night, but as soon as the ship entered the loch
he betook himself to the hills. He was accompanied by old Borodale and
his son John--the young man who had been supposed to have died at
Culloden. A cousin of Borodale's, Macdonald of Glenaladale, had always
been a special friend of the Prince's. He joined him now in the wilds,
resolved to share all his worst dangers, though he had to leave his wife
and 'five weak pretty children' unprotected and living in a bothy, the
only home the English soldiers had left them. The first plan these brave
men concerted together was to carry the Prince into Lochiel's country,
where young Clanranald had promised to provide him a hiding-place. On
their way, however, they heard that a body of soldiers were approaching
from Loch Arkaig, which completely blocked their way on that side. That
same night old Borodale learnt that General Campbell with several ships
was in Loch Nevis, Captain Scott was still in Lochnanuagh, and parties
from these ships were searching every foot of ground in their
neighbourhoods. At the same time troops had been landed at the head of
Loch Hourn, and others simultaneously at the head of Loch Shiel. Between
these two points the distance as the crow flies must be some twenty or
five-and-twenty miles, but the wild mountainous nature of the country
makes the actual distance far greater. In spite of all difficulties the
Government troops in a few days had drawn a complete cordon from one
point to the other. This cordon consisted of single sentinels planted
within sight of each other who permitted no one to pass unchallenged. At
night large fires were lighted, and every quarter of an hour patrolling
parties passed from one to the other to see that all the sentinels were
on the alert.

Charles's case was almost desperate. For several days he and his
companions lived like hunted animals on the mountain-tops. They were
frequently within sight of some camp of the enemy; more than once they
had to go precipitately down one side of a hill because the soldiers
were coming up the other. They changed their quarters at night,
sometimes marching long miles merely to reach some mountain which having
been searched the day before was less likely to be visited again. In the
daytime the Prince could snatch a few hours of troubled sleep in some
rocky hollow while the rest of the party kept guard. News of the enemy's
movements was brought them occasionally by secret friends under cover of
darkness, but even their approach was full of terror for the fugitives.
Worst of all was their suffering from hunger. The soldiers devoured and
destroyed what meagre stores the country could boast, and in spite of
the generosity of the poorer clansmen no food could be had. For four
days the whole party lived on a few handfuls of dry meal and some
butter. On one occasion soldiers passed below their lair driving cattle.
The Prince, who was starving, proposed to follow them, and 'lift' some
of the cattle in the night. His companions remonstrated, but he led the
party himself, and secured the beef.[8] The guide, and indeed the leader
of the little band, was a farmer, Donald Cameron of Glenpean. But for
this man's daring courage and his intimate knowledge of the country the
Prince must sooner or later have fallen into the hands of his enemies.

The circle was daily being drawn more closely round the prey, and daily
the fear of starvation stared them in the face. Should they wait to die
like driven deer or make one desperate effort to break through the toils
that surrounded them, and either escape or die like men? For brave men
there could only be one answer to such a question. On the night of July
25 they determined to force their way through the cordon.

All that day the Prince had lain in closest hiding on a hill on the
confines of Knoydart, not a mile from the chain of sentinels. He had
slept some hours while two of the party had kept watch and the other two
had gone and foraged for food, bringing back two dry cheeses as the
result. (Old Borodale had gone back at this time; the party consisted of
his son John, Glenaladale and his brother, and Cameron of Glenpean.) All
day parties of soldiers had been searching the neighbourhood, and now
the sentinel fires were alight all along the line of defence. At
nightfall the little band started, walking silently and rapidly up a
mountain called Drumnachosi. The way was very steep, and the night very
dark. Once crossing a little stream the Prince's foot slipped, he
stumbled, and would have fallen down over a cliff had not Cameron caught
one arm and Glenaladale the other and pulled him up. From the top of the
hill they could see the sentinel fires close in front of them, and were
near enough to hear the voices of the soldiers quite distinctly. Under
cover of the friendly darkness they crept up another hill and came out
opposite another fire. At a point midway between these two posts a
mountain torrent had made a deep fissure on the side of a hill on the
further side. Could they break through the line and reach this river-bed
the overhanging banks, aided by the darkness of night, would conceal
their figures, and following the stream they could cross over into wild
broken country, where they could hide themselves. Donald Cameron, with
a fine Highland gallantry, undertook to make trial of the way first. If
he could reach the spot and return again to report 'all safe,' the rest
of the party might make the attempt. It had all to be done in a quarter
of an hour, for that was the interval at which the patrolling parties
succeeded each other.

In dead silence they waited till the sentinels had past; then as
stealthily and rapidly as a cat Cameron slipped down the hillside and
disappeared into the darkness. The rest stood breathless, straining
every nerve for the faintest sound; no footfall or falling pebble broke
the stillness, and in a few long, heavily-weighted minutes Cameron
returned and whispered that all was well. It was two o'clock now and the
darkness was growing thinner. They waited till the sentries had crossed
again and had now their backs to the passage, then they all moved
forward in perfect silence. Reaching the torrent, they sank on all fours
and one after the other crept up the rocky bed without a sound. The
dreaded cordon was passed, and in a short time they reached a place
where they were completely hidden and could take a little much-needed
rest.

Once clear of this chain of their enemies they turned northward to the
Glenelg country. Their plan was to go through the Mackenzie's country to
Poole Ewe, where they hoped to find a French vessel. But the next day
they learned from a wayfaring man that the only French ship which had
been there had left the coast. Seeing that that plan was fruitless,
their next idea was to move eastward into the wilds of Inverness and
wait there till the way should be clear for the Prince's joining Lochiel
in Badenoch.

[Illustration]

In Glen Sheil they parted with Cameron of Glenpean, and here too they
had a curious adventure which might have proved seriously inconvenient
to them. They had spent a whole hot August day hiding behind some rocks
on a bare hillside, the midges had tormented them, and they were
oppressed with thirst, but had not ventured from their hiding-place even
to look for water. At sunset a boy appeared bringing quarts of goat's
milk; he was the son of a certain Macraw, a staunch though secret friend
in the neighbourhood. Glenaladale at this time carried the fortune of
the little party--some forty gold louis and a few shillings--in his
sporran. He paid the lad for the milk, and in his hurry did not notice
that he had dropped his purse. They had hardly gone an English mile
before the loss was discovered, and Glenaladale insisted at all risks on
going back to look for the purse. He and his cousin did indeed find it
lying at the expected place, but though some shillings remained the
louis were gone. It was midnight before the indignant pair reached
Macraw's house, and the family were all asleep. They roused the master,
however, and fairly told him what had happened. No shadow of doubt seems
to have crossed the father's mind, no word of expostulation rose to his
lips. 'Without a moment's delay he returned to the house, got hold of a
rope hanging there, and gripped his son by the arm in great passion,
saying, "You damned scoundrel, this instant get these poor gentlemen's
money, or by the heavens I'll hang you to that very tree you see there."
The boy, shivering with fear, went instantly for the money, which he had
buried underground thirty yards from his father's house.' This accident
turned out most luckily for the Prince. He and Glenaladale's brother
while awaiting the other two had hidden behind some rocks; shortly after
they were hidden they saw an officer and two soldiers _coming along the
very path they had intended to take_. But for the delay caused by their
companions going back they must have fallen into the hands of their
enemies.

They now turned eastward, and after a long night's march found
themselves in the wild tract of country called the Braes of
Glenmoriston.

Here Charles was to find a new set of friends, different indeed from the
chivalrous Kingsburgh and the high-bred Lady Margaret, but men who were
as staunch and incorruptible as any of his former friends. These were
the famous 'Seven Men of Glenmoriston,' men who had served in the
Prince's army, and who now lived a wild, lawless life among the
mountains, at feud with everything that represented the existing law and
order. They have been described as a robber band, but that title is
misleading. They were rather a small remnant of irreconcilable rebels
who had vowed undying enmity and revenge against Cumberland and his
soldiers. And indeed there was ample excuse for their hatred and
violence in the cruelties they saw practised all round them. Sixty of
their clansmen after surrendering themselves had been shipped off to the
colonies, all their own possessions and those of their neighbours had
been seized, and friends and kinsfolk had been brutally put to death.

Swooping down like mountain eagles on detached bands of soldiers, these
seven men wreaked instant vengeance on oppressors and informers, and
carried off arms and baggage in the face of larger bodies of the enemy.
To these men, ignorant, reckless, and lawless, Charles unhesitatingly
confided his person, a person on whose head a sum of thirty thousand
pounds was set.

Four of these men were in a cave, Coraghoth, in the Braes of
Glenmoriston, when Glenaladale brought Charles to see them. They had
expected to see young Clanranald, and as soon as they saw the Prince one
of their number recognised him, but had the presence of mind to address
him as an old acquaintance by the name of 'MacCullony.' When the four
knew who their guest really was, they bound themselves to be faithful to
him by the dreadful Highland oath, praying 'that their backs might be to
God, and their faces to the devil, and that all the curses the
Scriptures do pronounce might come upon them and their posterity if they
did not stand firm to the Prince in the greatest danger.'

For about three weeks Charles shared the life of these outlaws, sleeping
in caves and holes of the earth, living on the wild deer of their
shooting and the secret gifts of the peasantry. They did not understand
his English, but the Prince was beginning to pick up a little Gaelic. He
was able at least to improve their cooking and reprove their swearing,
two services they liked afterwards to recall. Here too, as elsewhere on
his wanderings, the Prince gained the hearts of all his followers by his
gracious gaiety and plucky endurance of hardships. In the beginning of
August his hopes had again turned to Poole Ewe, but learning for a
second time that no French ship could land on the closely guarded coast,
he and his friends determined to remain in the northern straths of
Inverness-shire till the Government troops should withdraw from the
Great Glen--the chain of lakes which now forms the Caledonian Canal--and
thus leave the way clear into Badenoch, where Lochiel and Macpherson of
Cluny were hiding.

A curious incident is supposed to have helped the Prince at this time.
There had been among his Life Guards a handsome youth named Roderick
Mackenzie, son of a jeweller in Edinburgh, who in face and figure was
startlingly like the Prince. This lad was actually 'skulking' among the
Braes of Glenmoriston at the time when the Prince was surrounded in
Knoydart. A party of soldiers tracked him to a hut, which they
surrounded. Flight was impossible, and the poor boy stood at bay. As he
fell beneath their sword-thrusts he cried out, 'Villains, ye have slain
your King.' Whether these words were a curious last flash of vanity, or
whether he intended to serve the Prince by a generous act of imposture,
can never be known. The soldiers at any rate believed that they had
secured the prize. They carried off Mackenzie's head with them to Fort
Augustus, and the authorities seem for some time to have been under the
impression that it was indeed that of the Prince. Possibly it was owing
to this that in the middle of August the Government rather relaxed their
vigilance along the Great Glen. Charles was eager to press at once into
Badenoch, but the wary outlaws would only consent to taking him to the
Lochiel country, between Loch Arkaig, Loch Lochy, and Loch Garry. They
travelled chiefly by night; the season was very wet, and the rivers were
in flood, and they had to cross the River Garry Highland fashion in a
line, with each man's arm on his neighbour's shoulder, for the water was
running breast-high.

At this time the Prince's condition was as bad as at any period of his
wanderings. His clothes were of the coarsest, and _they_ were in rags.
Lady Clanranald's six good shirts had long since disappeared; it was as
much as he could do to have a clean shirt once a fortnight. The
provisions they carried were reduced to one peck of meal. In this state
did the Prince arrive in the familiar country round Loch Arkaig. It was
a year almost to the day since he had passed through that very country
elate and hopeful at the head of his brave Macdonalds and Camerons. He
was now a fugitive, ill-fed, ill-clad, with a price on his head; the
only thing that was unchanged was the faithful devotion of his
Highlanders.

Cameron of Clunes and Macdonald of Lochgarry, or Lochgarie, though they
were themselves 'skulking,' received the Prince with the utmost kindness
and found a hiding-place for him in a hut in a wood at the south side of
Loch Arkaig. Here the outlaws left him; only one of their number,
Patrick Grant, remained till the Prince should be supplied with money to
reward their faithful service. From this place, also, John Macdonald and
Glenaladale's brother returned to the coast, where they were to keep a
careful look-out and to send the Prince news of any French ship which
might appear.

Glenaladale still remained, but the Prince's thoughts were turning more
and more towards Badenoch, where his friend Lochiel was in comparatively
secure hiding.

Among all the gallant gentlemen who risked life and estate in this
rising there is no figure more attractive than that of the 'Gentle
Lochiel.' He had for years before the rebellion been the mainstay of the
Jacobite party. No man in the Highlands carried so much weight as he,
partly from his position, but more from his talents and the charm of his
character. 'Wise' and 'gentle' are the words that were applied to him,
and with all the qualities of a high-bred gentleman he combined the
simpler virtues of the Highland clansman--faithfulness, courage, and a
jealous sense of personal honour. From the very beginning he had seen
the folly of the rising. But when he had failed to convince Charles of
its hopelessness, he had thrown himself into the movement as if it had
been of his own devising. Never did he afterwards reproach Charles by
word or look for the ill-fated result.

He and his cousin, Macpherson of Cluny, were at this time hiding among
the recesses of Benalder. The road to Inverness ran by within a few
miles, and at a little distance lay Lord Loudoun's camp, but so great
was the devotion of the clansmen, so admirable their caution and
secrecy, that the English commander had not the slightest suspicion that
the two most important Jacobite fugitives had for three months been in
hiding so near to him. Lochiel had been wounded in the feet at
Culloden, and his lameness as well as his dangerous position prevented
his going to look for the Prince. He had two brothers, one a doctor and
the other a clergyman, both accomplished and bold men, who had also been
involved in the Jacobite rebellion. Towards the end of August, news
having come to Benalder that the Prince was living near Auchnacarry
under the protection of Cameron of Clunes, the two Cameron brothers set
off secretly for that country. The Prince with a son of Clunes and the
faithful outlaw Patrick Grant were at this time living in a hut in a
wood close to Loch Arkaig. It was early on the morning of August 25, the
Prince and young Clunes were asleep in the hut, while Patrick Grant kept
watch. He must have got drowsy, for waking with a start he saw a party
of men approaching. He rushed into the hut and roused the Prince and his
companion. Charles had long lived in expectation of such moments. He
kept his presence of mind completely, decided that it was too late to
fly, and prepared to defend himself. The fowling-pieces were loaded and
got into position, and they very nearly received their friends with a
volley. Dr. Cameron in his narrative describes the Prince's appearance
thus: 'He was barefoot; had an old black kilt coat on and philibeg and
waistcoat, a dirty shirt and a long red beard, a gun in his hand and a
pistol and dirk at his side; still he was very cheerful and in good
health.'

Another week they all waited in the neighbourhood of Auchnacarry (the
ruined home of the Lochiels). At last a message reached them from
Benalder that the passes were free and that they might safely try to
join Lochiel. Having parted with his devoted friend Glenaladale, who
returned to the coast, the Prince, with Dr. Cameron and Lochgarry,
arrived on August 30 at Mellaneuir, at the foot of Benalder. People in
hiding have no means of discriminating their friends from their enemies
at a little distance. Lochiel seeing a considerable party approaching
believed that he was discovered and determined to make a good fight for
it. He as narrowly missed shooting Charles as Charles had missed
shooting Dr. Cameron the week before. When, however, he recognised the
figure in the coarse brown coat, the shabby kilt, and the rough red
beard, he hobbled to the door and wanted to receive the Prince on his
knees. 'My dear Lochiel,' remonstrated Charles as he embraced him, 'you
don't know who may be looking down from these hills.'

In the hut there was a sufficiency of mutton, beef sausages, bacon,
butter, cheese, &c., and an anker of whisky, and the Prince was almost
overwhelmed by such an excess of luxury. 'Now, gentlemen,' he said with
a cheerful air, 'now I _live like a Prince_.' Charles's wardrobe was as
usual most dilapidated, and Cluny's three sisters set at once to work to
make him a set of six shirts with their own fair hands, doubtless sewing
the most passionate loyalty and infinite regret into their 'seams.'

The hiding-place where the Prince was now concealed was a very curious
hut contrived by Cluny in one of the inmost recesses of the hills. It
was called 'The Cage,' and was placed in a little thicket on the rocky
slope of a hill. The walls were formed by actual growing trees with
stakes planted between them, the whole woven together by ropes of
heather and birch. Till you were close to the hut it looked merely like
a thick clump of trees and bushes. The smoke escaped along the rocks,
and the stone being of a bluish colour it could easily pass unnoticed.
This hut could only hold six persons at a time, so the party generally
divided in this way: one man cooked the food, four played cards, and the
last man looked on at the others and possibly smoked!

Probably they played cards and talked and jested over the daily needs
and hardships, and spoke little of the disastrous times that lay behind
them, or the doubtful hopes that lay before them. Fearing lest the
Prince might have to remain in hiding all winter the ingenious Cluny
began to fit up a subterranean dwelling, thickly boarded up, where the
party would have been in safety and shelter. But in the meantime no
efforts were lacking to find a means of escape. Lochiel's brother, the
clergyman, a man of great prudence, went secretly to Edinburgh, and
there procured a ship and sent it round to a port on the East coast to
await the Prince. Succour, however, had come from another quarter; it
was known to the Prince and his followers that a certain Colonel Warren
was fitting out a couple of ships in France for the purpose of bringing
off the Prince, and daily they expected news of their arrival. On
September 6 two ships, _L'Heureux_ and _La Princesse_, appeared at
Lochnanuagh. Old Borodale and his two sons immediately fled to the
hills, leaving a faithful servant to find out and report to them who the
strangers might be. After nightfall, twelve French officers came to the
hut where they were hiding and told their errand. Information was at
once sent to Glenaladale, who undertook to go to Auchnacarry and send on
the news through Cameron of Clunes, he himself not knowing where the
Prince was hiding. Any delay, even of a few hours, might be fatal, as
the presence of the French ships must sooner or later become known to
the authorities at Fort Augustus. To his dismay Glenaladale failed to
find Clunes, and only by an accident met with an old woman, who directed
him to the place where the latter was hiding. A messenger was at once
despatched, and he, happening by a curious chance to meet with Cluny and
Dr. Cameron on a dark night in Badenoch, gave them his message, and an
express was at once sent to the Cage. On September 13, at one in the
morning, the party--which now included Cluny, Lochiel, Macpherson of
Breakachie, and some others of the Prince's more important
followers--set off for the coast. They travelled by night, remaining in
concealment by day, but so lonely was the country, so recklessly high
were the Prince's spirits, that one whole day he amused himself by
flinging up caps into the air and shooting at them.

[Illustration]

Again he passed through the well-known country round Loch Arkaig, past
Auchnacarry, the home of the Lochiels, which was lying in ruins, over
the rugged hills where he had been hunted like a wild creature a few
weeks before, down to the familiar waters of Lochnanuagh, back to the
warm-hearted household of Borodale.

A considerable number of Jacobite gentlemen who had lain for months in
hiding had been drawn to Lochnanuagh by the report of the landing of the
French ships; amongst these were young Clanranald, Glenaladale, and
Macdonald of Daleby. On the Prince's ship there sailed with him
Lochgarry, John Roy Stuart, Dr. Cameron, and Lochiel. 'The gentlemen as
well as commons were seen to weep, though they boasted of being soon
back with an irresistible force,' says the newspaper of the day. For the
greater part they never came back, never saw again the homes they loved
so well. Most were to spend a life of hope deferred and of desperate
longings for home, as dependents on a foreign Court. Dr. Cameron was ten
years later taken prisoner in London and executed, the last man who
suffered as a rebel; Lochiel died two years after he left Scotland, a
heart-broken exile. 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but
weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see
his native country.'[9]

FOOTNOTES:

[5]      'I had three sons, who now hae nane,
            I bred them toiling sarely,
          And I wad bare them a' again
            And lose them a' for Charlie!'

[6] In this he resembled his father, who, on leaving Scotland after the
failure of 1715, sent money to Argyll to compensate the country folk
whose cottages had been burned in the war; an act without precedent or
imitation.

[7] Charles, about 1743, introduced golf into Italy, according to Lord
Elcho.

[8] The authority for this is an unpublished anecdote in Bishop Forbes's
MS., _The Lyon in Mourning_.

[9] The authorities are Chambers's _Jacobite Memoirs_, selected from the
MS. _Lyon in Mourning_; Chambers's _History of the Rising of 1745_;
Macdonald of Glenaladale's manuscript, published in _Blackwood's
Magazine_; Ewald's _History of Prince Charles Edward_, and the
contemporary pamphlets anonymously published by Dr. Burton on
information derived from Bishop Forbes, who collected it at first hand.
Fastened on the interior of the cover of the _Lyon in Mourning_ is a
shred of the flowered calico worn by the Prince in disguise.



_TWO GREAT MATCHES_


THE University matches, between the elevens of Oxford and Cambridge, are
the most exciting that are played at Lord's. The elevens have been so
equal that neither University is ever more than one or two victories
ahead of its opponent. The players are at their best for activity and
strength, and the fielding is usually the finest that can anywhere be
seen. But, of all University matches, the most famous are those of 1870
and of 1875, for these were the most closely contested.

In 1870 Cambridge had won for three years running. They had on their
side Mr. Yardley, one among the three best gentlemen bats who ever
played, the others being Dr. Grace and Mr. Alan Steel. In 1869, when
Cambridge won by 58 runs, Mr. Yardley had only made 19 and 0. Mr. Dale
and Mr. Money were the other pillars of Cambridge batting: they had Mr.
Thornton too, the hardest of hitters, who hit over the pavilion (with a
bat which did not drive!) when he played for Eton against Harrow. On the
Oxford side were Mr. Tylecote (E. F. S.), a splendid bat, Mr. Ottaway,
one of the most finished bats of his day, and Mr. Pauncefote. The Oxford
team was unlucky in its bowling, as Mr. Butler had strained his arm. In
one University match, Mr. Butler took all ten wickets in one innings. He
was fast, with a high delivery, and wickets were not so good then as
they are now. Mr. Francis was also an excellent bowler, not so fast as
Mr. Butler; and Mr. Belcher, who bowled with great energy, but did not
excel as a bat, was a useful man. For Cambridge, Mr. Cobden bowled fast,
Mr. Ward was an excellent medium pace bowler, Mr. Money's slows were
sometimes fortunate, and Mr. Bourne bowled slow round. Cambridge went in
first, and only got 147. Mr. Yardley fell for 2, being caught by Mr.
Butler off Mr. Francis. Mr. Scott's 45 was the largest score, and Mr.
Thornton contributed 17, while Mr. Francis and Mr. Belcher divided the
wickets. Oxford was only 28 runs better than Cambridge, so that you
might call it anybody's match. A good stand was made for the first
wicket, Mr. Fortescue getting 35, and Mr. Hadow 17, but there was no
high scoring. Mr. Butler got 18, which is not a bad score for a bowler,
but Mr. Stewart and Mr. Belcher, who followed him, got ducks, and
clearly the tail was not strong in batting. The beginning of the
Cambridge second innings was most flattering to Oxford. When the fifth
wicket fell, Cambridge had but 40 runs, or twelve 'on.'

[Illustration]

Tobin and Money, Fryer and Scott had made but 8 among them, but Dale was
in, and Yardley joined him. Mr. Dale was playing in perfect style, and
he needed to do so, for Mr. Francis was bowling his best. Then came an
hour and a half, or so, of sorrow for Oxford. Mr. Butler was tried, and
bowled eight overs for 8 runs, but his arm was hurt, and he had to go
off. He got Mr. Thornton's wicket, but Oxford were playing, as Tom
Sayers fought, with a broken arm. Seven bowlers were put on, but the end
of it was that, after making the first 100 recorded in these matches,
Mr. Yardley sent a hard hit to Mr. Francis, who caught and bowled him.
Mr. Dale was splendidly caught at leg by Mr. Ottaway, off Mr. Francis,
with one hand over the ropes. He got 67; there was but one other double
figure, Mr. Thornton's 11.

Oxford had to make 178 to win, and 178 is never easy to get, especially
in a University match, where _so much depends on it_, and men are often
nervous, as you shall see. Mr. Hadow came to grief, but Mr. Ottaway and
Mr. Fortescue were not nervous bats. Mr. Ward bowled beautifully, but
they got 44 and 69; it was 72 for one wicket, and Oxford were buoyant.
At 86, however, the second wicket fell, and E. F. S. joined Mr. Ottaway.
He put on 29, and Ottaway's defence was like a stone wall. Finally Mr.
Ward bowled Mr. Tylecote; 25 to get and seven wickets to get them. It
seemed all over but shouting. Another wicket fell for 1; 24 to get, and
six wickets to fall. Mr. Hill came in, and played like a printed book,
while Mr. Ottaway was always there. He played a ball to short leg, and
Mr. Fryer held it so low down that Mr. Ottaway appealed. I dare say
Oxford men in the pavilion distinctly saw that ball touch the ground,
but the umpire did not; 17 to get, and four wickets to fall; but the
last two wickets had scored exactly nothing in the first innings. But
Mr. Francis could bat, and he stayed while Mr. Hill made 12, when he was
l. b. w. to Ward, for a single. Four runs to get, and three wickets to
fall! 'Mr. Charles Marsham's face wore a look that his friends know
well.' Mr. Butler came in; he scored well in the first innings, and he
could hit. Then came a bye. Four to get and three wickets to fall. Mr.
Hill hit the next square, good for a 4, but Mr. Bourne got at it, and
only a single was run. Three to get and three wickets to fall. _We did
not get them!_ Mr. Cobden, who had not done much, took the ball. Mr.
Hill made a single to cover point. The next ball, to Mr. Butler, was
well up on the off stump. Mr. Butler drove at it, Mr. Bourne caught it,
and Mr. Belcher walked in, 'rather pale,' says Mr. Lyttelton, and if so,
it was unusual. Mr. Belcher was of a ruddy countenance. He was yorked!
he took a yorker for a half volley. Let us pity Mr. Stewart. If he could
escape that one ball, the odds were that Mr. Hill would make the runs
next over. Mr. Pauncefote had told Mr. Stewart to keep his bat immovable
in the block-hole, but--he did not. Cobden scattered his bails to the
breezes, 'and smash went Mr. Charles Marsham's umbrella against the
pavilion brickwork.' Cambridge had won by two.

This is called Cobden's year, and will be so called while cricket is
played. But, in fact, Mr. Ward had taken six wickets for 29, and these
were all the best bats.

[Illustration: THE BALL HIT THE MIDDLE STUMP]

Mr. Butler's revenge came next year. He took fifteen wickets, and made
the winning hit. Oxford's revenge came in 1875. In 1874 Cambridge was
terribly beaten. They went in on a good wicket. Mr. Tabor, first man in,
got 52, when a shower came. The first ball after the shower, Mr. Tabor
hit at a dropping ball of Mr. Lang's, and was bowled. The whole side
were then demolished by Mr. Lang and Mr. Ridley, for 109, and 64 second
innings, while Oxford got 265 first innings. In 1876 Oxford had Mr.
Webbe, an admirable bat, as he is still; Mr. Lang, who had been known to
score; Mr. Ridley, a cricketer of the first class; Mr. Royle, the finest
field, with Mr. Jardine, ever seen; Mr. Game, who had not quite come
into his powers as a hitter; and Mr. Grey Tylecote, a good all-round
man; also Mr. Pulman, a sterling cricketer, and Mr. Buckland, a very
useful player all round. Cambridge had Mr. George Longman, who could
play anything but Mr. Ridley's slows; Mr. Edward Lyttelton, one of the
prettiest and most spirited bats in the world; Mr. A. P. Lucas, whom it
were superfluous to praise; Mr. Sims, a hard hitter; Mr. W. J.
Patterson, a renowned bat, and others. In bowling, Oxford had Mr.
Ridley, whose slows were rather fast and near the ground. Being as tall
as Mr. Spofforth, and following his ball far up the pitch, Mr. Ridley
was alarming to the nervous batsman. He fielded his own bowling
beautifully. Mr. Lang was a slow round-arm bowler with a very high
delivery, and a valuable twist from either side. Mr. Buckland was
afterwards better known as a bowler; Mr. Royle could also deliver a
dangerous ball; the fast bowler was Mr. Foord Kelcey, but he, again, was
lame, through an accident to his foot. For Cambridge Mr. Sharpe and Mr.
Sims bowled. Lang and Webbe went to the wicket for Oxford, and made a
masterly stand, the ball being cut and driven to the ropes in all
directions. Mr. Webbe got 55, Mr. Lang 45, while Mr. Ridley contributed
21, Mr. Pulman 25, and Mr. Buckland 22. The whole score was 200, 86 for
the first wicket. Mr. Longman's 40 was the best score for Cambridge, and
Mr. Edward Lyttelton got 23; total 163. Mr. Lang got five wickets for
35, Mr. Ridley, Mr. Buckland, and Mr. Foord Kelcey divided the other
four. In the second Oxford innings Mr. Sharpe got six wickets for 66,
and the whole score was but 137, in which Mr. Pulman's 30 was very
useful; Mr. Royle, Mr. Game, and Mr. Webbe got 21, 22, and 21, and Mr.
Grey Tylecote, not out, contributed an invaluable 12. The tail of the
Cambridge side made 14 among them in the first innings, not an
assortment of duck's eggs. Cambridge went in, with 175 to get, much like
Oxford in 1870. An over was bowled before seven o'clock, and resulted in
a four to leg. Sharpe and Hamilton, who went in last, first innings,
went in first in the second, to avoid losing a good bat in the five
minutes before drawing stumps. One doubts if it was worth Mr. Ridley's
while to insist on that one over, but such is the letter of the law. The
two victims, in any case, played rarely, Mr. Sharpe making 29 and Mr.
Hamilton 11. Mr. Lucas, however, was bowled by Mr. Buckland for 5. Two
for 26. Mr. Longman came in and drove off Mr. Lang and Mr. Ridley. Mr.
Royle then took the ball, a fast change-bowler. He bowled three maidens,
and then settled Mr. Sharpe (at 65), Mr. Blacker (at 67), and Mr.
Longman at 76 (for 23), with a fine breaking shooter such as you seldom
see now. Twenty years ago a large percentage of balls shot dead. Mr.
Greenfield and Mr. Edward Lyttelton stuck together.

At 97, an awful yell went up; mid-on had missed Mr. Lyttelton, a low
hard catch, but one which he would have taken nine times in ten. At 101,
Mr. Campbell caught Mr. Greenfield off Mr. Royle, six down and 70 to
get. Then Mr. Sims came in, and another yell was heard. Mid-on had given
Mr. Lyttelton another let-off, an easy thing he might have held in his
mouth. Mid-on wished that the earth would open and swallow him.
Presently Mr. Lyttelton hit Mr. Buckland a beautiful skimming smack to
square leg. Mr. Webbe was standing deeper, but, running at full speed
along the ropes, sideways to the catch, he held it low down--a
repetition of what he did unto Mr. Lyttelton when they played for Harrow
and Eton. Mr. Lyttelton had scored 20, but not in his best manner. There
were now three wickets to fall for 60; Oxford seemed to have the
advantage. Sims and Patterson had added 14 (40 to win), when a heavy
shower came down, lasted for an hour and a half, and left Oxford with a
wet ball and a slippery ground. The rain, which favoured Oxford in 1874,
when Cambridge collapsed, was now on the Cambridge side. Mr. Sims was
determined to knock the runs off by a forcing game, and these were the
right tactics. Then Ridley went on, and his first slow bowled Mr.
Patterson clean. Mr. Macan came in, and got a single (13 to win). Then
Mr. Sims hit Mr. Ridley over his head to the ropes for 4 (9 to win). Mr.
Lang went on for Mr. Royle, a leg bye followed, and then a no-ball (7 to
win). Mr. Lang then, in a moment of despair, as unusual measures were
needed, bowled a full pitch right at Mr. Sims's head. Mr. Sims,
naturally concluding that two more hits would finish the match, hit at
it as hard as he could. Mr. Pulman was standing by the ropes 'in the
country' and the ball soared towards him; would it cross the ropes?
would Pulman reach it; he had a long way to run? He reached it, he held
it, and back went Mr. Sims. There remained Mr. Smith, in the same
historical position as Mr. Belcher. There were six runs to get, and Mr.
Macan, his companion, a good bat, was not yet settled. Some one in the
pavilion said, 'His legs are trembling, Oxford wins.' Mr. Smith, unlike
Mr. Belcher, stopped two of Mr. Ridley's slows, but not with enthusiasm.
To the third he played slowly forward, the ball hit the middle stump,
and Oxford won by six runs.

There was also a very good match in 1891. Cambridge was far the better
team, and went in, second innings, for a small score. But Mr. Berkeley
(left-hand medium) bowled so admirably that there were only two wickets
to fall for the last run. Mr. Woods, however, was not nervous, and hit
the first ball he received for 4 to the ropes. Still, I am inclined to
think that, in these three matches, the bowling of Mr. Berkeley was the
best, for he had very little encouragement, whereas, with 178 or so to
get, a bowler has a good chance, and is on his mettle.

The moral is, don't poke about in your block-hole, but hit, and, when
you bowl in an emergency, aim at getting wickets by any means, rather
than at keeping down runs.



_THE STORY OF KASPAR HAUSER_


ON May 28, 1828, the town of Nuremberg, in Bavaria, presented a
singularly deserted appearance, as it was Whit-Monday, and most of the
inhabitants were spending their holiday in the country. A cobbler, who
lived in Umschlitt Square, was an exception to the general rule, but
towards four o'clock he, too, thought that he would take a stroll
outside the city walls. When he came out of his door his curiosity was
excited by a strange figure, which was leaning, as if unable to support
itself, against a wall near, and uttering a moaning sound. The figure
was that of a young man of about seventeen, dressed in a grey riding
suit, and wearing a pair of dilapidated boots; he held a letter in one
hand.

[Illustration]

The cobbler's curiosity led him to approach the strange figure, which
moaned some incoherent sounds, and held out the letter in its hand. This
was addressed 'To the Captain of the 4th squadron of the 6th regiment
of dragoons now stationed at Nuremberg'; and, as he lived quite near,
the cobbler thought the surest way of gratifying his own curiosity was
to take the stranger there. The poor creature stumbled and shuffled
along behind his guide, and reached the captain's house quite worn out.
The captain was not at home, but his servant, pitying the sufferings of
the stranger, gave him a sack of straw to lie on in the stable, and
brought him some bread and meat and beer. The meat and the beer he would
not touch, but ate the bread greedily and drank some water; he then fell
fast asleep. Towards eight o'clock the captain came home, and was told
of his strange visitor, and of the letter he had brought with him. This
letter was written in a feigned hand, and said that the writer, a poor
labourer with ten children, had received the boy in 1812, and had kept
him shut up in his house for sixteen years, not allowing him to see or
know anything; that he could keep him no longer, and so sent him to the
captain, who could make a soldier of him, hang him, or put him up the
chimney, just as he chose. He added that the boy knew nothing and could
tell nothing, but was quick at learning. Enclosed was a letter giving
the date of the boy's birth (April 30, 1812), and purporting to be
written by the mother; but the writing, paper, and ink all showed that
the two letters were by the same person.

The captain could make nothing of this mysterious letter, but went to
the stable, where he found the stranger still asleep. After many pushes,
kicks, and thumps he awoke. When asked his name and where he came from,
he made some sounds, which were at last understood to be, 'Want to be a
soldier, as father was;' 'Don't know;' and 'Horse home.' These sentences
he repeated over and over again like a parrot, and at last the captain
decided to send his new recruit to the police office. Here he was asked
his name, where he came from, &c., &c., but the result of the police
inspector's questioning was the same: the stranger repeated his three
sentences, and at last, in despair of getting any sensible reply from
him, he was put into a cell in the west tower of the prison where
vagrants were kept. This cell he shared with another prisoner, a butcher
boy, who was ordered to watch him carefully, as the police naturally
suspected him of being an impostor. He slept soundly through the night
and woke at sunrise. He spent the greater part of the day sitting on the
floor taking no notice of anything, but at last the gaoler gave him a
sheet of paper and a pencil to play with. These he seized with pleasure
and carried them off to a seat; nor did he stop writing until he had
covered the paper with letters and syllables, arranged just as they
would be in a copy-book. Among the letters were three complete words,
'Kaspar Hauser,' and 'reiter' (horse soldier). 'Kaspar Hauser' was
evidently his name, though he did not recognise it when called by it.

[Illustration]

The news of the strange arrival spread through the city. The
guard-house, where he spent part of the day, was thronged by a curious
crowd, anxious to see this strange creature, who looked at things
without seeing them, who could not bear a strong light, who loathed any
food but bread and water, and who, parrot-like, repeated a couple of
phrases which he evidently did not understand, and one word, 'horse,' to
which he seemed to attach some meaning. What they saw was a youth of
about seventeen, with fair hair and blue eyes, the lower part of his
face slightly projecting like a monkey's. He was four feet nine inches
in height, broad-shouldered, with tiny hands and delicate little feet,
which had never worn shoes nor been put to their natural use, for the
soles were as soft as a baby's. He was dressed in grey riding-breeches,
a round jacket, which had been made out of a frock-coat by cutting off
the skirts, and wore a round felt hat bound with red leather. In his
pockets were some rags, some tracts, a rosary, and a paper of gold sand.

Everyone who saw him and watched him came to the same conclusion, that
his mind was that of a child of two or three, while his body was nearly
grown up; and yet he was not half-witted, because he immediately began
to pick up words and phrases, had a wonderful memory, and never forgot a
face he had once seen, or the name which belonged to it. During the next
two or three weeks he spent part of every day in the guard-room; part
with the family of the gaoler, whose children taught him to talk and to
walk as they did their own baby sister. He was not afraid of anything;
swords were whirled round his head without his paying any attention to
them; he stretched out his hand to the flame of a lighted candle, and
cried when it burnt him, and when he saw his face in a looking-glass,
looked behind it for the other person. He was particularly pleased when
anything bright or glittering was given to him. Whenever this happened
he called out 'Horse, horse,' and made signs as if he wanted to hang it
on to the neck of something. At last one of the policemen gave him a
wooden horse, when his happiness was complete, and he spent hours
sitting on the floor playing with this horse and the dozens of horses
which were given to him by his visitors as soon as they heard of his
liking for them.

Six or seven weeks passed in this way, and all this time the town
council were discussing what they would do with him. At last they
decided to adopt him as the 'Child of Nuremberg,' and to have him
properly cared for and taught, so that, if possible, something of his
past might be learned. He was taken away from the prison and put under
the charge of Professor Daumer, whose interest in the youth led him to
undertake the difficult task of developing his mind so that it might fit
his body. The burgomaster issued a notice to the inhabitants that in
future they would not be allowed to see Kaspar Hauser at all hours of
the day, and that the police had orders to interfere if the curiosity of
visitors led them to annoy Dr. Daumer and his household. He entered Dr.
Daumer's house on July 18, 1828, and during the next five months made
such astonishing progress that the delight of his teacher knew no
bounds. In order to satisfy public curiosity the burgomaster published,
in July, a short account of Hauser's previous life, gleaned from him by
careful questioning. It was to this effect:--

'He neither knows who he is nor where he came from, for it was only at
Nuremberg that he came into the world. He always lived in a hole, where
he sat on straw on the ground; he never heard a sound, nor saw any vivid
light. He awoke and he slept, and awoke again; when he awoke he found a
loaf of bread and a pitcher of water beside him. Sometimes the water
tasted nasty and then he fell asleep again, and when he woke up found he
had a clean shirt on; he never saw the face of the man who came to him.
He had two wooden horses and some ribbons to play with; was never ill,
never unhappy in his hole; once only the man struck him with a stick for
making too much noise with his horses. One day the man came into his
room and put a table over his feet; something white lay on the table,
and on this the man made black marks with a pencil which he put into his
fingers. This the man did several times, and when he was gone Kaspar
imitated what he had done. At last he taught him to stand and to walk,
and finally carried him out of his hole. Of what happened next Kaspar
had no very clear idea, until he found himself in Nuremberg with the
letter in his hand.'

At first sight this story seems quite impossible, but it is borne out by
two or three things. Kaspar's legs were deformed in just such a way as
would happen in the case of a person who had spent years sitting on the
ground; he never walked properly to the end, and had great difficulty in
getting upstairs. His feet showed no signs of use, except the blisters
made by his boots and his walk to Nuremberg; he could see in the dark
easily and disliked light; and finally, for several months after he came
to Nuremberg, he refused to eat anything but bread and water, and was,
in fact, made quite ill by the smell of meat, beer, wine, or milk.

For the first four months of his stay with Daumer, his senses of sight,
taste, hearing, and smell were very acute. He had got past the stage in
which he disliked light, and could now see much further than most people
by day, without, however, losing his power of seeing in the dark; at
the same time he could not distinguish between a thing and a picture of
that thing, and could not for a long time judge distances at all, for he
saw everything flat. His favourite colours were red and yellow; black
and green he particularly disliked; everything ugly was called green. He
could not be persuaded that a ball did not roll because it wished to do
so, or that his top did not spin of its own accord. For a long time he
saw no reason why animals should not behave like human beings, and was
much annoyed because the cat refused to sit up at table and to eat with
its paws, blaming its disobedience in not doing as it was told. He
further thought that a cow which had lain down in the road would do well
to go home to bed if it were tired. His sense of smell was very keen,
painfully so, in fact, for he was made quite ill by the smell of the dye
in his clothes, the smell of paper, and of many other things which other
people do not notice at all; while the smell of a sweep a hundred yards
off on the other side of the road upset him for a week. On the other
hand, he could distinguish the leaves of trees by their smell.

By November he had made sufficient progress to make it possible for Dr.
Daumer to teach him other things besides the use of his senses: he was
encouraged to write letters and essays, to use his hands in every way,
to draw, to make paper-models, to dig in the garden, where he had a
little plot of ground with his name in mustard and cress; in fact, to
use his lately acquired knowledge. The great difficulty was to persuade
him to eat anything but bread and water, but by slow degrees he learned
to eat different forms of farinaceous food, gruel, bread and milk, rice,
&c., into which a little gravy and meat was gradually introduced. By the
following May he could eat meat without being made ill by it, but never
drank anything but water, except at breakfast, when he had chocolate.

For the next eleven months he lived a happy, simple life with his friend
and tutor, who mentions, however, that the intense acuteness of his
senses was gradually passing away, but that he had still the charming,
obedient, child-like nature which had won all hearts. In the summer,
public interest was aroused by the news that Kaspar Hauser was writing
his life, and the paper was eagerly looked forward to. All went well
until October 17, when Kaspar was discovered senseless in a cellar under
Dr. Daumer's house, with a wound in his forehead. He was carried
upstairs and put to bed, when he kept on moaning, 'Man! man!--tell
mother (Mrs. Daumer)--tell professor--man beat me--black sweep.' For
some days he was too ill to give any account of his wound, but at last
said, that he had gone downstairs and was suddenly attacked by a man
with a black face,[10] who hit him on the head; that he fell down, and
when he got up the man was gone; that he went to look for Mrs. Daumer,
and, as he could not find her, finally hid in the cellar to be quite
safe. After this murderous attack it was no longer safe to leave him in
Dr. Daumer's house, so when well again he was removed to the house of
one of the magistrates, and constantly guarded by two policemen, without
whom he never went out. He was not very happy here, and after some
months was put under the charge of Herr von Tucher (June 1830), with
whom he remained for eighteen months. At first the arrangement answered
admirably; he was happy in his new home, his only trouble being that he
was sent to the grammar school and put into one of the upper forms,
where he had to learn Latin, a task which proved too hard for his brain.
By this time his face had quite lost the brutish character it had when
he came to Nuremberg, and its expression was pleasant, though rather
sad. Unfortunately for himself, he was one of the sights of Nuremberg,
was always introduced to any stranger of distinction who came to the
town, and attracted even more attention than the kangaroo; so that even
his warmest friends were obliged to admit that he was rather spoiled.

At the beginning of 1831, an Englishman, Lord Stanhope, came to
Nuremberg, saw the foundling, was curiously interested in him, and
wished to adopt him. Kaspar was very much flattered, and drew
unfavourable comparisons between this Englishman who thought nothing too
good for him, and his guardians, who were thinking of apprenticing him
to a bookbinder. Lord Stanhope's kindness turned his head, and Herr von
Tucher, after repeated remonstrances, resigned his guardianship in
December 1831. With the full consent of the town council of Nuremberg,
Lord Stanhope removed Kaspar to Ausbach, and placed him under the care
of Dr. Mayer. It was generally supposed that this was only preparatory
to taking him to England. Ample funds were provided for his maintenance,
but the journey to England was again and again put off; and at last
there were signs that Lord Stanhope was not quite satisfied with his new
plaything. So much had been said about Kaspar's cleverness, that his new
teachers were disappointed to find that his acquirements were about
those of a boy of eight. They accused him of laziness and of deceit; and
he, finding himself suspected and closely questioned as to everything
he did, took refuge in falsehood. At last a government clerkship of the
lowest class was procured for him, but great complaints were made of his
inattention to his duties (mainly copying); he was unhappy, and, when on
a visit to Nuremberg in the summer, made plans for the happy time when
he should be able to come back and live with his friends there. For the
people of Ausbach, though making him one of the shows of the place, do
not seem to have had that perfect belief in him shown by his earlier
friends; while his new guardians expected a great deal too much from
him. His chief friend in Ausbach was the clergyman who had prepared him
for confirmation, who noticed, in November 1833, that he was very much
depressed; but this passed away. On the afternoon of December 14, Kaspar
came to call on the clergyman's wife, and was particularly happy and
bright. Three hours afterwards he staggered into his tutor's house,
holding his hand to his side, gasping out 'Garden--man--stabbed--give
purse--let it drop--come--' and dragged the astonished Dr. Mayer off to
a public garden, where a little purse was found on the ground. In it was
a piece of paper, on which was written backwards in pencil these lines:
'I come from the Bavarian frontier. I will even tell you my name, "M. L.
O."'

Kaspar was taken home and put to bed, when it was discovered that there
was a deep stab in his left side. For some hours he was too ill to be
questioned, but on the 15th he was able to tell his story. On the 14th,
as he was coming out of the government buildings to go home to dinner,
he was accosted by a man who promised to tell him who his parents were,
if he would come to a spot in the public gardens. He refused, as he was
going home to dinner, but made an appointment for that afternoon. After
dinner he called on the clergyman's wife, and then went to the gardens,
where he found the man waiting for him. The man led him to the Uz
monument, which was at a little distance from the main path, and shut in
by trees. Here he made him take a solemn oath of secrecy and handed him
the little purse, which Kaspar, in his hurry to seize it, let drop. As
he stooped to pick it up he was stabbed, and when he lifted himself up
the stranger was gone. Then he ran home.

For two days he was not supposed to be in any danger, but fever set in;
the doctors gave no hope of his recovery, and on the 17th he died.

His death caused great excitement, not only in Ausbach and Nuremberg,
but throughout all Germany. The question as to whether he was an
impostor or not was hotly debated; those who favoured the former theory
insisting that he had killed himself accidentally when he only meant to
wound himself and so excite sympathy. Some of the doctors declared,
however, that that was quite impossible, for the wound was meant to
kill, and could only have been self-inflicted by a left-handed person of
great strength, for it had pierced through a padded coat. A large reward
(1,200_l._) was offered for the capture of the assassin, but in vain;
and the spot of the murder was marked by an inscription in Latin:

          HIC
          OCCULTUS
          OCCULTO
          OCCISUS EST

          (Here the Mystery was mysteriously murdered).

The same idea is repeated on his tombstone. 'Here lies K. H., the riddle
of the age. His birth was unknown, his death mysterious.'

His death was the signal for a violent paper-war between his friends and
his enemies. It raged hotly for years; but his friends have never
succeeded in proving who he was; why, after having been shut up for so
long, he was at last set free; or why his death was, after all,
necessary; while his enemies have utterly failed to prove that he was an
impostor.[11]

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Probably the man had tied a piece of black crape over his face as a
mask.

[11] This is rather a picturesque than a critical story of Kaspar
Hauser. The evidence of the men who first met him shows that he could
then speak quite rationally. The curious will find a brief but useful
account of him in the Duchess of Cleveland's 'Kaspar Hauser'
(Macmillans, 1893.)



_AN ARTIST'S ADVENTURE_


NEARLY four hundred years ago, a boy was born in Italy who grew up to be
one of the most accomplished artists of his own or any other age.
Besides excelling as a sculptor, modeller, and medallist, he was a
musician, an author, and an admirable swordsman; and popes, kings, and
other great princes eagerly employed him, and vied with each other to
secure his services. His name was Benvenuto Cellini.

Under Pope Clement VII. he took part in the defence of the Castle of St.
Angelo, when it was besieged by the Constable de Bourbon, and the Pope
reposed such confidence in Cellini that he was entrusted with the task
of removing all the gems in the treasury from their settings, and
concealing the stones in the thick folds of his clothing. However, I am
not going to enlarge on Benvenuto's many talents, but to tell you of a
wonderful adventure which befell him in the very Castle of St. Angelo he
had helped to defend.

Those were lawless days, and Cellini was a man of fiery temper, to whom
blows came more naturally than patience and forbearance. So it came to
pass that, being told that a certain goldsmith named Pompeo had been
spreading false reports about him, Benvenuto fell upon him one fine day
in the very midst of Rome, and promptly stabbed him to death.

This might possibly have been overlooked, but a workman, jealous of
Cellini's success and reputation, accused the artist to the reigning
Pope, Paul III., of having purloined some of the jewels entrusted to his
care during the siege, and Paul was not to be trifled with where the
affairs of the treasury were concerned. Moreover, a near relation of the
Pope's was Cellini's sworn enemy, and this sufficed to seal his fate.

So, when taking a walk one morning, Benvenuto suddenly found himself
face to face with Crespino, the sheriff, attended by his band of
constables. Crespino advanced, saying, 'You are the Pope's prisoner.'

'Crespino,' exclaimed Benvenuto, 'you must take me for some one else.'

'No, no,' replied Crespino, 'I know you perfectly, Benvenuto, and I have
orders to carry you to the Castle of St. Angelo, where great nobles and
men of talent like yourself are sent.'

Then he politely begged Benvenuto to give up his sword, and led him off
to the Castle, where he was locked up in a room above the keep.

It was easy enough for Benvenuto to refute the accusations brought
against him; nevertheless he was kept prisoner, in spite of the
intervention of the French ambassador, who demanded his liberty in the
name of Francis I.

The governor of the Castle was, like Cellini, a Florentine, and at first
showed himself full of kind attentions towards his countryman, allowing
him a certain amount of liberty on parole, within the Castle walls.
Growing suspicious later, he kept his prisoner closer, but after a time
he restored him to comparative liberty.

When Benvenuto found how changeable the governor's humour was, he set
himself to think over matters seriously. 'For,' he reflected, 'should a
fresh fit of anger or suspicion cause him to confine me more strictly, I
should feel myself released from my word, and it may be as well to be
prepared.'

Accordingly he ordered some new coarse linen sheets to be brought him,
but when soiled he did not send them back. When his servants asked for
the sheets so as to have them washed he bade them say no more, as he had
given them to one of the poor soldiers on guard, who would be sure to
get into trouble if the matter were known. By degrees he emptied the
straw out of his mattress, burning a little of it at a time in his
fireplace, and replacing it with the sheets, which he cut into strips
some inches wide. As soon as he thought these strips were long enough
for his purpose, he told his servants that he had given all the sheets
away, and that in future they had better bring him finer linen, which he
would be sure to return.

Now it so happened that every year the governor was subject to a most
distressing illness, which, for the time being, entirely deprived him of
his reason. When it began to come on, he would talk and chatter
incessantly. Each year he had some fresh hallucination, at one time
fancying himself an oil-jar, at another a frog, and skipping about like
one. Again, another time, he declared he was dead, and wished to be
buried; and so, year by year, he was the victim of some new delusion.
This year he imagined he was a bat, and as he walked about he uttered
little half-smothered cries like a bat, and flapped his hands and moved
his body as though about to fly. His faithful old servants and his
doctors noticed this, and, thinking change of ideas and variety of
conversation might do him good, they frequently fetched Benvenuto to
entertain him.

One day the governor asked Benvenuto whether it had ever occurred to him
to desire to fly, and; on being answered in the affirmative, he inquired
further how he should set about it.

Benvenuto replied that the only flying creature it would be at all
possible to imitate artificially was the bat, on which the poor man
cried out, 'True, true, that's it, that's the thing.' Then turning round
he said, 'Benvenuto, if you had everything you required for it, do you
think you could fly?'

'Oh, yes,' said the artist; 'if you will only leave me free to do it, I
will engage to make a pair of wings of fine waxed cloth, and to fly from
here to Prati with them.'

'And I, too,' exclaimed the governor; 'I could do it too, but the Pope
has ordered me to keep you like the apple of his eye, and as I strongly
suspect you're a cunning fellow, I shall lock you well up and give you
no chance of flying.'

Thereupon, and in spite of all Benvenuto's entreaties and protestations,
the governor ordered him to be taken back to prison and more carefully
guarded than ever.

Seeing he could not help himself, Cellini exclaimed before the officers
and attendants: 'Very well! lock me up and keep me safe, for I give you
due warning I mean to escape in spite of everything.'

No sooner was he shut up in his cell than he fell to turning over in his
mind how this escape could be made, and began minutely examining his
prison, and, after discovering what he thought would be a sure way of
getting out, he considered how best he might let himself down from the
top of this enormous donjon tower, which went by the name of 'Il
Mastio.' He began by measuring the length of the linen strips, which he
had cut and joined firmly together so as to form a sort of rope, and he
thought there would be enough for his purpose. Next, he armed himself
with a pair of pincers which he had taken from one of his guards who was
fond of carpentering, and who, amongst his tools, had a particularly
large and strong pair of pincers, which appeared so useful to Benvenuto
that he abstracted them, and hid them in his mattress.

As soon as he thought himself safe from interruption, he began to feel
about for the nails in the ironwork of the door, but owing to its
immense thickness they were by no means easy to get at. However, he
managed at length to extract the first nail. Then came the question, how
to conceal the hole left behind. This he contrived by making a paste of
rusty scrapings and wax, which he modelled into an exact representation
of the head of a nail, and in this way he replaced each nail he drew by
a facsimile of its head in wax.

Great care was required to leave just a sufficient number of nails to
keep the ironwork and hinges in their places. But Benvenuto managed this
by first drawing the nails, cutting them as short as he dared, and then
replacing them in such a way as to keep things together, and yet to
allow of their being easily drawn out at the last moment.

All this was by no means easy to contrive, for the governor was
constantly sending some one to make sure that his prisoner was safe.

The two men who were specially charged with this duty were rough and
rude, and one of them in particular took pains to inspect the whole room
carefully every evening, paying special attention to the locks and
hinges.

Cellini lived in constant terror lest it should occur to them to examine
his bedding, where, besides the pincers, he had hidden a long sharp
dagger and some other instruments, as well as his long strips of linen.
Each morning he swept out and dusted his room and carefully made his
bed, ornamenting it with flowers which he got the soldier from whom he
had taken the pincers to bring him. When his two warders appeared he
desired them on no account to go near or touch his bed, for fear of
soiling or disturbing it. Sometimes, in order to tease him, they would
touch it, and then he would shout: 'Ah! you dirty rascals! Just let me
get at one of your swords and see how I'll punish you! How dare you
touch the bed of such a man as I am? Little care I about risking my own
life, for I should be certain to take yours. Leave me in peace with my
grief and trouble, or I will show you what a man can do when driven to
desperation!'

These words were repeated to the governor, who forbade the gaolers
touching Cellini's bed, or entering his room armed. The bed once safe,
he felt as if all else must go right.

[Illustration: HE PREPARED TO ATTACK THE SENTRY]

One night the governor had a worse attack than ever, and in a fit of
madness kept repeating that he certainly was a bat, and that, should
they hear of Benvenuto's escape, they must let him fly off too, as he
was sure he could fly better at night and would overtake the fugitive.
'Benvenuto,' said he, 'is but a sham bat, but as I am a real bat, and he
has been given into my keeping, I shall soon catch him again, depend on
it.'

This bad attack lasted several nights, and the Savoyard soldier, who
took an interest in Benvenuto, reported to him that the servants were
quite worn out watching their sick master. Hearing this, Cellini
resolved to attempt his escape at once, and set hard to work to complete
his preparations. He worked all night, and about two hours before dawn
he, with much care and trouble, removed the hinges from the door. The
casing and bolts prevented his opening it wide, so he chipped away the
woodwork, till at length he was able to slip through, taking with him
his linen ropes, which he had wound on two pieces of wood like two great
reels of thread.

Having passed the door he turned to the right of the tower, and having
removed a couple of tiles, he easily got out on the roof. He wore a
white doublet and breeches and white boots, into one of which he had
slipped his dagger. Taking one end of his linen rope, he now proceeded
to hook it carefully over an antique piece of tile which was firmly
cemented into the wall. This tile projected barely four fingers'
breadth, and the band hooked over it as on a stirrup. When he had made
it firm he prayed thus: 'O Lord, my God, come now to my aid, for Thou
knowest that my cause is righteous, and that I am aiding myself.' Then
he gently let himself slide down the rope till he reached the ground.
There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and once down he gazed up at
the tower from which he had made so bold a descent, and went off in high
spirits, thinking himself at liberty, which indeed was by no means the
case.

On this side of the Castle the governor had had two high walls built to
inclose his stables and his poultry-yard, and these walls had gates
securely bolted and barred on the outside.

In despair at these obstacles Benvenuto roamed about at random, cursing
his bad luck, when suddenly he hit his foot against a long pole which
lay hidden in the straw. With a good deal of effort he managed to raise
it against the wall and to scramble up to the top. Here he found a
sharply sloping coping stone which made it impossible to draw the pole
up after him, but he fastened a portion of the second linen band to
it, and by this means let himself down as he had done outside the donjon
tower.

By this time Benvenuto was much exhausted, and his hands were all cut
and bleeding; however, after a short rest he climbed the last inclosure,
and was just in the act of fastening his rope to a battlement, when, to
his horror, he saw a sentinel close to him. Desperate at this
interruption, and at the thought of the risk he ran, he prepared to
attack the sentry, who, however, seeing a man advance on him with a
drawn dagger and determined air, promptly took to his heels, and
Benvenuto returned to his rope. Another guard was near, but, hoping not
to have been observed, the fugitive secured his band and hastily slid
down it. Whether it was fatigue, or that he thought himself nearer the
ground than he really was, it is impossible to say, but he loosened his
hold, and fell, hitting his head, and lay stretched on the ground for
more than an hour.

The sharp freshness of the air just before sunrise revived him, but his
memory did not return immediately, and he fancied his head had been cut
off and that he was in purgatory. By degrees, as his senses returned, he
realised that he was no longer in the Castle, and remembered what he had
done. He put his hands to his head and withdrew them covered with blood,
but on carefully examining himself he found he had no serious wound,
though on attempting to move he discovered that his right leg was
broken. Nothing daunted, he drew from his boot his poniard with its
sheath, which had a large ball at the end; the pressure of this ball on
the bone had caused the fracture. He threw away the sheath, and cutting
off a piece of the remaining linen band with his dagger, he bound up his
leg as best he could, and then, dagger in hand, proceeded to drag
himself along on his knees towards the gate of the town. It was still
closed, but seeing one stone near the bottom, which did not look very
huge, he tried to displace it. After repeated efforts it shook, and at
length yielded to his efforts, so, forcing it out, he squeezed himself
through.

He had barely entered Rome when he was attacked by a band of savage
dogs, who bit and worried him cruelly. He fought desperately with his
dagger, and gave one dog such a stab that it fled howling, followed by
the rest of the pack, leaving Benvenuto free to drag himself as best he
could towards St. Peter's.

By this time it was broad daylight, and there was much risk of
discovery; so, seeing a water-carrier passing with his train of asses
laden with jars full of water, Benvenuto hailed him and begged he would
carry him as far as the steps of St. Peter's.

'I am a poor fellow,' said he, 'who have broken my leg trying to get out
of the window of a house where I went to see my lady-love. As the house
belongs to a great family, I much fear I shall be cut to pieces if I am
found here; so pray help me off and you shall have a gold crown for your
pains,' and Benvenuto put his hand to his purse, which was well filled.

The water-carrier readily consented, and carried him to St. Peter's,
where he left him on the steps, from whence Benvenuto began to crawl
towards the palace of Duke Ottavio, whose wife, a daughter of the
emperor's, had brought many of Cellini's friends from Florence to Rome
in her train. She was well disposed towards the great artist, and he
felt that beneath her roof he would be in safety. Unluckily, as he
struggled along, he was seen and recognised by a servant of Cardinal
Cornaro's, who had apartments in the Vatican. The man hurried to his
master's room, woke him up, and cried: 'Most reverend lord, Benvenuto is
below; he must have escaped from the Castle, and is all bleeding and
wounded. He appears to have broken his leg, and we have no idea where he
is going.'

'Run at once,' exclaimed the Cardinal, 'and fetch him here, to my room.'

When Benvenuto appeared the Cardinal assured him he need have no fears,
and sent off for the first surgeons in Rome to attend to him. Then he
shut him up in a secret room, and went off to try and obtain his pardon
from the Pope.

Meantime a great commotion arose in Rome, for the linen ropes dangling
from the great tower had attracted notice, and all the town was running
out to see the strange sight. At the Vatican Cardinal Cornaro met a
friend, to whom he related all the details of Benvenuto's escape, and
how he was at that very moment hidden in a secret chamber. Then they
both went to the Pope, who, as they threw themselves at his feet, cried,
'I know what you want with me.'

'Holy Father,' said the Cardinal's friend, 'we entreat you to grant us
the life of this poor man. His genius deserves some consideration; and
he has just shown an almost superhuman amount of courage and dexterity.
We do not know what may be the crimes for which your Holiness has seen
fit to imprison him, but if they are pardonable we implore you to
forgive him.'

The Pope, looking somewhat abashed, replied that he had imprisoned
Benvenuto for being too presumptuous; 'however,' he added, 'I am well
aware of his talents and am anxious to keep him near me, and am resolved
to treat him so well that he shall have no desire to return to France. I
am sorry he is ill; bid him recover quickly, and we will make him forget
his past sufferings.'

I am sorry to say the Pope was not so good as his words, for Benvenuto's
enemies plotted against him, and after a time he was once more shut up
in his former prison, from which, however, he was eventually delivered
at the urgent request of the King of France, who warmly welcomed the
great artist to his Court, where he spent some years in high honour.



_THE TALE OF ISANDHLWANA AND RORKE'S DRIFT_


[Illustration: A]LTHOUGH but fourteen years have gone by since 1879,
perhaps some people, if they chance to be young, have forgotten about
the Zulus, and the story of our war with them; so, before beginning the
tale of Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift, it may be worth while to tell of
these matters in a few words.

The Zulus live in South-Eastern Africa. Originally they were not one
tribe but many, though the same blood was in them all. Nobody knows
whence they came or who were their forefathers; but they seem to have
sprung from an Arab or Semitic stock, and many of their customs, such as
the annual feast of the first fruits, resemble those of the Jews. At the
beginning of this century there arose a warrior king, called Chaka, who
gathered up the scattered tribes of the Zulus as a woodman gathers
sticks, and as of the frail brushwood the woodman makes a stout faggot,
that none can break, so of these tribes Chaka fashioned a nation so
powerful that no other black people could conquer it.

The deeds of Chaka are too many to write of here. Seldom has there been
a monarch, black or white, so terrible or so absolute, and never perhaps
has a man lived more wicked or more clever. Out of 'nothing,' as the
Kafirs say, he made the Amazulu, or the 'people of heaven,' so
powerful, that before he died he could send out an army of a hundred
thousand men to destroy those whom he feared or hated or whose cattle he
coveted. These soldiers were never beaten; if they dared to turn their
back upon an enemy, however numerous, they were killed when the battle
was done, so that soon they learned to choose death with honour before
the foe in preference to death with shame at the hands of the
executioner. Where Chaka's armies went they conquered, till the country
was swept of people for hundreds of miles in every direction. At length,
after he had killed or been the cause of the violent death of more than
a million human beings, in the year 1828 Chaka's own hour came; for, as
the Zulu proverb says, 'the swimmer is at last borne away by the
stream.' He was murdered by the princes of his house and his body
servant Umbopo or Mopo. But as he lay dying beneath their spear thrusts,
it is said that the great king prophesied of the coming of white men who
should conquer the land that he had won.

'What,' he said, 'do you slay me, my brothers--dogs of mine own house
whom I have fed, thinking to possess the land? I tell you that I hear
the sound of running feet, the feet of a great white people, and they
shall stamp you flat, children of my father.'

After the death of Chaka his brother Dingaan reigned who had murdered
him. In due course he was murdered also, and his brother Panda succeeded
to the throne. Panda was a man of peace, and the only one of the four
Zulu kings who died a natural death; for though it is not commonly
known, the last of these kings, our enemy Cetywayo, is believed to have
met his end by poison. In 1873, Cetywayo was crowned king of Zululand in
succession to his father Panda on behalf of the English Government by
Sir Theophilus Shepstone. He remained a firm friend to the British till
Sir Bartle Frere declared war on him in 1879. Sir Bartle Frere made war
upon the Zulus because he was afraid of their power, and the Zulus
accepted the challenge because we annexed the Transvaal and would not
allow them to fight the Boers or the Swazis. They made a brave
resistance, and it was not until there were nearly as many English
soldiers in their country armed with breech-loading rifles as they had
effective warriors left alive in it, for the most part armed with spears
only, that at length we conquered them. But their heart was never in the
war; they defended their country against invasion indeed, but by
Cetywayo's orders they never attacked ours. Had they wished to do so,
there was nothing to prevent them from sweeping the outlying districts
of Natal and the Transvaal after our first great defeat at Isandhlwana,
but they spared us.

And now I have done with dull explanations, and will go on to tell of
the disaster at Isandhlwana or the 'place of the Little Hand,' and of
the noble defence of Rorke's Drift.

On the 20th of January, 1879, one of the British columns that were
invading Zululand broke its camp on the left bank of the Buffalo river,
and marched by the road that ran from Rorke's Drift to the Indeni
forest, encamping that evening under the shadow of a steep-cliffed and
lonely mountain, called Isandhlwana. This force was known as number 3
column, and with it went Lord Chelmsford, the general in command of the
troops. The buildings at Rorke's Drift were left in charge of sixty men
of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment under the late Colonel Bromhead, then
a lieutenant, and some volunteers and others, the whole garrison being
commanded, on the occasion of the attack, by Lieutenant Chard, R.E.

On January 21, Colonel, then Major, Dartnell, the officer in command of
the Natal Mounted Police and volunteers, who had been sent out to effect
a reconnaissance of the country beyond Isandhlwana, reported that the
Zulus were in great strength in front of him. Thereupon Lord Chelmsford
ordered six companies of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment, together with
four guns and the Mounted Infantry, to advance to his support. This
force, under the command of Colonel Glyn, and accompanied by Lord
Chelmsford himself, left Isandhlwana at dawn on the 22nd, a despatch
having first been sent to Lieut.-Colonel Durnford, R.E., who was in
command of some five hundred friendly Natal Zulus, about half of whom
were mounted and armed with breech-loaders, to move up from Rorke's
Drift and strengthen the camp, which was now in charge of Lieut.-Colonel
Pulleine of the 1st battalion 24th regiment. Orders were given to
Colonel Pulleine by the general that he was to 'defend' the camp.

About ten o'clock that morning Colonel Durnford arrived at Isandhlwana
and took over the command of the camp, which was then garrisoned by
seven hundred and seventy-two European and eight hundred and fifty-one
native troops, in all one thousand six hundred and twenty-three men,
with two guns. Little did Lord Chelmsford and those with him guess in
what state they would find that camp when they returned to it some
eighteen hours later, or that of those sixteen hundred men the great
majority would then be dead!

Meanwhile a Zulu 'impi' or army, numbering about twenty thousand men, or
something more than one-third of King Cetywayo's entire strength, had
moved from the Upindo Hill on the night of January 21, and taken up its
position on a stony plain, a mile and a half to the east of Isandhlwana.
The impi was made up of the Undi regiment, about three thousand strong,
that formed its breast, or centre, the Nokenke and Umcityu regiments,
seven thousand strong, that formed its right wing or horn, and the
Imbonanbi and Nkobamikosi regiments, ten thousand strong, forming its
left horn or wing. That night the impi slept upon its spears and watched
in silence, lighting no fires. The king had reviewed it three days
previously, and his orders to it were that it should attack number 3
column, and drive it back over the Buffalo, but it had no intention of
giving battle on the 22nd, for the state of the moon was not propitious,
so said the 'doctors'; moreover, the soldiers had not been 'moutied,'
that is, sprinkled with medicines to 'put a great heart' into them and
ensure their victory. The intention of the generals was to attack the
camp at dawn on the 23rd; and the actual engagement was brought about by
an accident.

Before I tell of this or of the fight, however, it may be as well to
describe how these splendid savages were armed and disciplined. To begin
with, every corps had a particular head-dress and fighting shields of
one colour, just as in our army each regiment has its own facings on the
tunics. These shields are cut from the hides of oxen, and it is easy to
imagine what a splendid sight was presented by a Zulu impi twenty
thousand strong, divided into several regiments, one with snow-white
shields and tall cranes' feathers on their heads, one with coal-black
shields and black plumes, and others with red and mottled shields, and
bands of fur upon their foreheads. In their war with the English many of
the Zulus were armed with muzzle-loading guns and rifles of the worst
description, of which they could make little use, for few of them were
trained to handle firearms. A much more terrible weapon in their hands,
and one that did nearly all the execution at Isandhlwana, was the
broad-bladed short-shafted stabbing assegai. This shape of spear was
introduced by the great king Chaka, and if a warrior cast it at an
enemy, or even chanced to lose it in a fight, he was killed when the
fray was over. Before Chaka's day the Zulu tribes used light assegais,
which they threw at the enemy from a distance, and thus their ammunition
was sometimes spent before they came to close quarters with the foe.

Among the Zulus every able-bodied man was enrolled in one or other of
the regiments--even the girls and boys were made into regiments or
attached to them, and though these did not fight, they carried the mats
and cooking pots of the army, and drove the cattle for the soldiers to
eat when on the march. Thus it will be seen that this people differed
from any other in the world in modern days, for whereas even the most
courageous and martial of mankind look upon war as an exceptional state
of affairs and an evil only to be undertaken in self-defence, or perhaps
for purposes of revenge and aggrandisement, the Zulus looked on peace as
the exceptional state, and on warfare as the natural employment of man.
Chaka taught them that lesson, and they had learnt it well, and so it
came about that Cetywayo was forced to allow the army to fight with us
when Sir Bartle Frere gave them an opportunity of doing so, since their
hearts were sick with peace, and for years they had clamoured to be
allowed to 'wash their spears,' saying that they were no longer men, but
had become a people of women. Indeed, had the king not done so, they
would have fought with each other. It is a terrible thing to be obliged,
year after year, to keep quiet an army of some fifty or sixty thousand
men who are too proud to work and clamour daily to be led to battle that
they may die as their fathers died. We may be sure that the heart of
many a Zulu warrior beat high as in dead silence he marched that night
from the heights of Upindo towards the doomed camp of Isandhlwana, since
at last he was to satisfy the longing of his blood, and fight to the
death with a foe whom he knew to be worthy of him.

Doubtless, also, the hearts of the white men beat high that night as
they gathered round the fires of their camp, little knowing that
thousands of Zulu eyes were watching them from afar, or that the black
rock looming above them was destined to stand like some great tombstone
over their bones for ever. Englishmen also are a warlike race, and there
was honour and advancement to be won, and it would seem that but few of
those who marched into the Zulu country guessed how formidable was the
foe with whom they had to deal. A horde of half-naked savages armed with
spears did not strike English commanders, imperfectly acquainted with
the history and nature of those savages, as particularly dangerous
enemies. Some there were, indeed, who, having spent their lives in the
country, knew what was to be expected, but they were set down as
'croakers,' and their earnest warnings of disaster to come were
disregarded.

Now let us return to the camp. It will be remembered that Colonel Glyn's
force, accompanied by General Lord Chelmsford, had left at dawn. About
eight o'clock a picket placed some 1,500 yards distant reported that
Zulus were approaching from the north-east. This information was
despatched by mounted messengers to Colonel Glyn's column.

Lieut.-Colonel Durnford, with his mounted natives and a rocket battery
arriving from Rorke's Drift about 10 A.M., took over the command of the
camp from Colonel Pulleine. According to the evidence of Lieutenant
Cochrane given at the court of inquiry, Colonel Pulleine thereupon
stated to Colonel Durnford the orders that he had received, to 'defend
the camp,' and it would appear that either then or subsequently some
altercation took place between these two officers. In the issue,
however, Colonel Durnford advanced his mounted force to ascertain the
enemy's movements, and directed a company of the 1st battalion 24th
regiment to occupy a hill about 1,200 yards to the north of the camp.

Other companies of the 24th were stationed at various points at a
distance from the camp. It may be well to explain here, that to these
movements of troops, which, so far as can be ascertained, were made by
the direct orders of Colonel Durnford, must be attributed the terrible
disaster that followed. There are two ways of fighting a savage or
undisciplined enemy; the scientific way, such as is taught in staff
colleges, and the unscientific way that is to be learned in the sterner
school of experience. We English were not the first white men who had to
deal with the rush of the Zulu impis. The Boers had encountered them
before, at the battle of the Blood River, and armed only with
muzzle-loading 'roers,' or elephant guns, despite their desperate
valour, had worsted them, with fearful slaughter. But they did not
advance bodies of men to this point or to that, according to the
scientific method; they drew their ox waggons into a square, lashing
them together with 'reims' or hide-ropes, and from behind this rough
defence, with but trifling loss to themselves, rolled back charge after
charge of the warriors of Dingaan.

Had this method been followed by our troops at the battle of
Isandhlwana, who had ample waggons at hand to enable them to execute the
manoeuvre, had the soldiers even been collected in a square beneath
the cliff of the mountain, it cannot be doubted but that, armed as they
were with breech-loaders, they would have been able to drive back not
only the impi sent against them, but, if necessary, the entire Zulu
army. Indeed, that this would have been so is demonstrated by what
happened on the same day at Rorke's Drift, where a hundred and thirty
men repelled the desperate assaults of three or four thousand. Why,
then, it may be asked, did Colonel Durnford, a man of considerable
colonial experience, adopt the more risky, if the more scientific, mode
of dealing with the present danger, and this in spite of Colonel
Pulleine's direct intimation to him that his orders were 'to defend the
camp'? As it chances, the writer of this account, who knew Colonel
Durnford well, and has the greatest respect for the memory of that good
officer, and honourable gentleman, is able to suggest an answer to the
problem which at the time was freely offered by the Natal colonists. A
few years before, it happened that Colonel Durnford was engaged upon
some military operations against a rebellious native chief in Natal.
Coming into contact with the followers of this chief, in the hope that
matters might be arranged without bloodshed, Durnford ordered the white
volunteers under his command not to fire, with the result that the
rebels fired, killing several of his force and wounding him in the arm.
This incident gave rise to an irrational indignation in the colony, and
for a while he himself was designated by the ungenerous nickname of
'Don't fire Durnford.' It is alleged, none can know with what amount of
truth, that it was the memory of this undeserved insult which caused
Colonel Durnford to insist upon advancing the troops under his command
to engage the Zulus in the open, instead of withdrawing them to await
attack in the comparative safety of a 'laager.'

The events following the advance of the various British companies at
Isandhlwana are exceedingly difficult to describe in their proper order,
since the evidence of the survivors is confused.

[Illustration]

It would appear, however, that Durnford's mounted Basutos discovered and
fired on a portion of the Umcityu regiment, which, forgetting its
orders, sprang up and began to charge. Thereon, accepting the position,
the other Zulu regiments joined the movement. Very rapidly, and with the
most perfect order, the impi adopted the traditional Zulu ox-head
formation, namely, that of a centre and two horns, the centre
representing the skull of the ox. In this order they advanced towards
the English camp, slowly and without sound. Up to this time there had
been no particular alarm in the camp. The day was bright and lovely,
with a hot sun tempered by a gentle breeze that just stirred the tops of
the grasses, and many men seem to have been strolling about quite
unaware of their imminent danger, although orders were given to collect
the transport oxen, which were at graze outside the camp; not for the
purpose of inspanning the waggons, but to prevent them from being
captured by the enemy. One officer (Captain, now Colonel, Essex) reports
that after the company had been sent out, he retired to his tent to
write letters, till, about twelve o'clock, a sergeant came to tell him
that firing was to be heard behind a hill in face of the camp. He
mounted a horse and rode up the slope, to find the company firing on a
line of Zulus eight hundred paces away to their front. This line was
about a thousand yards long, and shaped like a horn, tapering towards
the point. It advanced slowly, taking shelter with great skill behind
rocks, and opened a quite ineffective fire on the soldiers. Meanwhile
the two guns were shelling the Zulu centre with great effect, the shells
cutting lanes through their dense ranks, which closed up over the dead
in perfect discipline and silence. The attack was now general, all the
impi taking part in it except a reserve regiment that sat down upon the
ground taking snuff, and never came into action, and the Undi corps,
which moved off to the right with the object of passing round the north
side of the Isandhlwana hill.

On came the Zulus in silence, and ever as they came the two horns crept
further and further ahead of the black breast of their array. Hundreds
of them fell beneath the fire of the breech-loaders, but they did not
pause in their attack. Ammunition began to fail the soldiers, and orders
having reached them--too late--to concentrate on the camp, they retired
slowly to that position. Captain Essex also rode back, and assisted the
quartermaster of the 24th to place boxes of ammunition in a mule cart,
till presently the quartermaster was shot dead at his side. Now the
horns or nippers of the foe were beginning to close on the doomed camp,
and the friendly natives, who knew well what this meant, though as yet
the white men had not understood their danger, began to steal away by
twos and threes, and then, breaking into open rout, they rushed through
the camp, seeking the waggon road to Rorke's Drift.

Then at last the Zulu generals saw that the points of the horns had met
behind the white men, and the moment was ripe. Abandoning its silence
and slow advance, the breast of the impi raised the war-cry and charged,
rolling down upon the red coats like a wave of steel. So swift and
sudden was this last charge, that many of the soldiers had no time to
fix bayonets. For a few moments the scattered companies held the impi
back, and the black stream flowed round them, then it flowed _over_
them, sweeping them along like human wreckage. In a minute the defence
had become an utter rout. Some of the defenders formed themselves into
groups and fought back to back till they fell where they stood, to be
found weeks afterwards mere huddled heaps of bones. Hundreds of others
fled for the waggon road, to find that the Undi regiment, passing round
the Isandhlwana mountain, had occupied it already. Back they rolled from
the hedge of Undi spears to fall upon the spears of the attacking
regiments. One path of retreat alone remained, a dry and precipitous
'donga' or watercourse, and into this plunged a rabble of men, white and
black, mules, horses, guns, and waggons.

Meanwhile the last act of the tragedy was being played on the field of
death. With a humming sound such as might be made by millions of bees,
the Zulu swarms fell upon those of the soldiers who remained alive, and,
after a desperate resistance, stabbed them. Wherever the eye looked, men
were falling and spears flashing in the sunshine, while the ear was
filled with groans of the dying and the savage _S'gee S'gee_ of the Zulu
warriors as they passed their assegais through and through the bodies of
the fallen. Many a deed of valour was done there as white men and black
grappled in the death-struggle, but their bones alone remained to tell
the tale of them. Shortly after the disaster, one of the survivors told
the present writer of a duel which he witnessed between a Zulu and an
officer of the 24th regiment. The officer having emptied his revolver,
set his back against the wheel of a waggon and drew his sword. Then the
Zulu came at him with his shield up, turning and springing from side to
side as he advanced. Presently he lowered the shield, exposing his head,
and the white man falling into the trap aimed a fierce blow at it. As it
fell the shield was raised again, and the sword sank deep into its edge,
remaining fixed in the tough ox-hide. This was what the Zulu desired;
with a twist of his strong arm he wrenched the sword from his opponent's
hand, and in another instant the unfortunate officer was down with an
assegai through his breast.

In a few minutes it was done, all resistance had been overpowered, the
wounded had been murdered--for the Zulu on the war-path has no
mercy--and the dead mutilated and cut open to satisfy the horrible
native superstition. Then those regiments that remained upon the field
began the work of plunder. Most of the bodies they stripped naked,
clothing themselves in the uniforms of the dead soldiers. They stabbed
the poor oxen that remained fastened to the 'trek-tows' of the waggons,
and they drank all the spirits that they could find, some of them, it is
said, perishing through the accidental consumption of the medical
stores. Then, when the sun grew low, they retreated, laden with
plunder, taking with them the most of their dead, of whom there are
believed to have been about fifteen hundred, for the Martinis did their
work well, and our soldiers had not died unavenged.

       *       *       *       *       *

All this while Lord Chelmsford and the division which he accompanied
were in ignorance of what had happened within a few miles of them,
though rumours had reached them that a Zulu force was threatening the
camp. The first to discover the dreadful truth was Commandant Lonsdale
of the Natal Native Contingent. This officer had been ill, and was
returning to camp alone, a fact that shows how little anything serious
was expected. He reached it about the middle of the afternoon, and there
was nothing to reveal to the casual observer that more than three
thousand human beings had perished there that day. The sun shone, on the
white tents and on the ox waggons, around and about which groups of
red-coated men were walking, sitting, and lying. It did not chance to
occur to him that those who were moving were Zulus wearing the coats of
English soldiers, and those lying down, soldiers whom the Zulus had
killed. As Commandant Lonsdale rode, a gun was fired, and he heard a
bullet whizz past his head. Looking in the direction of the sound, he
saw a native with a smoking rifle in his hand, and concluding that it
was one of the men under his command who had discharged his piece
accidentally, he took no more notice of the matter. Forward he rode,
till he was within ten yards of what had been the headquarter tents,
when suddenly out of one of them there stalked a great Zulu, bearing in
his hand a broad assegai from which blood was dripping. Then his
intelligence awoke, and he understood. The camp was in the possession of
the enemy, and those who lay here and there upon the grass like holiday
makers in a London park on a Sunday in summer, were English soldiers
indeed, not living but dead.

Turning his horse, Commandant Lonsdale fled as swiftly as it could carry
him. More than a hundred rifle-shots were fired after him, but the Zulu
marksmanship was poor, and he escaped untouched. A while afterwards, a
solitary horseman met Lord Chelmsford and his staff returning: he
saluted, and said, '_The camp is in the possession of the enemy, sir!_'
None who heard those words will forget them, and few men can have
experienced a more terrible shock than that which fell upon the English
general in this hour.

[Illustration]

Slowly, and with all military precaution, Lord Chelmsford and his force
moved onward, till at length, when darkness had fallen, they encamped
beneath the fatal hill of Isandhlwana. Here, momentarily expecting to be
attacked, they remained all night amid the wreck, the ruin, and the
dead, but not till the following dawn did they learn the magnitude of
the disaster that had overtaken our arms. Then they saw, and in silence
marched from that fatal field, heading for Rorke's Drift, and leaving
its mutilated dead to the vulture and the jackal.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now let us follow the fate of the mob of fugitives, who, driven back
from the waggon road by the Undi, plunged desperately into the donga
near it, the sole avenue of retreat which had not been besieged by the
foe, in the hope that they might escape the slaughter by following the
friendly natives who were mixed up with them. How many entered on that
terrible race for life is not known, but it is certain that very few won
through. Indeed, it is said that, with the exception of some natives, no
single man who was not mounted lived to pass the Buffalo River. For five
miles or more they rode and ran over paths that a goat would have found
it difficult to keep his footing on, while by them, and mixed up with
them, went the destroying Zulus. Very soon the guns became fixed among
the boulders, and one by one the artillerymen were assegaied. On went
the survivors, hopeless yet hoping. Now a savage sprang on this man, and
now on that; the assegai flashed up, a cry of agony echoed among the
rocks, and a corpse fell heavily to the red earth. Still, those whom it
pleased Providence to protect struggled forward, clinging to their
horses' manes as they leaped from boulder to boulder, till at length
they came to a cliff, beneath which the Buffalo rolled in flood. Down
this cliff they slid and stumbled, few of them can tell how; then,
driven to it by the pitiless spears, they plunged into the raging river.
Many were drowned in its waters, some were shot in the stream, some were
stabbed upon the banks, yet a few, clinging to the manes and tails of
their horses, gained the opposite shore in safety.

Among these were two men whose memory their country will not willingly
let die, who, indeed (it is the first time in our military history),
have been decreed the Victoria Cross although they were already dead:
Lieutenants Coghill and Melvill of the 24th regiment. One of these,
Lieutenant Coghill, the writer of this sketch had the good fortune to
know well. A kindlier-hearted and merrier young English gentleman never
lived. Melvill and Coghill were swept away upon the tide of flight, down
the dreadful path that led to Fugitives' Drift, but Melvill bore with
him the colours of the 24th regiment that were in his charge as
adjutant, not tied round his waist, as has been reported, but upon the
pole to which they were attached. He arrived in safety at the river,
but, owing to the loss of his horse, was unable to cross it, and took
refuge upon a rock in mid-stream, still holding the colours in his hand.
Coghill, whose knee was disabled by an accident and who had reached the
Natal bank already, saw the terrible position of his friend and brother
officer, and, though spears flashed about him and bullets beat the water
like hail, with a courage that has rarely been equalled, he turned his
horse and swam back to his assistance. The worst was over; safety lay
before him, there behind him in the river was almost certain death; but
this gallant gentleman heeded none of these things, for there also were
the colours of his regiment and his drowning friend. Back he swam to the
rock through the boiling current. Soon his horse was shot dead beneath
him, yet, though none knows how, the two of them came safe to shore. The
colours were lost indeed, for they could no longer carry them and live,
but these never fell into the hands of their savage foes: days
afterwards they were searched for and found in the bed of the river.
Breathless, desperate, lamed, and utterly outworn, the two friends
struggled up the bank and the hill beyond. But Zulus had crossed that
stream as well as the fugitive Englishmen. They staggered forward for a
few hundred yards, then, unable to go further, the friends stood back to
back and the foe closed in upon them. There they stood, and there,
fighting desperately, the heroes died. Peace be with them in that land
to which they have journeyed, and among men, immortal honour to their
names!

They sold their lives dearly, for several Zulus were found lying about
their bodies.

About forty white men lived to cross the river at Fugitives' Drift, and
these, almost the only English survivors of the force at Isandhlwana,
rode on, still followed by Zulus, to the provision depôt at Helpmakaar
some fifteen miles away, where they mustered and entrenched themselves
as best they were able, expecting to be attacked at any moment. But no
attack was delivered, the Zulus being busily employed elsewhere.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some little distance from the banks of the Buffalo, and on the Natal
side near to a mountain called Tyana, stood two buildings erected by the
Rev. Mr. Witt; Rorke's Drift, from which No. 3 column had advanced,
being immediately in front of them. One of these buildings had been
utilised as a storehouse and hospital, and in it were thirty-five sick
men. The other was occupied by a company of the 2nd 24th regiment, under
the command of the late Lieut. Bromhead.[12]

On January 22, the ponts at Rorke's Drift were left in charge of Lieut.
Chard, R.E., with a few men. About a quarter-past three on that day an
officer of Lonsdale's regiment, Lieut. Adendorff, and a carbineer, were
seen galloping wildly towards the ponts. On coming to the bank of the
river, they shouted to Lieut. Chard to take them across, and so soon as
he reached them, they communicated to him the terrifying news that the
general's camp had been captured and destroyed by a Zulu impi. A few
minutes later a message arrived from Lieut. Bromhead, who also had
learned the tidings of disaster, requesting Lieut. Chard to join him at
the commissariat store. Mounting his horse he rode thither, to find
Lieut. Bromhead, assisted by Mr. Dolton, of the commissariat, and the
entire force at his command, amounting to about 130, inclusive of the
sick and the chaplain, Mr. Smith, a Norfolk man, actively engaged in
loopholing and barricading the house and hospital (both of which
buildings were thatched), and in connecting them by means of a
fortification of mealie bags and waggons. Having ridden round the
position, Lieut. Chard returned to the Drift. Sergeant Milne and Mr.
Daniells, who managed the ponts, offered to moor them in the middle of
the stream, and with the assistance of a few men to defend them from
their decks. This gallant suggestion being rejected as impracticable,
Lieut. Chard withdrew to the buildings with the waggon and those under
his command.

They arrived there about 3.30, and shortly afterwards an officer of
Durnford's native horse rode up, accompanied by about 100 mounted men,
and asked for orders. He was requested to send out outposts in the
direction of the enemy, and, having checked their advance as much as
possible, to fall back, when forced so to do, upon the buildings and
assist in their defence. Posts were then assigned to each man in the
little garrison, and, this done, the defensive preparations went on, all
doing their utmost, for they felt that the life of every one of them was
at stake. Three-quarters of an hour went by, and the officer of
Durnford's horse rode up, reporting that the Zulus were advancing in
masses, and that his men were deserting in the direction of Helpmakaar.
At this time some natives of the Natal contingent under the command of
Capt. Stephenson also retired, an example which was followed by that
officer himself.

Lieuts. Chard and Bromhead now saw that their lines of defence were too
large for the number of men left to them, and at once began the erection
of an inner entrenchment formed of biscuit boxes taken from the stores.
When this wall was but two boxes high, suddenly there appeared five or
six hundred Zulus advancing at a run against the southern side of their
position. These were soldiers of the Undi regiment, the same that had
turned the Isandhlwana mountain, cutting off all possibility of retreat
by the waggon road, who, when they knew that the camp was taken, had
advanced to destroy the guard of Rorke's Drift. On they came, to be met
presently by a terrible and concentrated fire from the Martinis. Many
fell, but they did not stay till, when within 50 yards of the wall, the
cross fire from the store took them in flank. Their loss was now so
heavy that, checking their advance, some of them took cover among the
ovens, cookhouse, and outbuildings, whence they in turn opened fire upon
the garrison. Hundreds more rushing round the hospital came at full
speed against the north-west fortification of sacks filled with corn. In
vain did the Martinis pump a hail of lead into them: on they came
straight to the frail defence, striving to take it at the point of the
assegai. But here they were met by British bayonets and a fire so
terrible that even the courage of the Zulus could not prevail against
it, and they fell back, that is, those of them who were left alive.

By this time the main force of the Undi had arrived, two thousand of
them, perhaps, and having lined an overlooking ledge of rocks, took
possession of the garden of the station and the bush surrounding it,
from all of which the fire, though badly directed, was so continuous
that at length the little garrison of white men were forced back into
their inner entrenchment of biscuit boxes. Creeping up under cover of
the bush, the Zulus now delivered assault after assault upon the wall.
Each of these fierce rushes was repelled with the bayonets wielded by
the brave white men on its further side. The assegais clashed against
the rifle barrels, everywhere the musketry rang and rolled, the savage
war-cries and the cheers of the Englishmen rose together through the
din, while British soldier and Zulu warrior thrust and shot and tore at
each other across the narrow wall, that wall which all the Undi could
not climb.

Now it grew dark, for the night was closing in; the spears flashed
dimly, and in place of smoke long tongues of flame shot from the rifle
barrels, illumining the stern faces of those who held them as lightning
does. But soon there was to be light. If any had leisure to observe,
they may have seen flakes of fire flying upwards from the dim bush, and
wondered what they were. They were bunches of burning grass being thrown
on spears to fall in the thatch of the hospital roof. Presently
something could be seen on this roof that shone like a star. It grew
dim, then suddenly began to brighten and to increase till the star-like
spot was a flame, and a hoarse cry passed from man to man of: 'O God!
the hospital is on fire!'

The hospital was on fire, and in it were sick men, some of whom could
not move. It was defended by a garrison, a handful of men, and at one
and the same time these must bear away the sick to the store building,
and hold the burning place against the Zulus, who now were upon them.
They did it, but not all of it, for this was beyond the power of mortal
bravery and devotion. When the thatch blazed above them, room after room
did Privates Williams and Hook, R. and W. Jones, and some few others
hold with the white arm--for their ammunition was spent--against the
assegais of the Zulus, while their disabled comrades were borne away to
the store building beneath the shelter of the connecting wall. One of
them lost his life here, others were grievously wounded, but, dead or
alive, their names should always be remembered among their countrymen,
ay! and always will. Yet they could not save them every one; the fire
scorched overhead and the assegais bit deep in front, and ever, as foes
fell, fresh ones sprang into their places, and so, fighting furiously,
those few gallant men were thrust back, alas! leaving some helpless
comrades to die by fire and the spear.

It would be of little use to follow step by step all the events of that
night. All night long the firing went on, varied from time to time by
desperate assaults. All night long the little band of defenders held
back the foe. All were weary, some of them were dead and more wounded,
but they fought on by the light of the burning hospital, wasting no
single shot. To and fro went the bearded clergyman with prayers and
consolations upon his lips, and a bag of cartridges in his hands, and to
and fro also went Chard and Bromhead, directing all things. By degrees
the Englishmen were driven back, the hospital and its approaches were in
the hands of the foe, and now they must retire to the inner wall of the
cattle kraal. But they collected sacks of mealies and built two
redoubts, which gave them a second line of fire, and let the Zulus do
what they would, storm the place they could not, nor could they serve it
as they had served the hospital and destroy it by fire.

At length the attacks slackened, the firing dwindled and died, and the
dawn broke, that same dawn which showed to General Lord Chelmsford and
those with him all the horror of Isandhlwana's field. Here also at
Rorke's Drift it revealed death and to spare, but for the most part the
corpses were those of the foe, some four hundred of whom lay lost in
their last sleep around the burning hospital, in the bush, and beneath
the walls of corn-sacks; four hundred killed by one hundred and
thirty-nine white men all told, of whom thirty-five were sick when the
defence began. The little band had suffered, indeed, for fifteen of
them were dead, and twelve wounded, some mortally, but seeing what had
been done the loss was small. Had the Zulus once won an entrance over
the last entrenchment of biscuit boxes not a man would have remained
alive. Surely biscuits were never put to a nobler or a stranger use.

The daylight had come and the enemy vanished with the night, retreating
over a hill to the south-west. But, as the defenders of Rorke's Drift
guessed, he had no intention of abandoning his attack. Therefore they
knew that this was no time to be idle. Sallying out of their defences
they collected the arms of the dead Zulus, then returned, and began to
strip the roof of the store of its thatch, which was a constant source
of danger to them, seeing that fire is a deadlier foe even than the
assegai. They were thus engaged when again the Zulus appeared to make an
end of them. Once more the weary soldiers took up their positions, and a
while passed. Now they perceived that the Undi, which had been
advancing, slowly commenced to fall back, a movement that they were at a
loss to understand, till a shout from those who were engaged in
stripping the roof told the glad news that English troops were advancing
to their relief.

These were the remains of No. 3 column, moving down from Isandhlwana.
Little did the general and those with him expect to find a soul living
at Rorke's Drift, for they also had seen the sullen masses of the Undi
retreating from the post, and the columns of smoke rising from the
burning hospital confirmed their worst fears. What then was their joy
when they perceived a Union Jack flying amidst the smoke, and heard the
ring of a British cheer rising from the shattered walls and the defences
of sacks of corn! Forward galloped Col. Russell and his mounted men, and
in five minutes more those who remained of the garrison were safe, and
the defence of Rorke's Drift was a thing of the past; another glorious
page ready to be bound into that great book which is called 'The Deeds
of Englishmen.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Nearly six months passed before all the dead at Isandhlwana were
reverently buried. Strange were the scenes that those saw whose task it
was to lay them to their rest. Here, hidden by the rank grass, in one
heap behind the officers' tents, lay the bodies of some seventy men, who
had made their last stand at this spot; lower down the hill lay sixty
more. Another band of about the same strength evidently had taken refuge
among the rocks of the mountains, and defended themselves there till
their ammunition was exhausted, and their ring broken by the assegai.
All about the plain lay Englishmen and Zulus, as they had died in the
dread struggle:--here side by side, amidst rusted rifles and bent
assegais, here their bony arms still locked in the last hug of death,
and yonder the Zulu with the white man's bayonet through his skull, the
soldier with the Zulu's assegai in what had been his heart. One man was
found, who, when his cartridges were spent, and his rifle was broken,
had defended himself to the end with a tent-hammer that lay among his
bones, and another was stretched beneath the precipice, from the crest
of which he had been hurled.

[Illustration]

Well, they buried them where they were discovered, and there they sleep
soundly beneath the shadow of Isandhlwana's cliff.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now a few words more, and this true story will be finished. We
conquered the Zulus at last, at a battle called Ulundi, where they
hurled themselves in vain upon the bullets and bayonets of the British
square. To the end they fought bravely for their king and country, and
though they were savages, and, like all savages, cruel when at war, they
were also gallant enemies, and deserve our respect. The king himself,
Cetywayo, was hunted down, captured, and sent into captivity.
Afterwards, there was what is called a 'popular movement' on his behalf
in England, and he was sent back to Zululand, with permission to rule
half the country. Meanwhile, after the conclusion of the war, our
Government would not take the land, and a settlement was effected, under
which thirteen chiefs were put in authority over the country. As might
have been expected, these chiefs fought with each other, and many men
were killed. When Cetywayo returned the fighting became fiercer than
ever, since those who had tasted power refused to be dispossessed, until
at last he was finally defeated, and, it is believed, poisoned by his
own side, to whom he had ceased to be serviceable. Meanwhile also, the
Dutch Boers, taking advantage of the confusion, occupied a great part of
Zululand, which they still hold. Indeed, they would long ago have taken
it all, had not the English government, seeing the great misery to which
its ever-changing policy had reduced the unhappy Zulus, assumed
authority over the remainder of the country. From that day forward,
there has been no more killing or trouble in British Zululand, which is
ruled by Sir Melmoth Osborn, K.C.M.G., and the Queen has no more
contented subjects than the Zulus, nor any who pay their taxes with
greater regularity!

But the Zulus as a nation are dead, and never again will a great Impi,
such as swept away our troops at Isandhlwana, be seen rushing down to
war. Their story is but one scene in the vast drama which is being
enacted in this generation, and which some of you who read these lines
may live to see, not accomplished, indeed, but in the way of
accomplishment--the drama of the building up of a great Anglo-Saxon
empire in Africa--an empire that within the next few centuries may well
become one of the mightiest in the world. We have made many and many a
mistake, but still that empire grows; in spite of the errors of the Home
Government, the obstinacy of the Boers, the power of native chiefs, and
the hatred of Portuguese, still it grows. Already it is about as big as
Europe, and it is only a baby yet, a baby begotten by the genius and
courage of individual Englishmen.

When the child has become a giant--yes, even in those far-off ages when
it is a very old giant, a king among the nations--we may be sure that,
from generation to generation, men will show their sons the mountain
that was called Isandhlwana, or the place of the Little Hand, and a
certain spot on the banks of the Buffalo River, and tell the tale of how
beneath that hill the wild Zulus of the ancient times overwhelmed the
forces of the early English settlers; of how, for a long night through,
a few men of those forces held two grass-thatched sheds against their
foe's savage might; and of how some miles away two heroes named Melville
and Coghill died together whilst striving to save the colours of their
regiment from the grasp of the victorious 'Children of Heaven.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Now it may interest you to know that these last words are written with a
pen that was found among the bones of the dead at Isandhlwana.

                                                       H. RIDER HAGGARD.

FOOTNOTE:

[12] Col. Bromhead died recently.



_HOW LEIF THE LUCKY FOUND VINELAND THE GOOD_


THIS is the story of the first finding of America by the Icelanders,
nearly five hundred years before Columbus. They landed on the coast, and
stayed for a short time; where they landed is uncertain. Thinking that
it was in New England, the people of Boston have erected a statue of
Leif in their town. The story was not written till long after Leif's
time, and it cannot _all_ be true. Dead men do not return and give
directions about their burial as we read here. We have omitted a silly
tale of a one-footed man. In the middle ages, people believed that
one-footed men lived in Africa; they thought Vineland was near Africa,
so they brought the fable into the Saga.

Hundreds of years before Columbus discovered America, there lived in
Iceland a man named Eric the Red. His father had slain a man in Norway,
and fled with his family to Iceland. Eric, too, was a dangerous man. His
servants did mischief on the farm of a neighbour, who slew them. Then
Eric slew the farmer, and also Holmgang Hrafn, a famous duellist, of
whom the country was well rid. Eric was banished from that place, and,
in his new home, had a new quarrel. He lent some furniture to a man who
refused to restore it. Eric, therefore, carried off his goods, and the
other pursued him. They fought, and Eric killed him. For this he was
made an outlaw, and went sailing to discover new countries. He found
one, where he settled, calling it Greenland, because, he said, people
would come there more readily if it had a good name.

One Thorbiorn, among others, sailed to Greenland, but came in an unlucky
time, for fish were scarce, and some settlers were drowned. At that day,
some of the new comers were Christians, some still worshipped the old
Gods, Thor and Woden, and practised magic. These sent for a prophetess
to tell them what the end of their new colony would be. It is curious to
know what a real witch was like, and how she behaved, so we shall copy
the story from the old Icelandic book.

[Illustration]

'When she came in the evening, with the man who had been sent to meet
her, she was clad in a dark-blue cloak, fastened with a strap, and set
with stones quite down to the hem. She wore glass beads around her neck,
and upon her head a black lambskin hood, lined with white catskin. In
her hands she carried a staff upon which there was a knob, which was
ornamented with brass, and set with stones up about the knob. Circling
her waist she wore a girdle of touchwood, and attached to it a great
skin pouch, in which she kept the charms which she used when she was
practising her sorcery. She wore upon her feet shaggy calfskin shoes,
with long, tough latchets, upon the ends of which there were large brass
buttons. She had catskin gloves upon her hands; the gloves were white
inside and lined with fur. When she entered, all of the folk felt it to
be their duty to offer her becoming greetings. She received the
salutations of each individual according as he pleased her. Yeoman
Thorkel took the sibyl by the hand, and led her to the seat which had
been made ready for her. Thorkel bade her run her eyes over man and
beast and home. She had little to say concerning all these. The tables
were brought forth in the evening, and it remains to be told what manner
of food was prepared for the prophetess. A porridge of goat's beestings
was made for her, and for meat there were dressed the hearts of every
kind of beast which could be obtained there. She had a brass spoon, and
a knife with a handle of walrus tusk, with a double hasp of brass around
the haft, and from this the point was broken. And when the tables were
removed, Yeoman Thorkel approaches the prophetess Thorbiorg, and asks
how she is pleased with the home, and the character of the folk, and how
speedily she would be likely to become aware of that concerning which he
had questioned her, and which the people were anxious to know. She
replied that she could not give an opinion in this matter before the
morrow, after that she had slept there through the night. And on the
morrow, when the day was far spent, such preparations were made as were
necessary to enable her to accomplish her soothsaying. She bade them
bring her those women who knew the incantation which she required to
work her spells, and which she called Warlocks; but such women were not
to be found. Thereupon a search was made throughout the house, to see
whether anyone knew this [incantation]. Then says Gudrid, Thorbiorn's
daughter: "Although I am neither skilled in the black art nor a sibyl,
yet my foster-mother, Halldis, taught me in Iceland that spell-song,
which she called Warlocks." Thorbiorg answered: "Then art thou wise in
season!" Gudrid replies; "This is an incantation and ceremony of such a
kind that I do not mean to lend it any aid, for that I am a Christian
woman." Thorbiorg answers: "It might so be that thou couldst give thy
help to the company here, and still be no worse woman than before;
however, I leave it with Thorkel to provide for my needs." Thorkel now
so urged Gudrid that she said she must needs comply with his wishes. The
women then made a ring round about, while Thorbiorg sat up on the
spell-daïs. Gudrid then sang the song, so sweet and well, that no one
remembered ever before to have heard the melody sung with so fair a
voice as this. The sorceress thanked her for the song, and said: "She
has indeed lured many spirits hither, who think it pleasant to hear
this song, those who were wont to forsake us hitherto and refuse to
submit themselves to us. Many things are now revealed to me, which
hitherto have been hidden, both from me and from others. And I am able
to announce that this period of famine will not endure longer, but the
season will mend as spring approaches. The visitation of disease, which
has been so long upon you, will disappear sooner than expected."'

After this, Thorbiorn sailed to the part of Greenland where Eric the Red
lived, and there was received with open arms. Eric had two sons, one
called Thorstein, the other Leif the Lucky, and it was Leif who
afterwards discovered Vineland the Good, that is, the coast of America,
somewhere between Nova Scotia and New England. He found it by accident.
He had been in Norway, at the court of king Olaf, who bade him proclaim
Christianity in Greenland. As he was sailing thither, Leif was driven by
tempests out of his course, and came upon coasts which he had never
heard of, where wild vines grew, and hence he called that shore Vineland
the Good. The vine did not grow, of course, in Iceland. But Leif had
with him a German Tyrker, and one day, when they were on shore, Tyrker
was late in joining the rest. He was very much excited, and spoke in the
German tongue, saying 'I have found something new, vines and grapes.'
Then they filled their boat full of grapes, and sailed away. He also
brought away some men from a wreck, and with these, and the message of
the Gospel, he sailed back to Greenland, to his father, Eric the Red,
and from that day he was named Leif the Lucky. But Eric had no great
mind to become a Christian, he had been born to believe in Thor and his
own sword.

Next year Leif's brother, Thorstein, set out to find Vineland, and Eric,
first burying all his treasures, started with him, but he fell from his
horse, and broke his ribs, and his company came within sight of Ireland,
but Vineland they did not see, so they returned to Ericsfirth in
Greenland, and there passed the winter.

[Illustration]

There was much sickness, and one woman died. After her death she rose,
and they could only lay her by holding an axe before her breast.
Thorstein, Eric's son, died also, but in the night he arose again and
said that Christian burial should be given to men in consecrated ground.
For the manner had been to bury the dead in their farms with a long pole
driven through the earth till it touched the breast of the corpse.
Afterwards the priest came, and poured holy water through the hole, and
not till then, perhaps long after the death, was the funeral service
held. After Thorstein rose and spoke, Christian burial was always used
in Greenland. Next year came Karlsefni from Iceland, with two ships, and
Eric received him kindly, and gave all his crew winter quarters. In
summer nothing would serve Karlsefni but to search again for Vineland
the Good. They took three ships and one hundred and sixty men, and south
they sailed. They passed Flat Stone Land, where there were white foxes,
and Bear Island, where they saw a bear, and Forest Land, and a cape
where they found the keel of a wrecked ship, this they named Keelness.
Then they reached the Wonder Strands, long expanses of sandy shore. Now
Karlsefni had with him two Scotch or Irish savages, the swiftest of all
runners, whom King Olaf had given to Leif the Lucky, and they were
fleeter-footed than deer. They wore only a plaid and kilt all in one
piece, for the rest they were naked. Karlsefni landed them south of
Wonder Strands, and bade them run south and return on the third day to
report about the country. When they returned one carried a bunch of
grapes, the other ears of native wheat (maize?). Then they sailed on,
passed an isle covered with birds' eggs, and a firth, which they called
Streamfirth, from the tide in it.

Beyond Streamfirth they landed and established themselves there.

'There were mountains thereabouts. They occupied themselves exclusively
with the exploration of the country. They remained there during the
winter, and they had taken no thought for this during the summer. The
fishing began to fail, and they began to fall short of food. Then
Thorhall the Huntsman disappeared. They had already prayed to God for
food, but it did not come as promptly as their necessities seemed to
demand. They searched for Thorhall for three half-days, and found him on
a projecting crag. He was lying there, and looking up at the sky, with
mouth and nostrils agape, and mumbling something. They asked him why he
had gone thither; he replied, that this did not concern anyone. They
asked him then to go home with them, and he did so. Soon after this a
whale appeared there, and they captured it, and flensed it, and no one
could tell what manner of whale it was; and when the cooks had prepared
it, they ate of it, and were all made ill by it. Then Thorhall,
approaching them, says: "Did not the Red-beard (that is, Thor) prove
more helpful than your Christ? This is my reward for the verses which I
composed to Thor the Trustworthy; seldom has he failed me." When the
people heard this, they cast the whale down into the sea, and made their
appeals to God. The weather then improved, and they could now row out to
fish, and thenceforward they had no lack of provisions, for they could
hunt game on the land, gather eggs on the island, and catch fish from
the sea.'

Next spring Thorhall the heathen left them, laughing at the wine which
he had been promised, and sailed north. He and his crew were driven to
Ireland, where they were captured and sold as slaves, and that was all
Thorhall got by worshipping the Red Beard. Karlsefni sailed south and
reached a rich country of wild maize, where also was plenty of fish and
of game. Here they first met the natives, who came in a fleet of
skin-canoes. 'They were swarthy men and ill-looking, and the hair of
their heads was ugly. They had great eyes and were broad of cheek.'

The Icelanders held up a white shield in sign of peace, and the natives
withdrew. They may have been Eskimo or Red Indians.

The winter was mild and open, but spring had scarce returned, when the
bay was as full of native canoes 'as if ashes had been sprinkled over
it.' They only came to trade and exchanged furs for red cloth, nor did
they seem to care whether they got a broad piece of cloth or a narrow
one. They also wanted weapons, but these Karlsefni refused to sell. The
market was going on busily when a bull that Karlsefni had brought from
Greenland came out of the wood and began to bellow, whereon the
Skraelings (as they called the natives) ran! Three weeks passed when the
Skraelings returned in very great force, waving their clubs _against_
the course of the sun, whereas in peace they waved them with it.
Karlsefni showed a red shield, the token of war, and fighting began. It
is not easy to make out what happened, for there are two sagas, or
stories of these events, both written down long after they occurred. In
one we read that the Skraelings were good slingers, and also that they
used a machine which reminds one rather of gunpowder than of anything
else. They swung from a pole a great black ball, and it made a fearful
noise when it fell among Karlsefni's men. So frightened were they that
they saw Skraelings where there were none, and they were only rallied by
the courage of a woman named Freydis, who seized a dead man's sword and
faced the Skraelings, beating her bare breast with the flat of the
blade. On this the Skraelings ran to their canoes and paddled away. In
the other account Karlsefni had fortified his house with a palisade,
behind which the women waited. To one of them, Gudrid, the appearance of
a white woman came; her hair was of a light chestnut colour, she was
pale and had very large eyes. 'What is thy name?' she said to Gudrid.
'My name is Gudrid; but what is thine?' 'Gudrid!' says the strange
woman. Then came the sound of a great crash and the woman vanished. A
battle followed in which many Skraelings were slain.

It all reads like a dream. In the end Karlsefni sailed back to
Ericsfirth with a great treasure of furs. A great and prosperous family
in Iceland was descended from him at the time when the stories were
written down. But it is said that Freydis who frightened the Skraelings
committed many murders in Vineland among her own people.

The Icelanders never returned to Vineland the Good, though a bishop
named Eric is said to have started for the country in 1121. Now, in the
story of Cortés, you may read how the Mexicans believed in a God called
Quetzalcoatl, a white man in appearance, who dwelt among them and
departed mysteriously, saying that he would come again, and they at
first took Cortés and his men for the children of Quetzalcoatl. So we
may fancy if we please that Bishop Eric, or one of his descendants,
wandered from Vineland south and west across the continent and arrived
among the Aztecs, and by them was taken for a God.[13]

FOOTNOTE:

[13] The story is taken from the Saga of Eric the Red, and from the
Flatey Book in Mr. Reeves's _Finding of Wineland the Good_ (Clarendon
Press, 1890). The discovery of Vineland was made about the year 1000.
The saga of Eric the Red was written about 1300-1334, but two hundred
years before, about 1134, Ari the learned mentions Vineland as quite
familiar in his _Íslandingabók_. There are other traces of Vineland,
earlier than the manuscript of the Saga of Eric the Red. Of course we do
not know when that saga was first written down. The oldest extant
manuscript of it belonged to one Hauk, who died in 1334.



_THE ESCAPES OF CERVANTES_


MOST people know of the terrible war, waged even down to the present
century, between the Christian ships cruising about the Mediterranean
and the dreaded Moors or Corsairs of the Barbary Coast. It was a war
that began in the name of religion, the Crescent against the Cross; but,
as far as we can learn from the records of both sides, there was little
to choose in the way that either party treated the captives. A large
number of these were chained to the oars of the galleys which were the
ships of battle of the middle ages, and sometimes the oars were so long
and heavy that they needed forty men to each. The rowers had food enough
to give them the strength necessary for their work, and that was all,
and the knowledge that they were exerting themselves for the downfall of
their fellow-Christians, often of their fellow-countrymen, must have
made their labour a toil indeed. Often it happened that a man's courage
gave way and he denied his faith and his country, and rose to great
honours in the service of the Sultan, the chief of the little kings who
swarmed on the African coasts. The records of the Corsairs bristle with
examples of these successful renegades, many of them captured as boys,
who were careless under what flag they served, as long as their lives
were lives of adventure.

All the captives were not, however, turned into galley slaves. Some were
taken to the towns and kept in prisons called _bagnios_, waiting till
their friends sent money to redeem them. If this was delayed, they were
set to public works, and treated with great severity, so that their
letters imploring deliverance might become yet more urgent. The others,
known as the king's captives, whose ransom might be promptly expected,
did no work and were kept apart from the rest.

It was on September 26, 1575, that Miguel Cervantes, the future author
of 'Don Quixote,' fell into the hands of a Greek renegade Dali Mami by
name, captain of a galley of twenty-two banks of oars. Cervantes, the
son of a poor but well-descended gentleman of Castile, had served with
great distinction under Don John of Austria at the battle of Lepanto
four years earlier, and was now returning with his brother Rodrigo to
Spain on leave, bearing with him letters from the commander-in-chief,
Don John, the Duke of Sesa, Viceroy of Sicily, and other distinguished
men, testifying to his qualities as a soldier, 'as valiant as he was
unlucky,' and recommending Philip II. to give him the command of a
Spanish company then being formed for Italian service. But all these
honours proved his bane. The Spanish squadron had not sailed many days
from Naples when it encountered a Corsair fleet, and after a sharp fight
Cervantes and his friends were carried captive into Algiers.

Of course the first thing done was to examine each man as to his
position in life, and the amount of ransom he might be expected to
bring, and the letters found upon Miguel Cervantes impressed them with
the notion that he was a person of consequence, and capable of
furnishing a large sum of money. They therefore took every means of
ensuring his safety, loading him with chains, appointing him guards, and
watching him day and night.

          'Stone walls do not a prison make,
          Nor iron bars a cage.'

Cervantes never lost heart a moment, but at once began to plan an escape
for himself and his fellow-captives. But the scheme broke down owing to
the treachery of the man in whom he had confided, and the Spaniards,
particularly Cervantes, were made to suffer a stricter confinement than
before. The following year the old Cervantes sent over what money he had
been able to raise on his own property and his daughters' marriage
portions for the ransom of his sons, by the hands of the Redemptorist
Fathers, an Order which had been founded for the sole purpose of
carrying on this charitable work. But when the sum was offered to Dali
Mami he declared it wholly insufficient for purchasing the freedom of
such a captive, though it was considered adequate as the ransom of the
younger brother Rodrigo. Accordingly, in August 1577, Rodrigo Cervantes
set sail for Spain, bearing secret orders from his brother Miguel to fit
out an armed frigate, and to send it by way of Valencia and Majorca to
rescue himself and his friends.

But even before the departure of Rodrigo, Cervantes had been laying
other plans. He had, somehow or other, managed to make acquaintance
with the Navarrese gardener of a Greek renegade named Azan, who had a
garden stretching down to the sea-shore, about three miles east of
Algiers, where Cervantes was then imprisoned. This gardener had
contrived to use a cave in Azan's garden as a hiding place for some
escaped Christians, and as far back as February 1577 about fifteen had
taken refuge there, under the direction of Cervantes. How they remained
for so many months undiscovered, and how they were all fed, no one can
tell; but this part of the duty had been undertaken by a captive
renegade called El Dorador, or the Gilder, to whom their secret had been
confided.

Meanwhile, Rodrigo had proved faithful to his trust. He had equipped a
frigate for sea, under the command of a tried soldier, Viana by name,
who was familiar with the Barbary coast. It set sail at the end of
September, and by the 28th had sighted Algiers. From motives of prudence
the boat kept to sea till nightfall, when it silently approached the
shore. The captives hailed it with joy, and were in the act of
embarking, when a fishing craft full of Moors passed by, and the rescue
vessel was forced to put to sea. Meanwhile, Cervantes and the fugitives
in the cave had to return disheartened into hiding, and await another
opportunity.

But once lost, the opportunity was gone for ever. Before any fresh
scheme could be concerted, El Dorador had betrayed the hiding place of
the Christians and their plan of escape to the cruel Dey or King Azan,
who saw in the information a means to satisfy his greed. According to
the law of the country, he was enabled to claim the escaped slaves as
his own property (except Cervantes, for whom he paid 500 crowns), and
with a company of armed men presented himself before the cave.

In this dreadful strait Cervantes' courage never faltered. He told the
trembling captives not to fear, as he would take upon himself the entire
responsibility of the plan. Then, addressing Azan's force, he proclaimed
himself the sole contriver of the scheme, and professed his willingness
to bear the punishment. The Turks were struck dumb at valour such as
this, in the presence of the most dreadful torments, and contented
themselves with ordering the captives into close confinement at the
bagnio, hanging the gardener, and bringing Cervantes bound to receive
his sentence from the Dey Azan himself.

The threats of impalement, torture, mutilation of every kind, which
Cervantes well knew to be no mere threats, had no effect upon his
faithful soul. He stuck to the story he had told, and the Dey, 'wearied
by so much constancy,' as the Spanish historian says, ended by loading
him with chains, and throwing him again into prison.

For some time he remained here, strictly and closely guarded, but his
mind always active as to plans of escape. At last, however, he managed
to enter into relations with Don Martin de Cordoba, General of Oran, by
means of a Moor, who undertook to convey letters asking for help for the
Spanish prisoners. But his ill fortune had not yet deserted him. The
messenger fell into the hands of other Moors, who handed him over to
Azan, and the wretched man was at once put to a cruel death by the Dey's
orders. Curiously enough, the sentence of 2,000 lashes passed upon
Cervantes was never carried into effect.

Disappointments and dangers only made Cervantes more determined to free
himself or die in the attempt; but nearly two years dragged by before he
saw another hope rise before him, though he did everything he could in
the interval to soothe the wretched lot of his fellow-captives. This
time his object was to induce two Valencia merchants of Algiers to buy
an armed frigate, destined to carry Cervantes and a large number of
Christians back to Spain, but at the last minute they were again
betrayed, this time by a countryman, and again Cervantes took the blame
on his own shoulders, and confessed nothing to the Dey.

Now it seemed indeed as if his last moment had come. His hands were tied
behind him, and a cord was put round his neck; but Cervantes never
swerved from the tale he had resolved to tell, and at the close of the
interview found himself within the walls of a Moorish prison, where he
lay for five months loaded with fetters and chains, and treated with
every kind of severity, though never with actual cruelty.

All this time his mind was busy with a fresh scheme, nothing short of a
concerted insurrection of all the captives in Algiers, numbering about
25,000, who were to overpower the city, and to plant the Spanish flag on
its towers. His measures seem to have been taken with sufficient
prudence and foresight to give them a fair chance of success, bold as
the idea was, but treachery as usual caused the downfall of everything.
Why, under such repeated provocation, the cruel Azan Aga did not put him
to a frightful death it is hard to understand, but in his 'Captive's
Story,' Cervantes himself bears testimony to the comparative moderation
of the Dey's behaviour towards him. 'Though suffering,' he says,
'often, if not indeed always, from hunger and thirst, the worst of all
our miseries was the sight and sound of the tortures daily inflicted by
our master on our fellow-Christians. Every day he hanged one, impaled
another, cut off the ears of a third; and all this for so little reason,
or even for none at all, that the very Turks knew he did it for the mere
pleasure of doing it; and because to him cruelty was the natural
employment of mankind. Only one man did he use well, and that was a
Spanish soldier, named Saavedra, and though this Saavedra had struck
blows for liberty which will be remembered by Moors for many years to
come, yet Azan never either gave him stripes himself, nor ordered his
servants to do so, neither did he ever throw him an evil word; while we
trembled lest for the smallest of his offences the tyrant would have him
impaled, and more than once he himself expected it.' This
straightforward account of matters inside the bagnio is the more
valuable and interesting if we recollect that Cervantes'
great-grandmother was a Saavedra, and that the soldier alluded to in the
text was really himself. It is impossible to explain satisfactorily the
sheathing of the tiger's claws on his account alone; did Cervantes
exercise unconsciously a mesmeric influence over Azan? Did Azan ascribe
his captive's defiance of death and worse than death to his bearing a
charmed life? Or did he hold him to be a man of such consequence in his
own country, that it was well to keep him in as good condition as Azan's
greed would permit? We shall never know; only there remains Cervantes'
emphatic declaration that during the five long years of his captivity no
man's hand was ever lifted against him.

Meanwhile, having no more money wherewith to ransom his son, Rodrigo de
Cervantes made a declaration of his poverty before a court of law, and
set forth Miguel's services and claims. In March 1578, the old man's
prayer was enforced by the appearance of four witnesses who had known
him both in the Levant and in Algiers and could testify to the truth of
his father's statement, and a certificate of such facts as were within
his knowledge being willingly offered by the Duke of Sesa, the King,
Philip II., consented to furnish the necessary ransom.

But the ill-fortune which had attended Cervantes in these past years
seemed to stick to him now. Just when the negotiations were drawing to a
conclusion, his father suddenly died, and it appeared as if the
expedition of the Redemptorist Fathers would sail without him. However,
his mother was happily a woman of energy, and after managing somehow to
raise three hundred ducats on her own possessions, appealed to the King
for help. This he appears to have granted her at once, and he gave her
an order for 2,000 ducats on some Valencia merchandise; but with their
usual bad luck they only ultimately succeeded in obtaining about sixty,
which with her own three hundred were placed in the hands of the
Redemptorist Fathers.

It was time: the fact that the term of Azan's government of Algiers had
drawn to an end rendered him more than ever greedy for money, and he
demanded for Cervantes double the price that he himself had paid, and
threatened, if this was not forthcoming, to carry his captive on board
his own vessel, which was bound for Constantinople. Indeed, this threat
was actually put into effect, and Cervantes, bound and loaded with
chains, was placed in a ship of the little squadron that was destined
for Turkish waters. The good father felt that once in Constantinople,
Cervantes would probably remain a prisoner to the end of his life, and
made unheard of efforts to accomplish his release, borrowing the money
that was still lacking from some Algerian merchants, and even using the
ransoms that had been entrusted to him for other captives. Then at last
Cervantes was set free, and after five years was able to go where he
would and return to his native country.

His work however was not yet done. He somehow discovered that a Spaniard
named Blanco de Paz, who had once before betrayed him, was determined,
through jealousy, to have him arrested the moment he set foot in Spain,
and to this end had procured a mass of false evidence respecting his
conduct in Algiers. It is not easy to see what Cervantes could have done
to incur the hatred of this man, but about this he did not trouble
himself to inquire, and set instantly to consider the best way of
bringing his schemes to naught. He entreated his friend, Father Gil, to
be present at an interview held before the notary Pedro de Ribera, at
which a number of respectable Christians appeared to answer a paper of
twenty-five questions, propounded by Cervantes himself, as to the
principal events of his five years of imprisonment, and his treatment of
his fellow-captives. Armed with this evidence, he was able to defy the
traitor, and to return in honour to his native land.

With the rest of his life we have nothing to do. It was not, we may be
sure, lacking in adventure, for he was the kind of man to whom
adventures come, and as his inheritance was all gone, he went back to
his old trade, and joined the army which Philip was assembling to
enforce his claim to the crown of Portugal. In this country as in all
others to which his wandering life had led him, he made many friends and
took notice of what went on around him. He was in all respects a man
practical and vigorous, in many ways the exact opposite of his own Don
Quixote, who saw everything enlarged and glorified and nothing as it
really was, but in other ways the true counterpart of his hero in his
desire to give help and comfort wherever it was needed, and to leave the
world better than he found it.



_THE WORTHY ENTERPRISE OF JOHN FOXE, AN ENGLISHMAN, IN DELIVERING TWO
HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX CHRISTIANS OUT OF THE CAPTIVITY OF THE TURKS AT
ALEXANDRIA, JANUARY 3, 1577_


AMONG our English merchants it is a common thing to traffic with Spain,
for which purpose, in 1563, there set out from Portsmouth a ship called
the 'Three Half Moons,' with thirty-eight men on board, and well armed,
the better to encounter any foes they might meet. Now, drawing near the
Straits, they found themselves beset by eight Turkish galleys, so that
it was impossible for them to fly, but they must either yield or be
sunk. This the owner perceiving, manfully encouraged his company,
telling them not to faint in seeing such a heap of their foes ready to
devour them; putting them in mind also that if it were God's pleasure to
give them into their enemies' hands, there ought not to be one
unpleasant look among them, but they must take it patiently; putting
them in mind also of the ancient worthiness of their countrymen, who in
the hardest extremities have always most prevailed. With other such
encouragement they all fell on their knees, making their prayers briefly
to God.

Then stood up Grove, the master, being a comely man, with his sword and
target, holding them up in defiance against his enemies. Likewise stood
up the owner, boatswain, purser, and every man well armed. Now also
sounded up the trumpets, drums, and flutes, which would have encouraged
any man, however little heart he had in him.

Then John Foxe, the gunner, took him to his charge, sending his bullets
among the Turks, who likewise fired among the Christians, and thrice as
fast. But shortly they drew near, so that the English bowmen fell to
shooting so terribly among their galleys that there were twice as many
of the Turks slain as the whole number of the Christians. But the Turks
discharged twice as fast against the Christians, and so long that the
ship was very sorely battered and bruised, which the foe perceiving,
made the more haste to come aboard. For this coming aboard many a Turk
paid dearly with his life, but it was all in vain, and board they did,
where they found a hot skirmish. For the Englishmen showed themselves
men indeed, and the boatswain was valiant above the rest, for he fought
among the Turks like a mad lion, and there was none of them that could
stand in his face; till at last there came a shot that struck him in the
breast, so that he fell down, bidding them farewell, and to be of good
comfort, and exhorting them rather to win praise by death than to live
in captivity and shame. This, they hearing, indeed intended to have
done, but the number and press of the Turks was so great that they could
not wield their weapons, and so were taken, when they intended rather to
have died, except only the master's mate, who shrank from the fight like
a notable coward.

[Illustration]

But so it was, and the Turks were victors, though they had little cause
of triumph. Then it would have grieved any hard heart to see these
infidels wantonly ill-treating the Christians, who were no sooner in
the galleys than their garments were torn from their backs, and they set
to the oars.

I will make no mention of their miseries, being now under their enemies'
raging stripes, their bodies distressed with too much heat, and also
with too much cold; but I will rather show the deliverance of those who,
being in great misery, continually trust in God, with a steadfast hope
that He will deliver them.

Near the city of Alexandria, being a harbour, there is a ship-road, very
well defended by strong walls, into which the Turks are accustomed to
bring their galleys every winter, and there repair them and lay them up
against the spring. In this road there is a prison, in which the
captives and all those prisoners who serve in the galleys are confined
till the sea be calm again for voyaging, every prisoner being most
grievously laden with irons on his legs, giving him great pain. Into
this prison all these Christians were put, and fast guarded all the
winter, and every winter. As time passed the master and the owner were
redeemed by friends; but the rest were left in misery, and
half-starved--except John Foxe, who being a somewhat skilful barber,
made shift now and then, by means of his craft, to help out his fare
with a good meal. Till at last God sent him favour in the sight of the
keeper of the prison, so that he had leave to go in and out to the road,
paying a stipend to the keeper, and wearing a lock about his leg. This
liberty six more had, on the same conditions; for after their long
imprisonment, it was not feared that they would work any mischief
against the Turks.

In the winter of the year 1577, all the galleys having reached port, and
their masters and mariners being at their own homes, the ships
themselves being stripped of their masts and sails, there were in the
prison two hundred and sixty-eight Christian captives, belonging to
sixteen different nations. Among these were three Englishmen, one of
them John Foxe, the others William Wickney and Robert Moore. And John
Foxe, now having been thirteen or fourteen years under the bondage of
the Turks, and being weary thereof, pondered continually, day and night,
how he might escape, never ceasing to pray God to further his
enterprise, if it should be to His glory.

Not far from the road, at one side of the city, there was a certain
victualling-house, which one Peter Unticare had hired, paying a fee to
the keeper of the prison. This Peter Unticare was a Spaniard, and also a
Christian, and had been a prisoner about thirty years, never contriving
any means to escape, but keeping himself quiet without being suspected
of conspiracy. But on the coming of John Foxe they disclosed their minds
to each other about their loss of liberty; and to this Unticare John
Foxe confided a plan for regaining their freedom, which plan the three
Englishmen continually brooded over, till they resolved to acquaint five
more prisoners with their secret. This being done, they arranged in
three more days to make their attempt at escape. Whereupon John Foxe,
and Peter Unticare, and the other six arranged to meet in the prison on
the last day of December, and there they told the rest of the prisoners
what their intention was, and how they hoped to bring it to pass. And
having, without much ado, persuaded all to agree, John Foxe gave them a
kind of files, which he had hoarded together by means of Peter Unticare,
charging them every man to be free of his fetters by eight o'clock on
the following night.

The next night John Foxe and his six companions, all having met at the
house of Peter Unticare, spent the evening mirthfully for fear of
rousing suspicion, till it was time for them to put their scheme into
execution. Then they sent Peter Unticare to the master of the road, in
the name of one of the masters of the city, with whom he was well
acquainted, and at the mention of whose name he was likely to come at
once, desiring him to meet him there, and promising to bring him back
again.

The keeper agreed to go with Unticare, telling the warders not to bar
the gate, for he would come again with all speed. In the meantime the
other seven had provided themselves with all the weapons they could find
in the house, and John Foxe took a rusty old sword without a hilt, which
he managed to make serve by bending the hand end of the sword instead of
a hilt.

Now the keeper being come to the house, and seeing no light nor hearing
any noise, straightway suspected the plot, and was turning back. But
John Foxe, standing behind the corner of the house, stepped forth to
him. He perceiving it to be John Foxe, said: 'O Foxe! what have I
deserved of thee that thou shouldest seek my death?'

'Thou, villain,' quoth Foxe, 'hast been a blood-sucker of many a
Christian's blood, and now thou shalt know what thou hast deserved at my
hands!'

Therewith he lifted up his bright shining sword, cleared of its ten
years' rust, and struck him so strong a blow that his head was cleft
asunder, and he fell stark dead to the ground. Thereupon Peter Unticare
went in and told the rest how it was with the keeper, and at once they
came forth, and with their weapons ran him through and cut off his head,
so that no man should know who he was.

Then they marched towards the road, and entered it softly. There were
six warders guarding it, and one of them asked who was there. Then quoth
Foxe and his company, 'All friends!'

But when they were within it proved contrary, for, quoth Foxe to his
companions:

'My masters, here there is not a man to a man, so look you play your
parts!' They so behaved themselves indeed that they had despatched those
six quickly. Then John Foxe, intending not to be thwarted in his
enterprise, barred the gate surely, and planted a cannon against it.

They entered the gaoler's lodge, where they found the keys of the
fortress and prison by his bedside, and then they all got better
weapons. In this chamber was a chest holding a great treasure, all in
ducats, which Peter Unticare and two more stuffed into their garments,
as many as they could carry. But Foxe would not touch them, saying that
it was his liberty and theirs he sought, and not to make a spoil of the
wicked treasure of the infidels. Yet these words did not sink into their
hearts, though they had no good of their gain.

Now, having provided themselves with the weapons they needed, they came
to the prison, and unlocked its gates and doors, and called forth all
the prisoners, whom they employed, some in ramming up the gate, some in
fitting up a galley which was the best in the road.

In the prison were several warders, whom John Foxe and his company slew;
but this was perceived by eight more Turks, who fled to the top of the
prison, where Foxe and his company had to reach them by ladders. Then
followed a hot skirmish, and John Foxe was shot thrice through his
apparel, without being hurt; but Peter Unticare and the other two, who
had weighed themselves down with the ducats so that they could not
manage their weapons, were slain.

Among the Turks there was one thrust through who fell from the top of
the prison wall, and made such a crying out that the inhabitants of a
house or two that stood near came and questioned him, and soon
understood the case--how the prisoners were attempting to escape. Then
they raised both Alexandria on the west side of the road, and a castle
at the end of the city next to the road, and also another fortress on
the north side of the road. And now the prisoners had no way to escape
but one that might seem impossible for them.

[Illustration]

Then every man set to work, some to their tackling, some carrying arms
and provisions into the galley, some keeping the enemy from the wall of
the road. To be short, there was no man idle, nor any labour spent in
vain; so that presently the galley was ready, and into it they all
leaped hastily, and hoisted sail.

But when the galley had set sail, and was past the shelter of the road,
the two castles had full power over it, and what could save it from
sinking? The cannon let fly from both sides, and it was between them
both.

Yet there was not one on board that feared the shot that came thundering
about their ears, nor yet was any man scarred or touched. For now God
held forth His buckler and shielded this galley, having tried their
faith to the uttermost. And they sailed away, being not once touched
with the glance of a shot, and were presently out of the reach of the
Turkish cannon. Then might you see the Turks coming down to the
waterside, in companies like swarms of bees, trying to make ready their
galleys--which would have been a quick piece of work, seeing that they
had in them neither oars, nor sails, nor anything else. Yet they carried
them in, but some into one galley, some into another, for there was much
confusion among them; and the sea being rough, and they having no
certain guide, it was a thing impossible that they should overtake the
prisoners. For they had neither pilot, mariners, nor any skilful master
that was ready at this pinch.

When the Christians were safe out of the enemy's coast, John Foxe called
to them all, telling them to fall down upon their knees, thanking God
for their delivery, and beseeching Him to aid them to the land of their
friends. Then they fell straightway to labouring at the oars, striving
to come to some Christian country, as near as they could guess by the
stars. But the winds were so contrary, now driving them this way, now
that, that they were bewildered, thinking that God had forsaken them and
left them to yet greater danger. And soon there were no victuals left in
the galley; and the famine grew to be so great that in twenty-eight days
there had died eight persons.

But it fell out that upon the twenty-ninth day, they reached the Isle of
Candy, and landed at Gallipoli, where they were made much of by the
Abbot and monks, and cared for and refreshed. They kept there the sword
with which John Foxe had killed the keeper, esteeming it a most precious
jewel.

Then they sailed along the cost to Tarento, where they sold the galley,
and went on foot to Naples, having divided the price. But at Naples they
parted asunder, going every man his own way, and John Foxe journeyed to
Rome, where he was well entertained by an Englishman and presented to
the Pope, who rewarded him liberally and gave him letters to the King of
Spain. And by the King of Spain also he was well entertained, and
granted twenty pence a day. Thence, desiring to return into his own
country, he departed in 1579, and being come into England, he went into
the Court, and told all his travel to the Council, who, considering that
he had spent a great part of his youth in thraldom, extended to him
their liberality, to help to maintain him in age--to their own honour
and the encouragement of all true-hearted Christians.

[Illustration]



_BARON TRENCK_


MOST men who have escaped from prison owe their fame, not to their
flight, but to the deeds which caused their imprisonment. It may,
however, safely be asserted that few people out of his own country would
have heard of Baron Trenck had it not been for the wonderful skill and
cunning with which he managed to cut through the 'stone walls' and 'iron
bars' of all his many 'cages.' He was born at Königsberg in Prussia in
1726, and entered the body-guard of Frederic II. in 1742, when he was
about sixteen. Trenck was a young man of good family, rich,
well-educated, and, according to his own account, fond of amusement. He
confesses to having shirked his duties more than once for the sake of
some pleasure, even after the War of the Austrian Succession had broken
out (September 1744), and Frederic, strict though he was, had forgiven
him. It is plain from this, that the King must have considered that
Trenck had been guilty of some deadly treachery towards him, when in
after years he declined to pardon him for crimes which after all the
young man had never committed.

Trenck's first confinement was in 1746, when he was thrown into the
Castle of Glatz, on a charge of corresponding with his cousin and
namesake, who was in the service of the Empress Maria Theresa, and of
being an Austrian spy. At first he was kindly treated and allowed to
walk freely about the fortifications, and he took advantage of the
liberty given him to arrange a plan of escape with one of his
fellow-prisoners. The plot was, however, betrayed by the other man, and
a heavy punishment fell on Trenck. By the King's orders, he was promptly
deprived of all his privileges, and placed in a cell in one of the
towers, which overlooked the ramparts lying ninety feet below, on the
side nearest the town. This added a fresh difficulty to his chances of
escape, as, in passing from the castle to the town, he was certain to be
seen by many people. But no obstacles mattered to Trenck. He had money,
and then, as now, money could do a great deal. So he began by bribing
one of the officials about the prison, and the official in his turn
bribed a soap-boiler, who lived not far from the castle gates, and
promised to conceal Trenck somewhere in his house. Still, liberty must
have seemed a long way off, for Trenck had only one little knife
(_canif_) with which to cut through everything. By dint of incessant and
hard work, he managed to saw through three thick steel bars, but even
so, there were eight others left to do. His friend the official then
procured him a file, but he was obliged to use it with great care, lest
the scraping sound should be heard by his guards. Perhaps they wilfully
closed their ears, for many of them were sorry for Trenck; but, at all
events, the eleven bars were at last sawn through, and all that remained
was to make a rope ladder. This he did by tearing his leather
portmanteau into strips, and plaiting them into a rope, and as this was
not long enough, he added his sheets. The night was dark and rainy,
which favoured him, and he reached the bottom of the rampart in safety.
Unluckily, he met here with an obstacle on which he had never counted.
There was a large drain, opening into one of the trenches, which Trenck
had neither seen nor heard of, and into this he fell. In spite of his
struggles, he was held fast, and his strength being at last exhausted,
he was forced to call the sentinel, and at midday, having been left in
the drain for hours to make sport for the town, he was carried back to
his cell.

Henceforth he was still more strictly watched than before, though,
curiously enough, his money never seems to have been taken from him, and
at this time he had about eighty louis left, which he always kept hidden
about him. Eight days after his last attempt, Fouquet, the commandant of
Glatz, who hated Trenck and all his family, sent a deputation consisting
of the adjutant, an officer, and a certain Major Doo, to speak to the
unfortunate man, and exhort him to patience and submission. Trenck
entered into conversation with them for the purpose of throwing them off
their guard, when suddenly he snatched away Doo's sword, rushed from his
cell, knocked down the sentinel and lieutenant who were standing
outside, and striking right and left at the soldiers who came flying to
bar his progress, he dashed down the stairs and leapt from the ramparts.
Though the height was great, he fell into the fosse without injury, and
still grasping his sword. He scrambled quickly to his feet and jumped
easily over the second rampart, which was much lower than the first, and
then began to breathe freely, as he thought he was safe from being
overtaken by the soldiers, who would have to come a long way round. At
this moment, however, he saw a sentinel making for him a short distance
off, and he rushed for the palisades which divided the fortifications
from the open country, from which the mountains and Bohemia were easily
reached. In the act of scaling them, his foot was caught tight between
the bars, and he was trapped till the sentinel came up, and after a
sharp fight got him back to prison.

For some time poor Trenck was in a sad condition. In his struggle with
the sentinel he had been wounded, while his right foot had got crushed
in the palisades. Beside this, he was watched far more strictly than
before, for an officer and two men remained always in his cell, and two
sentinels were stationed outside. The reason of these precautions of
course was to prevent his gaining over his guards singly, either by pity
or bribery. His courage sank to its lowest ebb, as he was told on all
sides that his imprisonment was for life, whereas long after he
discovered the real truth, that the King's intention had been to keep
him under arrest for a year only, and if he had had a little more
patience, three weeks would have found him free. His repeated attempts
to escape naturally angered Frederic, while on the other hand the King
knew nothing of the fact which excused Trenck's impatience--namely, the
belief carefully instilled in him by all around him that he was doomed
to perpetual confinement.

It is impossible to describe in detail all the plans made by Trenck to
regain his freedom, first because they were endless, and secondly
because several were nipped in the bud. Still the unfortunate man felt
that as long as his money was not taken from him his case was not
hopeless, for the officers in command were generally poor and in debt,
and were always sent to garrison work as a punishment. After one wild
effort to liberate _all_ the prisoners in the fortress, which was
naturally discovered and frustrated, Trenck made friends with an officer
named Schell, lately arrived at Glatz, who promised not only his aid but
his company in the new enterprise. As more money would be needed than
Trenck had in his possession, he contrived to apply to his rich
relations outside the prison, and by some means--what we are not
told--they managed to convey a large sum to him. Suspicion, however, got
about that Trenck was on too familiar a footing with the officers, and
orders were given that his door should always be kept locked. This
occasioned further delay, as false keys had secretly to be made, before
anything else could be done.

Their flight was unexpectedly hastened by Schell accidentally learning
that he was in danger of arrest. One night they crept unobserved through
the arsenal and over the inner palisade, but on reaching the rampart
they came face to face with two of the officers, and again a leap into
the fosse was the only way of escape. Luckily the wall at this point was
not high, and Trenck arrived at the bottom without injury; but Schell
was not so happy, and hurt his foot so badly that he called on his
friend to kill him, and to make the best of his way alone. Trenck,
however, declined to abandon him, and having dragged him over the outer
palisade, took him on his back, and made for the frontier. Before they
had gone five hundred yards they heard the boom of the alarm guns from
the fortress, while clearer still were the sounds of pursuit. As they
knew that they would naturally be sought on the side towards Bohemia,
they changed their course and pushed on to the river Neiss, at this
season partly covered with ice. Trenck swam over slowly with this friend
on his back, and found a boat on the other side. By means of this boat
they evaded their enemies, and reached the mountains after some hours,
very hungry, and almost frozen to death.

Here a new terror awaited them. Some peasants with whom they took refuge
recognised Schell, and for a moment the fugitives gave themselves up for
lost. But the peasants took pity on the two wretched objects, fed them
and gave them shelter, till they could make up their minds what was best
to be done. To their unspeakable dismay, they found that they were,
after all, only seven miles from Glatz, and that in the neighbouring
town of Wunschelburg a hundred soldiers were quartered, with orders to
capture all deserters from the fortress. This time, however, fortune
favoured the luckless Trenck, and though he and Schell were both in
uniform, they rode unobserved through the village while the rest of the
people were at church, and, skirting Wunschelburg, crossed the Bohemian
frontier in the course of the day.

Then follows a period of comparative calm in Trenck's history. He
travelled freely about Poland, Austria, Russia, Sweden, Denmark and
Holland, and even ventured occasionally across the border into Prussia.
Twelve years seem to have passed by in this manner, till in 1758 his
mother died, and Trenck asked leave of the council of war to go up to
Dantzic to see his family and to arrange his affairs. Curiously enough,
it appears never to have occurred to him that he was a deserter, and as
such liable to be arrested at any moment. And this was what actually
happened. By order of the King, Trenck was taken first to Berlin, where
he was deprived of his money and some valuable rings, and then removed
to Magdeburg, of which place Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick was the
governor.

Here his quarters were worse than he had ever known them. His cell was
only six feet by ten, and the window was high, with bars without as well
as within. The wall was seven feet thick, and beyond it was a palisade,
which rendered it impossible for the sentinels to approach the window.
On the other side the prisoner was shut in by three doors, and his food
(which was not only bad, but very scanty) was passed to him through an
opening.

One thing only was in his favour. His cell was only entered once a week,
so he could pursue any work to further his escape without much danger of
being discovered. Notwithstanding the high window, the thick wall, and
the palisade, notwithstanding too his want of money, he soon managed to
open negotiations with the sentinels, and found, to his great joy, that
the next cell was empty. If he could only contrive to burrow his way
into that, he would be able to watch his opportunity to steal through
the open door; once free he could either swim the Elbe and cross into
Saxony, which lay about six miles distant, or else float down the river
in a boat till he was out of danger.

Small as the cell was, it contained a sort of cupboard fixed into the
floor by irons, and on these Trenck began to work. After frightful
labour he at last extracted the heavy nails which fastened the staples
to the floor, and breaking off the heads (which he put back to avoid
detection), he kept the rest to fashion for his own purposes. By this
means he made instruments to raise the bricks.

On this side also the wall was seven feet thick, and formed of bricks
and stones. Trenck numbered them as he went on with the greatest care,
so that the cell might present its usual appearance before the Wednesday
visit of his guards. To hide the joins, he scraped off some of the
mortar, which he smeared over the place.

As may be supposed, all this took a very long time. He had nothing to
work with but the tools he himself had made, which of course were very
rough. But one day a friendly sentinel gave him a little iron rod, and a
small knife with a wooden handle. These were treasures, indeed! And with
their help he worked away for six months at his hole, as in some places
the mortar had become so hard that it had to be pounded like a stone.

During this time he enlisted the compassion of some of the other
sentinels, who not only described to him the lie of the country which he
would have to traverse if he ever succeeded in getting out of prison,
but interested in his behalf a Jewess named Esther Heymann, whose own
father had been for two years a prisoner in Magdeburg. In this manner
Trenck became the possessor of a file, a knife, and some writing paper,
as the friendly Jewess had agreed to convey letters to some influential
people both at Vienna and Berlin, and also to his sister. But this step
led to the ruin, not only of Trenck, but of several persons concerned,
for they were betrayed by an Imperial Secretary of Embassy called
Weingarten, who was tempted by a bill for 20,000 florins. Many of those
guilty of abetting Trenck in this fresh effort to escape were put to
death, while his sister was ordered to build a new prison for him in the
Fort de l'Etoile, and he himself was destined to pass nine more years in
chains.

In spite of his fetters, Trenck was able in some miraculous way to get
on with his hole, but his long labour was rendered useless by the
circumstance that his new prison was finished sooner than he expected,
and he was removed into it hastily, being only able to conceal his
knife. He was now chained even more heavily than before, his two feet
being attached to a heavy ring fixed in the wall, another ring being
fastened round his body. From this ring was suspended a chain with a
thick iron bar, two feet long at the bottom, and to this his hands were
fastened. An iron collar was afterwards added to his instruments of
torture.

Besides torments of body, nothing was wanting which could work on his
mind. His prison was built between the trenches of the principal
rampart, and was of course very dark. It was likewise very damp, and, to
crown all, the name of 'Trenck' had been printed in red bricks on the
wall, above a tomb whose place was indicated by a death's head.

[Illustration]

Here again, he tells us, he excited the pity of his guards, who gave him
a bed and coverlet, and as much bread as he chose to eat; and, wonderful
as it may seem, his health did not suffer from all these horrors. As
soon as he got a little accustomed to his cramped position, he began to
use the knife he had left, and to cut through his chains. He next burst
the iron band, and after a long time severed his leg fetters, but in
such a way that he could put them on again, and no one be any the wiser.
Nothing is more common in the history of prisoners than this exploit,
and nothing is more astonishing, yet we meet with the fact again and
again in their memoirs and biographies. Trenck at any rate appears to
have accomplished the feat without much difficulty, though he found it
very hard to get his hand back into his handcuffs. After he had disposed
of his bonds, he began to saw at the doors leading to the gallery. These
were four in number, and all of wood, but when he arrived at the fourth,
his knife broke in two, and the courage that had upheld him for so many
years gave way. He opened his veins and lay down to die, when in his
despair he heard the voice of Gefhardt, the friendly sentinel from the
other prison. Hearing of Trenck's sad plight, he scaled the palisade,
and, we are told expressly, bound up his wounds, though we are _not_
told how he managed to enter the cell. Be that as it may, the next day,
when the guards came to open the door, they found Trenck ready to meet
them, armed with a brick in one hand, and a knife, doubtless obtained
from Gefhardt, in the other. The first man that approached him, he
stretched wounded at his feet, and thinking it dangerous to irritate
further a desperate man, they made a compromise with him. The governor
took off his chains for a time, and gave him strong soup and fresh
linen. Then, after a while, new doors were put to his cell, the inner
door being lined with plates of iron, and he himself was fastened with
stronger chains than those he had burst through.

For all this the watch must have been very lax, as Gefhardt soon
contrived to open communications with him again, and letters were passed
through the window (to which the prisoner had made a false and movable
frame) and forwarded to Trenck's rich friends. His appeal was always
answered promptly and amply. More valuable than money were two files,
also procured from Gefhardt, and by their means the new chains were
speedily cut through, though, as before, without any apparent break.
Having freed his limbs, he began to saw through the floor of his cell,
which was of wood. Underneath, instead of hard rock, there was sand,
which Trenck scooped out with his hands. This earth was passed through
the window to Gefhardt, who removed it when he was on guard, and gave
his friend pistols, a bayonet and knives to assist him when he had
finally made his escape.

All seemed going smoothly. The foundations of the prison were only four
feet deep, and Trenck's tunnel had reached a considerable distance when
everything was again spoilt. A letter written by Trenck to Vienna fell
into the hands of the governor, owing to some stupidity on the part of
Gefhardt's wife, who had been entrusted to deliver it. The letter does
not seem to have contained any special disclosure of his plan of escape,
as the governor, who was still Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, could find
nothing wrong in Trenck's cell except the false window frame. The cut
chains, though examined, somehow escaped detection, from which we gather
either that the officials were very careless, or the carpenter very
stupid. Perhaps both may have been the case, for as the Seven Years' War
(against Austria) was at this time raging, sentinels and officers were
frequently changed, and prison discipline insensibly relaxed. Had this
not been so, Trenck could never have been able to labour unseen, but as
it was, he was merely deprived of his bed, as a punishment for tampering
with the window.

As soon as he had recovered from his fright and an illness which
followed, he returned to his digging. It was necessary for him to bore
under the subterranean gallery of the principal rampart, which was a
distance of thirty-seven feet, and to get outside the foundation of the
rampart. Beyond that was a door leading to the second rampart. Trenck
was forced to work naked, for fear of raising the suspicions of the
officials by his dirty clothes, but in spite of all his precautions and
the wilful blindness of his guards, who as usual were on his side, all
was at length discovered. His hole was filled up, and a year's work
lost.

The next torture invented for him was worse than any that had gone
before. He was visited and awakened every quarter of an hour, in order
that he might not set to work in the night. This lasted for four years,
during part of which time Trenck employed himself in writing verses and
making drawings on his tin cups, after the manner of all prisoners, and
in writing books with his blood, as ink was forbidden. We are again left
in ignorance as to how he got paper. He also began to scoop out another
hole, but was discovered afresh, though nothing particular seems to have
been done to him, partly owing to the kindness of the new governor, who
soon afterwards died.

It had been arranged by his friends that for the space of one year
horses should be ready for him at a certain place, on the first and
fifteenth of every month. Inspired by this thought, he turned to his
burrowing with renewed vigour, and worked away at every moment when he
thought he could do so unseen. One day, however, when he had reached
some distance, he dislodged a large stone which blocked up the opening
towards his cell. His terror was frightful. Not only was the air
suffocating and the darkness dreadful, but he knew that if any of the
guards were unexpectedly to come into his cell, the opening must be
discovered, and all his toil again lost. For eight hours he stayed in
the tunnel paralysed by fear. Then he roused himself, and by dint of
superhuman struggles managed to open a passage on one side of the stone,
and to reach his cell, which for once appeared to him as a haven of
rest.

Soon after this the war ended with the Peace of Paris (1763), and
Trenck's hopes of release seemed likely to be realised. He procured
money from his friends, and bribed the Austrian Ambassador in Berlin to
open negotiations on his behalf, and while these were impending he
rested from his labours for three whole months. Suddenly he was
possessed by an idea which was little less than madness. He bribed a
major to ask for a visit from Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, again
governor of Magdeburg, offering to disclose his passage, and to reveal
all his plans of escape, on condition that the Duke would promise to
plead for him with the King. This message never reached the Duke
himself, but some officers arrived ostensibly sent by him, but in
reality tools of the major's. They listened to all he had to say, and
saw all he had to show, then broke their word, filled up the passage,
and redoubled the chains and the watch.

Notwithstanding this terrible blow, Trenck's trials were drawing to an
end. Whether Frederic's heart was softened by his brilliant victories,
or whether Trenck's influential friends succeeded in making themselves
heard, we do not know, but six months later he was set free, on
condition that he never tried to revenge himself on any one, and that he
never again should cross the frontiers of Saxony or Prussia.



_THE ADVENTURE OF JOHN RAWLINS_


IN the year 1621, one John Rawlins, native of Rochester, sailed from
Plymouth in a ship called the 'Nicholas,' which had in its company
another ship of Plymouth, and had a fair voyage till they came within
sight of Gibraltar. Then the watch saw five sails that seemed to do all
in their power to come up with the 'Nicholas,' which, on its part,
suspecting them to be pirates, hoisted all the sail it could; but to no
avail, for before the day was over, the Turkish ships of war--for so
they proved to be--not only overtook the Plymouth ships, but made them
both prisoners.

Then they sailed for Argier, which, when they reached, the English
prisoners were sold as slaves, being hurried like dogs into the market,
as men sell horses in England, and marched up and down to see who would
give most for them. And though they had heavy hearts and sad
countenances, yet many came to behold them, sometimes taking them by the
hand, sometimes turning them round about, sometimes feeling their arms
and muscles, and bargaining for them accordingly, till at last they were
sold.

John Rawlins was the last who was sold, because his hand was lame, and
he was bought by the very captain who took him, named Villa Rise, who,
knowing Rawlins' skill as a pilot, bought him and his carpenter at a
very low rate--paying for Rawlins seven pounds ten reckoned in English
money. Then he sent them to work with other slaves: but the Turks,
seeing that through Rawlins' lame hand he could not do so much as the
rest, complained to their master, who told him that unless he could
obtain a ransom of fifteen pounds, he should be banished inland, where
he would never see Christendom again.

But while John Rawlins was terrified with this stern threat of Villa
Rise, there was lying in the harbour another English ship that had been
surprised by the pirates--the 'Exchange,' of Bristol. This ship was
bought by an English Turk, who made captain of it another English Turk,
and because they were both renegades, they concluded to have English
and Dutch slaves to go in her. So it came about that, inquiring if any
English slave were to be sold who could serve them as pilot, they heard
of John Rawlins, and forthwith bought him of his master, Villa Rise.

By January 7 the ship left Argier, with, on board her, sixty-three Turks
and Moors, nine English slaves, and a French slave, four Dutchmen, who
were free, and four gunners, one English, and one Dutch renegade.

Now, the English slaves were employed for the most part under hatches,
and had to labour hard, all of which John Rawlins took to heart,
thinking it a terrible lot to be subject to such pain and danger only to
enrich other men, and themselves to return as slaves. Therefore he broke
out at last with such words as these:

'Oh, horrible slavery, to be thus subject to dogs! Oh, Heaven strengthen
my heart and hand, and something shall be done to deliver us from these
cruel Mahometan dogs!'

The other slaves, pitying what they thought his madness, bade him speak
softly, lest they should all fare the worse for his rashness.

'Worse,' said Rawlins, 'what can be worse? I will either regain my
liberty at one time or another, or perish in the attempt; but if you
would agree to join with me in the undertaking, I doubt not but we
should find some way of winning glory with our freedom.'

'Prithee be quiet,' they returned, 'and do not think of impossibilities,
though, if indeed you could open some way of escape, so that we should
not be condemned as madmen for trying as it were to pull the sun out of
the heavens, then we would risk our lives; and you may be sure of
silence.'

After this the slavery continued, and the Turks set their captives to
work at all the meanest tasks, and even when they laboured hardest,
flogged and reviled them, till more and more John Rawlins became
resolved to recover his liberty and surprise the ship. So he provided
ropes with broad spikes of iron, and all the iron crows, with which he
could, with the help of the others, fasten up the scuttles, gratings,
and cabins, and even shut up the captain himself with his companions;
and so he intended to work the enterprise, that, at a certain watchword,
the English being masters of the gunner-room and the powder, would
either be ready to blow the Turks into the air, or kill them as they
came out one by one, if by any chance they forced open the cabins.

Then, very cautiously, he told the four free Dutchmen of his plot, and
last of all the Dutch renegades, who were also in the gunner-room; and
all these consented readily to so daring an enterprise. So he fixed the
time for the venture in the captain's morning watch.

But you must understand that where the English slaves were there always
hung four or five iron crows, just under the gun carriages, and when the
time came it was very dark, so that John Rawlins, in taking out his iron
dropped it on the side of the gun, making such a noise that the
soldiers, hearing it, waked the Turks and told them to come down. At
this the boatswain of the Turks descended with a candle, and searched
everywhere, making a great deal of stir, but finding neither hatchet nor
hammer, nor anything else suspicious, only the iron which lay slipped
down under the gun-carriages, he went quietly up again and told the
captain what had happened, who thought that it was no remarkable thing
to have an iron slip from its place. But through this John Rawlins was
forced to wait for another opportunity.

When they had sailed further northward there happened another suspicious
accident, for Rawlins had told his scheme to the renegade gunner, who
promised secrecy by everything that could induce one to believe in him.
But immediately after he left Rawlins, and was absent about a quarter of
an hour, when he returned and sat down again by him. Presently, as they
were talking, in came a furious Turk, with his sword drawn, who
threatened Rawlins as if he would certainly kill him. This made Rawlins
suspect that the renegade gunner had betrayed him; and he stepped back
and drew out his knife, also taking the gunner's out of its sheath; so
that the Turk, seeing him with _two_ knives, threw down his sword,
saying he was only jesting. But the gunner, seeing that Rawlins
suspected him, whispered something in his ear, calling Heaven to witness
that he had never breathed a word of the enterprise, and never would.
Nevertheless, Rawlins kept the knives in his sleeve all night, and was
somewhat troubled, though afterwards the gunner proved faithful and
zealous in the undertaking.

All this time Rawlins persuaded the captain, who himself had little
knowledge of seamanship, to steer northward, meaning to draw him away
from the neighbourhood of other Turkish vessels. On February 6 they
descried a sail, and at once the Turks gave chase, and made her
surrender. It proved to be a ship from near Dartmouth, laden with silk.
As it was stormy weather, the Turks did not put down their boat, but
made the master of the conquered ship put down his, and come on board
with five of his men and a boy, while ten of the Turks' men, among whom
were one English and two Dutch renegades belonging to the conspiracy,
went to man the prize instead.

[Illustration]

But when Rawlins saw this division of his friends, before they could set
out for the other ship, he found means to tell them plainly that he
would complete his enterprise either that night or the next, and that
whatever came of it they must acquaint the four English left on the
captured ship with his resolution, and steer for England while the Turks
slept and suspected nothing. For, by God's grace, in his first watch he
would show them a light, to let them know that the enterprise was begun,
or about to be begun.

So the boat reached the ship from Dartmouth; and next Rawlins told the
captain and his men whom the Turks had sent down among the other
prisoners of his design, and found them willing to throw in their lot
with him.

The next morning, being February 7, the prize from Dartmouth was not to
be seen--the men indeed having followed Rawlins' counsel and steered for
England. But the Turkish captain began to storm and swear, telling
Rawlins to search the seas up and down for her--which he did all day
without success. Then Rawlins, finding a good deal of water in the hold,
persuaded the captain, by telling him that the ship was not rightly
balanced, to have four of the guns brought aft, that the water might run
to the pump. This being done, and the guns placed where the English
could use them for their own purpose, the final arrangement was made.
The ship having three decks, those that belonged to the gunner-room were
all to be there, and break up the lower deck. The English slaves, who
belonged to the middle deck, were to do the same with that, and watch
the scuttles. Rawlins himself prevailed with the gunner to give him as
much powder as would prime the guns, and told them all there was no
better watchword than, when the signal gun was heard, to cry:

'For God, and King James, and Saint George for England.'

Then, all being prepared, and every man resolute, knowing what he had to
do, Rawlins advised the gunner to speak to the captain, that he might
send the soldiers to the poop, to bring the ship aft, and, weighing it
down, send the water to the pumps. This the captain was very willing to
do; and so, at two o'clock in the afternoon the signal was given, by the
firing of the gun, whose report tore and broke down all the binnacle and
compasses.

But when the Turks heard this, and the shouts of the conspirators, and
saw that part of ship was torn away, and felt it shake under them, and
knew that all threatened their destruction--no bear robbed of her whelps
was ever so mad as they, for they not only called us dogs, and cried in
their tongue, 'The fortune of war! the fortune of war!' but they tried
to tear up the planking, setting to work hammers, hatchets, knives, the
oars of the boat, the boat hook, and whatever else came to hand, besides
the stones and bricks of the cook-room, still trying to break the
hatches, and never ceasing their horrible cries and curses.

Then Rawlins, seeing them so violent, and understanding that the slaves
had cleared the decks of all the Turks and Moors underneath, began to
shoot at them through different scoutholes, with their own muskets, and
so lessened their number. At this they cried for the pilot, and so
Rawlins, with some to guard him, went to them, and understood by their
kneeling that they cried for mercy and begged to come down. This they
were bidden to do, but coming down one by one, they were taken and slain
with their own curtleaxes. And the rest, perceiving this, some of them
leapt into the water, still crying: 'The fortune of war!' and calling
their foes English dogs, and some were slain with the curtleaxes, till
the decks were well cleared, and the victory assured.

[Illustration]

At the first report of the gun, and the hurly-burly on deck, the captain
was writing in his cabin, and he came out with his curtleaxe in hand,
thinking by his authority to quell the mischief. But when he saw that
the ship was surprised, he threw down his curtleaxe, and begged Rawlins
to save his life, telling him how he had redeemed him from Villa Rise,
and put him in command in the ship, besides treating him well through
the voyage. This Rawlins confessed, and at last consented to be
merciful, and brought the captain and five more renegades into England.

When all was done, and the ship cleared of the dead bodies, John Rawlins
assembled his men, and with one consent gave the praise to God, using
the accustomed services on shipboard. And for want of books they lifted
up their voices to God, as He put it into their hearts or renewed their
memories. Then did they sing a psalm, and last of all, embraced one
another for playing the men in such a deliverance, whereby their fear
was turned into joy. That same night they steered for England, and
arrived at Plymouth on February 13, and were welcomed with all gladness.

As for the ship from Dartmouth, that had arrived in Penzance on February
11, for the English had made the Turks believe that they were sailing to
Argier, till they came in sight of England. Then one of the Turks said
plainly _that the land was not like Cape Vincent_; but the Englishmen
told them to go down into the hold, and trim more to windward, and they
should see and know more to-morrow. Thereupon five of them went down
very orderly, while the English feigned themselves asleep; but presently
they started up, and nailed down the hatches, and so overpowered the
Turks. And this is the story of this enterprise, and the end of John
Rawlins' voyage.



_THE CHEVALIER JOHNSTONE'S ESCAPE FROM CULLODEN_


THE Chevalier Johnstone (or _de_ Johnstone, as he preferred to call
himself) was closely connected with the Highland army, hastily collected
in 1745 for the purpose of restoring Charles Edward to his grandfather's
throne. He was aide-de-camp to Lord George Murray, Generalissimo to the
little force, and seems to have known enough of warfare to be capable of
appreciating his commander's skill. He was also a captain in the
regiment of the Duke of Perth, and later, when the petals of the White
Rose were trampled under foot, he became an officer in the French
service.

From his position, therefore, he was peculiarly fitted to tell the tale
of those two eventful years, 1745 and 1746. Though only the son of a
merchant, Johnstone was well connected, and, like many Scottish
gentlemen of that day, had been bred in loyalty to the Jacobite cause.
He was one of the first to join the Prince when he had reached Perth,
and it was from the Prince himself that he received his company, after
the fight at Prestonpans. His life was all romance, but the part on
which it is our present purpose to dwell is the account he has left in
his memoirs of his escape from the field of Culloden, and the terrible
sufferings he went through for some months, till he finally made his way
safely to Holland.

'The battle of Culloden,' he says,[14] 'was lost rather by a series of
mistakes on our part than by any skilful manoeuvre of the Duke of
Cumberland,' and every Scot in arms knew too well the doom that awaited
him at the 'Butcher's' hands. The half-starved Highlanders were no match
for the well-fed English troops, and when the day was lost, and the rout
became general, each man sought to conceal himself in the fastnesses of
the nearest mountains, and, as long as he put himself well out of reach,
was not particular as to the means he took to purchase safety.

[Illustration]

Panics disclose strange and unexpected depths in men's minds, and
Johnstone was in no respect superior to his fellows. 'Being no longer
able to keep myself on my legs,' he relates,[15] 'and the enemy always
advancing very slowly, but redoubling their fire, my mind was agitated
and undecided whether I should throw away my life, or surrender a
prisoner, which was a thousand times worse than death on the field of
battle. All at once I perceived a horse, about thirty paces before me,
without a rider. The idea of being yet able to escape gave me fresh
strength and served as a spur to me. I ran and laid hold of the bridle,
which was fast in the hand of a man lying on the ground, whom I supposed
dead; but, what was my surprise when the cowardly poltroon, who was
suffering from nothing but fear, dared to remain in the most horrible
fire to dispute the horse with me, at twenty paces from the enemy. All
my menaces could not induce him to quit the bridle. Whilst we were
disputing, a discharge from a cannon loaded with grape-shot fell at our
feet, without however producing any effect upon this singular
individual, who obstinately persisted in retaining the horse.
Fortunately for me, Finlay Cameron, an officer in Lochiel's regiment, a
youth of twenty years of age, six feet high, and very strong and
vigorous, happened to pass near us. I called on him to assist me. "Ah
Finlay," said I, "this fellow will not give me up the horse." Finlay
flew to me like lightning, immediately presented his pistol to the head
of this man, and threatened to blow out his brains if he hesitated a
moment to let go the bridle. The fellow, who had the appearance of a
servant, at length yielded and took to his heels. Having obtained the
horse, I attempted to mount him several times, but all my efforts were
ineffectual, as I was without strength and completely exhausted. I
called again on poor Finlay, though he was already some paces from me,
to assist me to mount. He returned, took me in his arms, with as much
ease as if I had been a child, and threw me on the horse like a loaded
sack, giving the horse at the same time a heavy blow to make him set off
with me. Then wishing that I might have the good fortune to make my
escape, he bounded off like a roe, and was in a moment out of sight. We
were hardly more than fifteen or twenty paces from the enemy when he
quitted me. As soon as I found myself at the distance of thirty or forty
paces, I endeavoured to set myself right on the horse, put my feet in
the stirrups, and rode off as fast as the wretched animal could carry
me.'

[Illustration]

There is something peculiarly funny in the simplicity of this account of
horse-stealing with violence! Why a man should be more of a coward who
clings to his own property and only means of safety, than the person who
deliberately deprives him of both, is not easy to see. But Johnstone
never doubts for one moment that what he does is always right, and what
anyone else does is always wrong, and he goes on complacently to remark
that he probably 'saved the life of the poltroon who held the horse, in
rousing him out of his panic fear, for in less than two minutes the
English army would have passed over him.'[16]

The shelter which Johnstone made up his mind to seek was the castle of
Rothiemurchus, the property of the Grant family, situated in the heart
of the mountains, and on the banks of the 'rapid Spey.' But his troubles
were not so easily over. The English army barred the way, and Johnstone
was forced to take the road to Inverness. Again he was turned from his
path by the dreaded sight of the British uniform, and, accompanied by a
Highlander whom he had met by chance, he took refuge in a small cottage
in Fort Augustus. In spite of his peculiar views about courage,
Johnstone was a man who generally managed to do whatever he had set his
heart on. He had resolved to go to Rothiemurchus, and to Rothiemurchus
he would go. At last he arrived there, but found, to his great
disappointment, that the laird, his old friend, was away from home. In
his place was his eldest son, who was urgent that Johnstone should
surrender himself a prisoner, as Lord Balmerino had just done, by his
advice, and under his escort. Johnstone replied that he would keep his
liberty as long as he could, and when it was no longer possible, he
would meet his fate with resignation. We all know the end to which poor
Balmerino came, but Johnstone was more fortunate.

[Illustration]

His brother-in-law, the son of Lord Rollo, had been made inspector of
merchant ships in the town of Banff, and Johnstone fondly hoped that by
his help he might obtain a passage to some foreign country. So he set
off with three gentlemen of the name of Gordon, who had also been
staying at Rothiemurchus, and rested the first night at the house of a
shepherd near the mountain of Cairngorm. Here he saw for the first time
the stones which bear this name, and though he is flying for his life,
he dwells with the delight of a collector on the beauty of the colours,
and even persuades his friends to put off their departure for a day, in
order that he may search for some specimens himself. He contrived, he
tells us,[17] to find several beautiful topazes, two of which he had
cut as seals, and presented to the Duke of York, brother of Prince
Charles Edward.

Four days after leaving Rothiemurchus Banff was reached, and the
fugitives were sheltered by a Presbyterian minister, who was a secret
adherent of the Stuarts. Johnstone at once took the precaution of
exchanging his laced Highland dress for that of an old labourer, 'quite
ragged, and exhaling a pestilential odour,' due apparently to its having
been used for many years 'when he cleaned the stables of his master.' In
this unpleasant disguise, he entered the town of Banff, then garrisoned
with four hundred English soldiers, and went straight to the house of a
former acquaintance, Mr. Duff. After gaining admittance from the servant
with some difficulty, he found with dismay that his brother-in-law was
away from home, and he could not therefore carry out his plan of
embarking, with his permission, on board one of the merchant ships.
There seemed nothing for it, therefore, but for Johnstone to return at
daybreak to the house of Mr. Gordon, where he had spent the previous
night. At daybreak, however, he was roused by a fearful disturbance in
the courtyard below, occasioned by the quarrels of some stray soldiers.
For a moment he thought death was certain, but the soldiers had no
suspicion of his presence in the house, and as soon as they had settled
their affairs took themselves off elsewhere.

Mr. Rollo proved a broken reed, and the Chevalier found, after a few
minutes' talk with his brother-in-law, that if he wished to reach the
Continent he must not count on a passage in the merchant ships to help
him. He therefore, after consultation with his friends, came to the
conclusion that his best plan was to make for the Lowlands, and to this
end he set out for Edinburgh as soon as possible. Of course this scheme
was beset with difficulties and dangers of every kind. The counties
through which he would be forced to pass were filled with Calvinists,
inspired with deadly hatred of the Jacobite party. To escape their hands
was almost certainly to fall into those of the soldiery, and over and
above this, government passports were necessary for those who desired to
cross the Firths of Forth and Tay.

But, nothing daunted, Johnstone went his way. He was passed in disguise
from one house to another, well-fed at the lowest possible prices (he
tells us of the landlady of a small inn who charged him threepence for
'an excellent young fowl' and his bed), till at last he found himself in
the region of Cortachy, the country of the Ogilvies, who one and all
were on the side of the Prince. At Cortachy he was quite secure, as long
as no English soldiery came by, and even if they did, the mountains were
full of hiding places, and there was no risk of treachery at home. Two
officers who had served in the French army, Brown and Gordon by name,
had sought refuge here before him, and lay concealed in the house of a
peasant known as Samuel. They implored him not to run the risk of
proceeding south till affairs had quieted down a little, and he agreed
to remain at Samuel's cottage till it seemed less dangerous to travel
south.

It would be interesting to know what was 'the gratification beyond his
hopes' which Johnstone gave Samuel when they parted company some time
after. It ought to have been something very handsome considering the
risks which the peasant had run in his behalf, and also the fact that
for several weeks Johnstone and his two friends had shared the scanty
fare of Samuel and his family. They had 'no other food than oatmeal, and
no other drink than the water of the stream which ran through the glen.
We breakfasted every morning on a piece of oatmeal bread which we were
enabled to swallow by draughts of water; for dinner we boiled oatmeal
with water, till it acquired a consistency, and we ate it with horn
spoons; in the evening, we poured boiling water on this meal in a dish,
for our supper.'[18] Even this frugal diet could not be swallowed long
in peace, for shortly after their arrival, Samuel's daughter, who lived
at the mouth of the glen, came to inform her father that some English
troops had been seen in the neighbourhood, and whenever there was any
chance of their appearing in the glen Johnstone and his friends had to
take refuge in the mountains.

One day this woman arrived with the news that the soldiery were hovering
dangerously near, and had taken several notable prisoners. Upon this the
fugitives decided to leave their shelter at daybreak the following
morning and to make the best of their way to the Highlands, where they
would be sure of finding some rocks and caverns to hide them from their
foes.

This resolution once taken, they all went early to bed, and there
Johnstone had a dream which he relates with many apologies for his
superstition. He fancied himself in Edinburgh safe from the snares of
his enemies, and with no fears for the future, and describing his
adventures and escapes since the battle of Culloden to his old friend
Lady Jane Douglas. The impression of peace and happiness and relief from
anxiety was so strong that it remained with him after he woke, and
after lying turning the matter over in his mind for another hour,
informed Samuel (who had come to rouse him with the intelligence that
his companions had already set off for the mountains) that he had
altered his plans and intended to go straight to Edinburgh. In vain the
old man argued and entreated. Johnstone was determined, and that same
evening he set forth on horseback with Samuel for his guide, and made
straight for the nearest arm of the sea, which he describes, though
quite wrongly, as being only eight miles from Cortachy.

To reach this, they were obliged to pass through Forfar, a town which,
being a Calvinistic stronghold, the Chevalier can never mention without
an abusive epithet. But here poor Samuel, whose nerves had doubtless
been strained by the perpetual watching and waiting of the last few
weeks, was frightened out of his senses by the barking of a dog, and
tried to throw himself from his horse. At this juncture, Johnstone, who
knew that to be left without a guide in this strange place meant certain
death, interfered promptly. 'He was continually struggling to get down,'
he says,[19] 'but I prevented him by the firm hold I had of his coat. I
exhorted him to be quiet; I reproached him; I alternately entreated and
menaced him; but all in vain. He no longer knew what he was about, and
it was to no purpose I assured him that it was only the barking of a
dog. He perspired at every pore, and trembled like a person in an ague.
Fortunately I had an excellent horse, and galloped through Forfar at
full speed, retaining always fast hold of his coat. As soon as we were
fairly out of the town, as no persons had come out of their houses, poor
Samuel began to breathe again, and made a thousand apologies for his
fears.'

As the day broke and they drew near Broughty Ferry, where Johnstone
intended to cross the Firth of Tay, the Chevalier dismounted, and being
obliged to part from his horse, offered it as a present to Samuel, who
declined the animal from motives of prudence. It was then turned loose
in a field (the saddle and bridle being first thrown down a well), and
the wayfarers proceeded on their way. Only a few minutes later, they
were joined by an acquaintance of Samuel's, who seems to have been of a
curious turn of mind, and cross-questioned him as to where he was going
and why. Samuel, with more readiness than could have been expected from
his recent behaviour, invented a story that sounded plausible enough,
explaining Johnstone to be a young man whom he had picked up on the
road, and had taken into his service at low wages, owing to his want of
a character. The stranger was satisfied, and after a prolonged drink
they separated, when Samuel informed Johnstone that the man was one of
the 'greatest knaves and cheats in the country,' and that they would
assuredly have been betrayed if he had discovered who they were.

[Illustration]

They arrived at the Ferry about nine in the morning, and by Samuel's
advice, the Chevalier immediately sought the help of Mr. Graham, a
gentleman of Jacobite family, then living at Duntroon. After a warm
welcome from Mr. Graham, who gave him all the entertainment he could
without the knowledge of his servants, a boat was engaged to convey him
across the Firth about nine that night. Mr. Graham did not, however,
dare to be his guide down to the sea-shore, but gave him careful
directions as to his following an old woman who had been provided for
this purpose. But all Mr. Graham's precautions would have been useless,
had not chance once more favoured the Chevalier. His protectress decided
that it would be dangerous to allow him to loiter about the shore while
the boat was getting ready for sea, so she told her charge to wait for
her on the road on top of the hill, and she would return and fetch him
when all was ready. Half an hour passed very slowly: the sun was
sinking, and the Chevalier grew impatient. He left the road by which he
had been sitting, and lay down in a furrow a few yards off, nearer the
brow of the hill, so that he might perceive his guide at the earliest
moment. Scarcely had he changed his quarters, than he heard the sound of
horses, and peeping cautiously out, 'saw eight or ten horsemen pass in
the very place he had just quitted.' No sooner were they out of sight,
than the old woman arrived, trembling with fright. 'Ah!' she exclaimed
in a transport of joy, 'I did not expect to find you here.' She then
explained that the horsemen were English dragoons, and that they had so
threatened the boatmen engaged by Mr. Graham that they absolutely
refused to fulfil their compact. This was a terrible blow to the
Chevalier, but he declined to listen to the old woman's advice and
return for shelter to Mr. Graham, and after much persuasion, induced his
guide to show him the way to the public-house by the sea-shore. Here he
was welcomed by the landlady, whose son had been likewise 'out' with the
Prince, but neither her entreaties nor those of the Chevalier could move
the boatmen from their resolution. They even resisted the prayers of the
landlady's two beautiful daughters, till the girls, disgusted and
indignant with such cowardice, offered to row him across themselves.

'We left Broughty Ferry,' he writes in his memoirs, 'at ten o'clock in
the evening, and reached the opposite shore about midnight.' He then
took an affectionate leave of his preservers, and proceeded, footsore as
he was, to walk to St. Andrews. At this time Johnstone seems to have
felt more physically exhausted than at almost any other moment of his
travels; and it was only by dint of perpetually washing his sore and
bleeding feet in the streams he passed, that he managed to reach St.
Andrews towards eight o'clock. He at once made his way to the house of
his cousin, Mrs. Spence, who, herself a suspected person, was much taken
aback by the sight of him, and hastily sent a letter to a tenant farmer
living near the town, to provide the fugitive with a horse which would
carry him to Wemyss, a seaport town on the way to Edinburgh. The old
University city does not appear to have made a favourable impression on
the Chevalier. He declares that no town 'ever deserved so much the fate
of Sodom and Gomorrah,'[20] and this, not from any particular wickedness
on the part of the inhabitants, but because they were supposed to be
Calvinists. However, his sentiments must have been confirmed when the
farmer declined to take his horses out on a Sunday, and, lame as he was,
Johnstone had no choice but to set out on foot for Wemyss. Halfway, he
suddenly remembered that close by lived an old servant of his family,
married to the gardener of Mr. Beaton, of Balfour. Here he was housed
and fed for twenty hours, and then conducted by his host, a rigid
Presbyterian, to a tavern at Wemyss, kept by the mother-in-law of the
gardener. By her advice they applied to a man named Salmon, who, though
a rabid Hanoverian, could be trusted not to betray those who had faith
in him. It was hard work to gain over Salmon, who was proof against
bribery, but at last it was done. By his recommendation Johnstone was to
lie till dawn in a cave near Wemyss (a place whose name means 'caves'),
and with the first ray of light was to beg a passage to Leith from some
men who were with Salmon part owners of a boat. In this cave, which,
notwithstanding its narrow entrance, was deep and spacious, the
Chevalier was glad to repose his weary bones. But, after dozing about an
hour, he was 'awakened by the most horrible and alarming cries that ever
were heard.'[21] His first thought was that Salmon had betrayed him, and
he retreated to the interior of the cavern, cocked his pistol, and
prepared to sell his life dearly. Soon, however, the swift movements
accompanying the noise convinced him that it did not proceed from men,
for 'sometimes the object was about my ears, and nearly stunned me, and,
in an instant, at a considerable distance. At length I ceased to examine
any more this horrible and incomprehensible phenomenon, which made a
noise in confusion like that of a number of trumpets and drums, with a
mixture of different sounds, altogether unknown to me.'

Effectually aroused by the whining of the owls and bats (for these, of
course, were the authors of all this disturbance), Johnstone fixed his
eyes on the sea to note the first entrance of the fishing boats into the
harbour. He then went down to the shore and began to make the bargain as
directed by Salmon, and the fishermen agreed to land him at Leith for
half-a-crown. But alas! once more his hopes were blighted. He was in the
act of stepping into the boat, when Salmon's wife appeared on the scene,
and forbade her husband to go to Leith that day, still less to take a
stranger there. Neither Salmon nor Johnstone dared insist, for fear of
rousing the woman's suspicions, and after a short retreat in the cave in
order to collect his thoughts, he returned to the tavern at Wemyss, to
consult with the friendly landlady. Thanks to her, and with the help of
one or two people to whom she introduced him, Johnstone at last arrived
at the house of one Mr. Seton, whose son had formerly served with
Johnstone in the army of the Prince. Here he remained eight days, vainly
seeking to find a second man who could aid the fisherman who had already
promised to put him across, though it does not appear why Johnstone,
who had already observed[22] that he was able to row, did not take an
oar when his own head was at stake.

[Illustration]

At last affairs were brought to a crisis, by rumours having got abroad
of the presence of a fugitive on the coast. Things seemed in a desperate
condition, when young Seton threw himself into the breach, and agreed to
help Cousselain, the fisherman, to take the Chevalier to Leith. They
were actually launching the boat when the inhabitants of the village,
alarmed by the noise they made, raised a cry that a rebel was escaping,
and the two oarsmen had barely time to conceal themselves without being
discovered. However, in flat defiance of everyone's advice, and, as it
turned out, in spite of the drunken state of Cousselain, Johnstone
resolved to repeat the attempt in an hour's time, taking in the end, as
he might have done at the beginning, his place at the oar. For a few
moments they breathed freely; then the wind got up, and the waves, and,
what was perhaps more dangerous, the drunken Cousselain, who had been
placed in the bottom of the boat. 'We were obliged to kick him most
unmercifully in order to keep him quiet,' observes Johnstone, 'and to
threaten to throw him overboard if he made the least movement. Seton and
myself rowed like galley slaves. We succeeded in landing, about six in
the morning, on a part of the coast a league and a half to the east of
Edinburgh,[23] near the battlefield of Gladsmuir.' Here he parted with
his deliverers, tenderly embracing young Seton, and presenting to the
'somewhat sober' Cousselain a gratification beyond his hopes.

After taking a little of the food with which Mr. Seton had provided him,
he determined to seek refuge for a few days with an old governess, Mrs.
Blythe, wife of a small shipowner at Leith. Blythe himself was another
of the many 'rigid Calvinists and sworn enemies of the house of Stuart'
to whom Johnstone entrusted his safety during his wanderings, and never
once had occasion to repent it. Mr. Blythe, indeed, combined the
profession of Calvinist with that of smuggler, and had numerous hiding
places in his house for the concealment of contraband goods, which would
prove equally serviceable, as Johnstone told him, for 'the most
contraband and dangerous commodity that he had ever had in his
possession.'

Though Johnstone had reached the goal of his desires, his perils were by
no means at an end. English soldiers visited the house, and could with
difficulty be persuaded to admit the exemption pleaded by Mr. Blythe. In
consequence of this event, Johnstone accepted the offer of an asylum
made him by Lady Jane Douglas, in her place at Drumsheugh, half a
league away. So his dream came true, and after all his wanderings he was
safe with Lady Jane, telling the story of his adventures. He remained
with her for two months, unknown to anyone but his hostess and the
gardener, reading all day, and only taking a walk at night, when the
household was in bed. At the end of that time, when Lady Jane and his
father were of opinion that he might safely go to London, and thence
abroad, fresh rumours as to his whereabouts began to arise, and fearing
the immediate visit of a detachment of English soldiers, he was
concealed for a whole day under a huge haycock, so overcome by the heat
that he could hardly breathe, in spite of a bottle of water and another
of wine, with which he was provided.

This measure, which after all was needless, for no soldiers came, was
the last trial he had to undergo before leaving Scotland, and here we
must part from him. In France, which he made his home, he became the
friend of many eminent men, and was aide-de-camp in Canada to the
Marquis de Montcalm. But the end of his life was sad, and he died in
poverty.[24]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] P. 211.

[15] P. 215.

[16] P. 217.

[17] P. 229.

[18] P. 249.

[19] P. 257.

[20] P. 274.

[21] P. 295.

[22] P. 271.

[23] P. 308.

[24] From _Memoirs of the Chevalier de Johnstone_. Longmans. London,
1822. The Memoirs were written in French, and deposited in the Scots
College at Paris. They were communicated to Messrs. Longman by Robert
Watson, the adventurer, who, under Napoleon, was Principal of the Scots
College. The Chevalier left a granddaughter, who corresponded on the
subject of the Memoirs with Sir Walter Scott.



_THE ADVENTURES OF LORD PITSLIGO_


WHEN Prince Charles came to Scotland in 1745, to seek his grandfather's
crown, no braver and no better man rode with him than Lord Pitsligo. He
was now sixty-seven years of age, for he was born in 1678, ten years
before James II. was driven out of England. As a young man he had lived
much in France, where he became the friend of the famous Fénelon, author
of 'Télémaque.' Though much interested in the doctrines of Fénelon, Lord
Pitsligo did not change his faith, but remained a member of the
persecuted Episcopal Church of Scotland. In France he met the members of
the exiled Royal family, whom he never ceased to regard as his lawful
monarchs, though Queen Anne, and later the First and Second Georges,
occupied the throne of England. When the clans rose for King James, the
son of James II., in 1715, Lord Pitsligo, then a man of twenty-seven,
joined the forces under his kinsman, Lord Marr. His party was defeated,
and he went abroad. He did not stay long with James in Rome, but was
allowed to return to his estates in Scotland. Here he lived very
quietly, beloved by rich and poor. But, in 1745, Prince Charles landed,
and the old Lord believed it to be his duty to join him. He had, as he
says, no keen enthusiasm for the Stuarts, but to his mind they were his
lawful rulers. So aged was he, and so infirm, that, when he left a
neighbour's house before setting out, a little boy brought a stool to
help him to mount his horse. 'My little fellow,' he said, 'this is the
severest reproof I have yet met with, for presuming to go on such an
expedition.' Lady Pitsligo in vain reminded him of the failure of 1715.
'There never was a bridal,' he replied, 'but the second day was the
best.' The gentlemen of his county thought that they could not do wrong
in following so learned and excellent a man, so they all mounted the
white cockade and rode with him. He arrived just too late for the
victory of Preston Pans. 'It seemed,' said an eye-witness, 'as if
religion, virtue, and justice were entering the camp under the
appearance of this venerable old man.' When he wrote home, he said, 'I
had occasion to discover the Prince's humanity, I ought to say
tenderness: this is giving myself no great airs, for he showed the same
dispositions to everybody.' In the fatigues of the campaign, the Prince,
who was young and strong, insisted on Lord Pitsligo's using his
carriage, while he himself marched on foot at the head of his army.

[Illustration]

After the defeat of Culloden, Lord Pitsligo hid among the mountains,
living on oatmeal, moistened with hot water. They had not even salt to
their brose; for, as one of the Highlanders said, 'Salt is touchy,'
meaning expensive. Yet these men, who could not even buy salt, never
betrayed their Prince for the great reward of thirty thousand pounds,
nor any of the other gentlemen in hiding. Possibly they did not believe
that there was so much money in the world. Lord Pitsligo had made up his
mind not to go abroad again, but to live or die among his own people. At
one time he lay for days hidden in a damp hole under a little bridge,
and at other times concealed himself in the mosses and moors. Here the
lapwings, flitting and crying above him, were like to have drawn the
English soldiers to his retreat. His wife gave him two great bags, like
those which beggars carried; in these he would place the alms which were
given to him, and in this disguise he had many narrow escapes. Once he
saw some dragoons on the road behind him, but he was too old and too ill
to run. He was obliged to sit down and cough, and one of the dragoons
who were in search of him actually gave him some money as they passed
by, and condoled with him on the severity of his cough.

[Illustration]

Lord Pitsligo often hid in a cave on the coast of Buchan. Here was a
spring of water welling through the rock, and he carved a little cistern
for it, to pass the time. He was fed by a little girl, too young to be
suspected, who carried his meals from a neighbouring farm. One day he
was sitting in the kitchen of the farm, when some soldiers came in, and
asked the goodwife to guide them to Lord Pitsligo's cave. She said,
'That travelling body will go with you,' and Lord Pitsligo conducted the
soldiers to his hiding place, left them there, and walked back to the
farm. But the following adventure was perhaps his narrowest escape.

In March 1756, and of course long after all apprehension of a search had
ceased, information having been given to the then commanding officer at
Fraserburgh, that Lord Pitsligo was at that moment in the house of
Auchiries, it was acted upon with so much promptness and secrecy, that
the search must have proved successful but for a very singular
occurrence. Mrs. Sophia Donaldson, a lady who lived much with the
family, repeatedly dreamt on that particular night that the house was
surrounded by soldiers. Her mind became so haunted with the idea, that
she got out of bed, and was walking through the room in hopes of giving
a different current to her thoughts before she lay down again, when, day
beginning to dawn, she accidentally looked out at the window as she
passed it in traversing the room, and was astonished at actually
observing the figures of soldiers among some trees near the house. So
completely had all idea of a search been by that time laid asleep, that
she supposed they had come to steal poultry; Jacobite poultry-yards
affording a safe object of pillage for the English soldiers in those
days. Under this impression Mrs. Sophia was proceeding to rouse the
servants, when her sister having awaked, and inquiring what was the
matter, and being told of soldiers near the house, exclaimed, in great
alarm, that she feared they wanted something more than hens. She begged
Mrs. Sophia to look out at a window on the other side of the house, when
not only soldiers were seen in that direction, but also an officer
giving instructions by signals, and frequently putting his fingers on
his lips, as if enjoining silence. There was now no time to be lost in
rousing the family, and all the haste that could be made was scarcely
sufficient to hurry the venerable man from his bed, into a small recess
behind the wainscot of an adjoining room, which was concealed by a bed,
in which a lady, Miss Gordon of Towie, who was there on a visit, lay,
before the soldiers obtained admission. A most minute search took place.
The room in which Lord Pitsligo was concealed did not escape: Miss
Gordon's bed was carefully examined, and she was obliged to suffer the
rude scrutiny of one of the party, by feeling her chin, to ascertain
that it was not a man in a lady's night-dress. Before the soldiers had
finished their examination in this room, the confinement and anxiety
increased Lord Pitsligo's asthma so much, and his breathing became so
loud, that it obliged Miss Gordon, lying in bed, to counterfeit and
continue a violent coughing, in order to prevent the high breathing
behind the wainscot from being heard. It may easily be conceived what
agony she would suffer, lest, by overdoing her part, she should increase
suspicion, and in fact lead to a discovery. The _ruse_ was fortunately
successful. On the search through the house being given over, Lord
Pitsligo was hastily taken from his confined situation, and again
replaced in bed; and as soon as he was able to speak, his accustomed
kindness of heart made him say to his servant, 'James, go and see that
these poor fellows get some breakfast, and a drink of warm ale, for this
is a cold morning; they are only doing their duty, and cannot bear me
any ill-will.' When the family were felicitating each other on his
escape, he pleasantly observed, 'A poor prize had they obtained it--an
old dying man!' That the friends who lived in the house,--the hourly
witnesses of his virtues, and the objects of his regard, who saw him
escape all the dangers that surrounded him, should reckon him the
peculiar care of Providence, is not to be wondered at; and that the
dream which was so opportune, as the means of preventing his
apprehension, and probably of saving his life, was supposed by some of
them at last to be a special interposition of Heaven's protecting shield
against his enemies, need not excite surprise. This was accordingly the
belief of more than one to their dying hour.

[Illustration]

After some fifteen years, the English Government ceased to think Lord
Pitsligo dangerous. He was allowed to live unmolested at the house of
his son, where he died in 1762, in his eighty-fifth year. 'He was never
heard to speak an ill word of any man living,' says one who knew him
well, and who himself spoke many ill words of others.[25] Lord Pitsligo
left a little book of 'Thoughts on Sacred Things,' which reminds those
who read it of the meditations of General Gordon. His character, as far
as its virtues went, is copied in the Baron Bradwardine, in Sir Walter
Scott's novel of 'Waverley.'[26]

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Dr. King, of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford.

[26] _From Thoughts Concerning Man's Condition and Duties in this Life_.
By Alexander, Lord Pitsligo. Edinburgh: Blackwood. 1854.



_THE ESCAPE OF CÆSAR BORGIA FROM THE CASTLE OF MEDINA DEL CAMPO_


          [CÆSAR BORGIA forms, with his father Pope
          Alexander VI., and his sister Lucrezia, one of a
          trio who have become a proverb for infamy of every
          kind. His father, Roderigo, was by birth a
          Spaniard, and by education a lawyer, in which
          profession he gained much distinction, till
          suddenly, with an impetuosity strange in a man who
          did everything by calculation, he threw up his
          legal career for that of a soldier. But the rough
          life was repugnant to one of his temperament,
          which demanded ease and luxury, so after a little
          active service, when his courage, during some
          sharp engagements, was proved beyond a doubt, he
          abandoned the army also, and retired to live in
          comfort on the large fortune lately bequeathed to
          him by his father.

          It required some pressing on the part of his
          uncle, Calixtus III., recently made Pope, to
          induce him to leave his native land and his
          secular existence, for Italy and a Cardinalate.
          But no sooner did he occupy his new position, than
          a set of base qualities, which had hitherto lain
          dormant, suddenly developed themselves, and from
          this moment he became one of the cleverest and
          most successful hypocrites of his age.

          It was in 1492, the year that saw the landing of
          Columbus in America, and the death of Lorenzo the
          Magnificent at Florence, that the Cardinal Borgia
          obtained, by means of huge bribes, his election to
          the Papal Throne, and took the name of Alexander
          VI. His first care was to establish (for his own
          credit's sake) order and security in Rome, and
          this done, he turned his thoughts to the
          aggrandisement of his family. For when Roderigo
          sailed for Italy he was shortly followed by his
          four children, Francis, Cæsar, Lucrezia and
          Geoffrey, and their mother Rosa Vanozza. All four,
          but more particularly Cæsar and Lucrezia,
          inherited in the highest degree their father's
          beauty, talents and wickedness. Honours of every
          kind were showered upon them, marriages made and
          unmade to suit the requirements of the moment,
          murders committed to ensure them wealth and
          possessions. For eleven years the roll of crime
          grew heavier day by day, till at last the
          chastisement came, and the Borgias, who had
          invited several of the Cardinals to supper for the
          purpose of poisoning them and seizing on their
          revenues, were themselves served with the draught
          they had intended for their guests. The Pope died
          after eight days, in mortal agony, but, owing to
          his having drunk less of the wine, Cæsar slowly
          recovered, and resumed his old trade of arms. The
          talents which had made him one of the first
          captains in Italy caused him to be the dread of
          all his enemies, and finally led to his capture
          (by violation of a safe-conduct), at the hands of
          Gonsalvo de Cordova, Captain of the Forces of
          Ferdinand of Spain.]

It was in June 1504 that Cæsar Borgia, General of the Church and Duke of
Romagna and Valentinois, was conducted to the Castle of Medina del Campo
in Spain. For two years Cæsar waited in prison, hoping that his old
ally, Louis XII., whose cousin Mlle. d'Albret he had married, would come
to his assistance. But he waited in vain and his courage began to give
way, when one day something happened which proved to him that he had
still one friend left, his faithful Michelotto, a soldier of fortune who
had followed him to Spain, and was now hidden in the neighbourhood of
the prison. It was breakfast time, and Cæsar was in the act of cutting
his bread when he suddenly touched a hard substance, and found a file,
and a small bottle containing a narcotic, and a note concealed in the
loaf. The note was from Michelotto, and informed Cæsar that he and the
Count of Benevento would hide themselves every night on the road between
the castle and the village, in company with three good horses, and that
he must make the best use he could of the file and the sleeping
draught.[27]

Two years' imprisonment had weighed too heavily on Cæsar for him to
waste a single moment in trying to regain his freedom. He, therefore,
lost no time in beginning to work on one of the bars of his window,
which opened on an inside court, and soon contrived to cut through so
far, that a violent shake would enable him to remove it altogether. But
the window was nearly seventy feet above the ground, while the only way
of leaving the court was by a door reserved for the governor alone, the
key of which was always carried about his person. By day it was
suspended from his belt, by night it was under his bolster. To gain
possession of this key was the most difficult part of the matter.

Now in spite of the fact that he was a prisoner, Cæsar had invariably
been treated with all the respect due to his name and rank. Every day at
the dinner hour, he was conducted from the room in which he was
confined to the governor's apartments and was received by him as an
honoured guest. Don Manuel himself was an old soldier who had served
with distinction under Ferdinand, and, while carrying out punctually his
orders for Cæsar's safe custody, he admired his military talents, and
listened with pleasure to the story of his fights. He had often desired
that Cæsar should breakfast as well as dine with him, but, luckily for
himself, the prisoner, perhaps aided by some presentiment, had always
refused this favour. It was owing to his solitude that he was able to
conceal the instruments for his escape sent by Michelotto.

Now it happened that the very same day that he had received them, Cæsar
contrived to stumble, and twist his foot as he was returning to his
room. When the hour of dinner came he tried to go down, but declared
that walking hurt him so much, that he should be obliged to give it up,
so the governor paid him a visit instead, and found him stretched on his
bed.

The next day Cæsar was no better; his dinner was ordered to be served
upstairs, and the governor paid him a visit as before. He found his
prisoner so dull and bored with his own company, that he offered to come
and share his supper. Cæsar accepted the offer with gratitude and joy.

This time it was the prisoner who did the honours of the table, and
Cæsar was particularly charming and courteous in manner. The governor
seized the opportunity of putting some questions as to his capture, and
inquired, with the pride of a Castilian noble, who set honour above all,
what was the exact truth as to the way in which Gonsalvo de Cordova and
Ferdinand had broken their faith with him. Cæsar showed every
disposition to give him satisfaction on this point, but indicated by a
sign that he could not speak freely before the valets. This precaution
was so natural, that the governor could not seem offended at it, and
dismissed his attendants, so that he and his companion remained alone.
When the door was shut, Cæsar filled his glass and that of the governor,
and proposed the king's health. The governor emptied his glass at once,
and Cæsar began his story, but he had hardly told a third of it, when in
spite of its exciting adventures, the eyes of his guest closed as if by
magic, and his head fell on the table in a deep sleep.

At the end of half-an-hour, the servants, not hearing any noise, entered
the room, and found the two boon companions, one on the table and the
other under it. There was nothing very unusual about such an event to
excite their suspicions, so they contented themselves with carrying Don
Manuel to his chamber and laying Cæsar on his bed; they then locked the
door with great care, leaving the prisoner alone.

[Illustration]

For a minute or two longer Cæsar lay still, apparently plunged in a
profound slumber, but when the sound of footsteps had completely died
away, he softly raised his head, opened his eyes, and moved towards the
door, rather slowly it is true, but without seeming to feel any
ill-effects from his accident on the previous day. He stood still for a
few seconds with his ear at the keyhole, then, raising himself, with a
strange expression of triumph on his face, he passed his hand over his
forehead, and, for the first time since the guards had left the room,
breathed freely.

But there was no time to be lost, and without a moment's delay he
fastened the door from the inside as securely as it was fastened
without. He next extinguished his lamp, threw open his window, and
finished cutting through the bar. This done, he took off the bandages
tied round his leg, tore down the curtains, both of his window and his
bed, and made them into strips, adding to them sheets, table cloths,
napkins, and whatever else he could lay hands on. At last he had a rope
between fifty and sixty feet long, which he secured firmly at one end to
the bar next to the one that he had sawn away, and mounting on the
window-ledge, he began the most dangerous part of his expedition in
trusting himself to this frail support. Happily, Cæsar was as strong as
he was agile, and slid down the whole length of the cord without
accident; but when he had reached the very end, in vain he tried to
touch the earth with his feet. The rope was too short.

Cæsar's position was terrible. The darkness of the night preventing his
knowing how far he might be above the ground, and his exertions had so
fatigued him that he could not have gone back even had he wished. There
was no help for it, and, after muttering a short prayer, he let go the
rope, and fell, a distance of twelve or fifteen feet.

The danger he had escaped was too great for the fugitive to mind some
slight bruises caused by his fall, so he jumped up, and taking his
bearings, made straight for the little door which stood between him and
freedom. When he reached it he felt in his pocket for the key, and a
cold sweat broke out on his face as he found it was not there. Had he
forgotten it in his room, or had he lost it in his descent?

Collecting his thoughts as well as he could, he soon came to the
conclusion that it must have fallen out of his pocket as he climbed down
the rope. So he made his way a second time cautiously across the court,
trying to discover the exact spot where it might be, by the aid of the
wall of a cistern, which he had caught hold of to raise himself from the
ground. But the lost key was so small and so insignificant, that there
was little chance that he would ever see it. However, it was his last
resource, and Cæsar was searching for it with all his might, when
suddenly a door opened and the night patrol came out, preceded by two
torches. At first Cæsar gave himself up for lost, then, remembering the
water-butt that was behind him, he at once plunged into it up to his
neck, watching with intense anxiety the movements of the soldiers who
were advancing towards his hiding place. They passed him within a few
feet, crossed the court, and vanished through the door opposite; but,
though all this had taken such a very short time, the light of the
torches had enabled Cæsar to distinguish the key lying on the ground,
and hardly had the gate closed on the soldiers when he was once more
master of his liberty.

Half-way between the castle and the village the Count of Benevento and
Michelotto awaited him with a led horse. Cæsar flung himself on its back
and all three set out for Navarre, where, after three days' hard riding,
they found an asylum with the king, Jean d'Albret, brother of Cæsar's
wife.

FOOTNOTE:

[27] What follows is translated from Dumas.



_THE KIDNAPPING OF THE PRINCES_

(_The following story is adapted from Carlyle's Essay, 'The
Prinzenraub'_)


ABOUT the year 1455, one of the Electors of Saxony, Friedrich der
Sanftmütige (Frederick the Mild), quarrelled with a certain knight named
Konrad von Kaufungen. Friedrich had hired Konrad, or Kunz as he was
called, to fight for him in a war against another Elector. In one of the
battles, Kunz was taken prisoner. To ransom himself he was obliged to
pay 4,000 gold gulden, for which he thought Friedrich ought to repay
him. Friedrich refused to do so, as Kunz was not his vassal whom he was
bound to protect, but only a hired soldier who had to take all risks on
himself. Kunz was very angry, and threatened to revenge himself on the
Elector, who took all his threats very calmly, saying to him, 'Keep
cool, Kunz; don't burn the fish in the ponds.' But Kunz was in bitter
earnest. He went away to an old castle called Isenburg in Bohemia, on
the Saxon frontier, where he lived for some time with his two squires,
Mosen and Schönberg, plotting against the Elector and his family. He
had, moreover, bribed one of the Elector's servants, Hans Schwalbe, to
tell him all that was being done in his castle of Altenburg. In July,
Schwalbe sent word to him that, on the seventh day of the month, the
Elector and most of his followers were going away to Leipzig, and would
leave the Electress and his two boys, Ernst and Albrecht, guarded only
by a few servants, and these, he added, would probably spend the evening
drinking in the town. Now the castle of Altenburg was built on a steep
hill, and one side of it overhung a precipice. As this side was little
guarded, Hans agreed to let down a rope-ladder from one of the windows,
and thus enable Kunz to get an entrance into the castle. His plan then
was to make his way to the sleeping room of the two little princes,
carry them off to his castle at Isenburg, and keep them till their
father should grant his demands. Isenburg Castle was about a day's
journey from the little town of Altenburg; so Kunz and his two squires,
Mosen and Schönberg, and a few other men, started early on the 7th to
ride to Altenburg, and when they reached it they hid themselves till
nightfall. About midnight Kunz and his men went as quietly as possible
to the foot of the cliff. Everyone seemed asleep in the castle, and
outside no sound was to be heard but the stealthy tramp of the armed
men. When they reached the rendezvous under the castle, Kunz gave his
men their orders. Mosen, Schönberg, and three or four more were to come
with him into the castle, and, when inside, to lock the doors of the
Electress's and the servants' room, while the rest were to guard the
gates in order that no one should escape to give the alarm. Each was to
be ready when once the princes were secured to ride away for Isenburg as
hard as possible.

Then Kunz whistled softly. He listened for a moment; another whistle
answered his own, and a rope-ladder was slowly lowered from one of the
windows. Kunz mounted it, and made his way to the room where the two
little princes were sleeping under the charge of an old governess. He
seized the eldest, a boy of fourteen, and carried him down the ladder,
and Mosen followed with a second child in his arms. This boy kept
calling out, 'I am not one of the princes; I am their playfellow, Count
von Bardi. Let me go! Let me go!' Thereupon, telling the others to ride
on with Prince Ernst in order to secure him, Kunz dashed up the ladder
again, and ran to the princes' room, where he found little Prince
Albrecht hiding under the bed. He caught him up and descended again with
him. As he went, the Electress, roused by the boys' cries and finding
her door bolted, rushed to the window and begged and implored him not to
take her children.

'My husband shall grant all your demands, I swear to you,' she cried,
'only leave me my children!'

'Tell the Elector, Madam,' laughed Kunz, looking up, 'that I _can_ burn
the fish in the ponds!'

Then he mounted his horse, which his servant was holding, and away they
rode as fast as the horses would carry them. They had not ridden many
miles before the clang of bells broke on their ears. The alarm peal of
the castle had awakened that of the town, and in a few hours every bell
in every belfry in Saxony was ringing an alarm. The sun rose, and Kunz
and his followers plunged deeper into the forest, riding through
morasses and swamps, over rough and stony ground--anywhere to escape
from the din of those alarm bells. At last the ride for dear life was
nearly over; the band was within an hour's journey of the castle of
Isenburg, when Prince Albrecht declared that he was dying of thirst.

'For the love of Heaven, give me something to drink, Sir Knight,' he
implored.

Kunz bade the others ride on, and giving his squire his horse to hold he
dismounted, lifted Albrecht down, and began looking for bilberries for
him.

Whilst he was doing so, a charcoal-burner with his dog came up. He was
much surprised to see such grand people in the forest, and asked,

'What are you doing with the young lord?'

'He has run away from his parents,' answered Kunz, impatiently. 'Can you
tell me where bilberries are to be found here?'

'I do not know,' replied the charcoal-burner, still staring at the
strangers.

Anxious to make him leave them, Kunz turned angrily round on him, and in
doing so caught his spurs in the bushes, and fell flat on his face.

Albrecht caught hold of the charcoal-burner's arm.

'Save me!' he whispered eagerly. 'I am the Elector's son; this man has
stolen me!'

The squire struck at the Prince with his sword, but the charcoal-burner
warded aside the blow with his long pole, and felled the man to the
ground. Kunz fought fiercely with him, but in answer to his summons for
help, and attracted by the barking of the dog, a number of other
charcoal-burners appeared on the scene to help their comrade, and Kunz
was disarmed and taken prisoner. They marched him in triumph to the
monastery of Grünheim, where he was secured in one of the cells, and in
a few days was sent to Freiburg. On the 14th he was tried and condemned
to death. It is said that a pardon was sent by the Elector, but if it
were so it arrived too late, and Kunz was beheaded.

The rest of the robber-band with Prince Ernst did not fare much better.
The alarm bells had aroused the whole country; six of the men were
captured, and Mosen and the others with Prince Ernst took refuge in a
cave near Zwickau. Not daring to venture out, and half starving for want
of food, they lay there for three days in wretched plight. Then they
learned accidentally from some woodmen, whose conversation they
overheard, that Kunz had been taken prisoner, had been tried, and by
this time was in all probability beheaded. As soon as they received this
piece of intelligence, they held a consultation and finally decided to
send a message to the Amtmann of Zwickau, offering to restore Prince
Ernst if a free pardon were granted to them, but threatening, if this
was refused, they would at once kill him. Had they known that Kunz was
still alive, they might have stipulated for his pardon as well, but
believing him dead, they made no terms as regards his fate. The Amtmann
had no choice but to accede to their demands when their proposal reached
him. Prince Ernst was given up. Mosen and the rest fled away, nor were
they ever heard of any more.

[Illustration]

When the brave charcoal-burner, Georg Schmidt, was brought before the
Elector and his court, the Electress asked him how he had dared to fight
the robber-knight with no weapon but his pole.

'Madam,' he replied, 'I gave him a sound "drilling" with my pole.'

All the court laughed, and thenceforward he was always called Georg der
Triller (the Driller), and his descendants took this name as their
surname. The only reward he would accept for his brave deed was leave
for himself and his family to cut what wood they needed in the forest in
which he lived.

The Electress and the two princes made a pilgrimage to the shrine at the
monastery of Ebersdorf, and there in the church they hung up the coats
which they and Kunz and the 'Triller' had worn on the memorable night
when they were kidnapped, and there it is said they may be seen at this
day.



_THE CONQUEST OF MONTEZUMA'S EMPIRE_


THE YOUTH OF CORTÉS

LONG ago, when Henry VIII. was King of England and Charles V. was King
of Spain, there lived a young Spanish cavalier whose name was Hernando
Cortés. His father, Don Martin Cortés, sent him to Salamanca when he was
about fourteen years old, intending to have him educated as a lawyer.
But Hernando cared nothing for books, and after wasting two years at
college returned home, to the great annoyance of his parents, who were
glad enough when, after another year of idleness, he proposed to go and
seek his fortune in the New World so lately discovered by Columbus. An
exploring expedition was just being fitted out, and Hernando Cortés had
quite made up his mind to join it, when he unluckily fell from a high
wall which he was climbing, and before he had recovered from his
injuries the ships had sailed without him. Two more years did he remain
at home after this misadventure, but at length, when he was nineteen
years old, he joined a small fleet bound for the Indian Islands. The
vessel in which he sailed was commanded by one Alonso Quintero, who,
when they reached the Canary Islands, and all the other vessels were
detained by taking in supplies, stole out of the harbour under cover of
the night, meaning to reach Hispaniola before his companions, and so
secure a better chance of trading. However, he met with a furious storm,
and was driven back to the port with his ship dismasted and battered.
The rest of the fleet generously consented to wait while his ship was
being refitted, and after a short delay they set out again, but so soon
as they neared the islands, the faithless Quintero again gave his
companions the slip, but with no better success, for he met with such
heavy gales that he entirely lost his reckoning, and for many days they
tossed about helplessly, until one morning they were cheered by the
sight of a white dove, which settled upon the rigging. Taking the
direction of the bird's flight, they soon reached Hispaniola, where the
captain had the satisfaction of finding all the other ships had arrived
before him, and had sold all their cargoes. Cortés, as soon as he
landed, went to see Ovando, the governor of the island, whom he had
known in Spain, and presently was persuaded by him to accept a grant of
land and settle down to cultivate it, though at first he said, 'I came
to get gold, not to till the ground like a peasant.' So six years
passed, during which the monotony of Cortés's life was only broken by
occasional expeditions against the natives, in which he learned to
endure toil and danger, and became familiar with the tactics of Indian
warfare. At length, in 1511, when Diego Velasquez, the governor's
lieutenant, undertook the conquest of Cuba, Cortés gladly accompanied
him, and throughout the expedition made himself a favourite both with
the commander and the soldiers. But when later on there arose discontent
over the distribution of lands and offices, the malcontents fixed upon
Cortés as the most suitable person to go back to Hispaniola, and lay
their grievances before the higher authorities. This came to the ears of
Velasquez, however, and he at once seized Cortés, whom he loaded with
fetters and threw into prison. Luckily he soon succeeded in freeing
himself from the irons, and letting himself down from the window took
refuge in the nearest church, where he claimed the right of sanctuary.
Velasquez, who was very angry at his escape, stationed a guard with
orders to seize Cortés if he should leave the sanctuary, and this he was
soon careless enough to do. As he stood outside the church an officer
suddenly sprang upon him from behind, and made him prisoner once more.
This time he was carried on board a ship which was to sail the next
morning for Hispaniola, where he was to be tried, but again he managed
to escape by dragging his feet through the rings which fettered them,
and dropping silently over the ship's side into a little boat under
cover of the darkness. As he neared the shore the water became so rough
that the boat was useless, and he was forced to swim the rest of the
way; but at last he got safely to land, and again took refuge in the
church. After this he married a lady named Catalina Xuarez, and by the
aid of her family managed to make his peace with Velasquez. Cortés now
received a large estate near St. Jago, where he lived prosperously for
some years, and even amassed a considerable sum of money. But at last
news came of an exploring expedition which had set out in 1518 under
Grijalva, the nephew of Velasquez. He had touched at various places on
the Mexican coast, and had held a friendly conference with one cacique,
or chief, who seemed desirous of collecting all the information he could
about the Spaniards, and their motives in visiting Mexico, that he might
transmit it to his master, the Aztec emperor. Presents were exchanged at
this interview, and in return for a few glass beads, pins, and such
paltry trifles, the Spaniards had received such a rich treasure of
jewels and gold ornaments that the general at once sent back one of his
ships under the command of Don Pedro de Alvarado to convey the spoil,
and acquaint the governor of Cuba with the progress of the expedition,
and also with all the information he had been able to glean respecting
the Aztec emperor and his dominions. Now in those days nothing whatever
was known about the interior of the country or of its inhabitants--it
was as strange to the explorers as another planet.


THE WONDERS OF MEXICO

This was what they had to tell the governor. Far away towards the
Pacific Ocean there stood, in a beautiful and most fertile valley, the
capital of a great and powerful empire, called by its inhabitants
'Tenochtitlan,' but known to the Europeans only by its other name of
'Mexico,' derived from 'Mexitli,' the war-god of the Aztecs. These
Aztecs seem to have come originally from the north, and after many
wanderings to have halted at length on the south-western borders of a
great lake, of which there were several in the Mexican valley. This
celebrated valley was situated at a height of about 7,500 feet above the
sea, and was oval in form, about 67 leagues in circumference, and
surrounded by towering rocks, which seemed to be meant to protect it
from invasion. It was in the year 1325 that the Aztecs paused upon the
shore of the lake, and saw, as the sun rose, a splendid eagle perched
upon a prickly pear which shot out of a crevice in the rock. It held a
large serpent in its claws, and its broad wings were opened towards the
rising sun. The Aztecs saw in this a most favourable omen, and there and
then set about building themselves a city, laying its foundations upon
piles in the marshy ground beside the lake, and to this day the eagle
and the cactus form the arms of the Mexican republic.

[Illustration]

The little body of settlers increased rapidly in number and power, and
made their name terrible throughout the valley, in which various other
tribes had long been settled, until at last they united themselves with
the king of the Tezcucans, to aid him against a tribe called the
Tepanecs, who had invaded his territory. The allies were completely
successful, and this led to an agreement between the states of Mexico,
Tezcuco, and Tlacopan, that they should support each other in all their
wars, and divide all the spoils between them. This alliance remained
unbroken for over a hundred years and under a succession of able
princes the Aztec dominion grew, till at the coming of the Spaniards it
reached across the continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean.
The Aztecs had many wise laws and institutions, and were indeed in some
respects a highly civilised community. When their emperor died a new one
was chosen from among his sons or nephews, by four nobles. The one
preferred was obliged to have distinguished himself in war, and his
coronation did not take place until a successful campaign had provided
enough captives to grace his triumphal entry into the capital, and
enough victims for the ghastly sacrifices which formed an important part
of all their religious ceremonies. Communication was held with the
remotest parts of the country by means of couriers, who, trained to it
from childhood, travelled with amazing swiftness. Post-houses were
established on the great roads, and the messenger bearing his despatches
in the form of hieroglyphical paintings, ran to the first station, where
they were taken by the next messenger and carried forward, being sent in
one day a hundred or two hundred miles. Thus fish was served at the
banquets of the emperor Montezuma which twenty-four hours before had
been caught in the Gulf of Mexico, two hundred miles away. Thus too the
news was carried when any war was going on, and as the messengers ran to
acquaint the court with the movements of the royal armies, the people by
the way knew whether the tidings were good or bad by the dress of the
courier. But the training of warriors was the chief end and aim of all
Aztec institutions. Their principal god was the god of war, and one
great object of all their expeditions was the capture of victims to be
sacrificed upon his altars. They believed that the soldier who fell in
battle was transported at once to the blissful regions of the sun, and
they consequently fought with an utter disregard of danger. The dress of
the warriors was magnificent. Their bodies were protected by a vest of
quilted cotton, impervious to light missiles, and over this the chiefs
wore mantles of gorgeous feather-work, and the richer of them a kind of
cuirass of gold or silver plates. Their helmets were of wood, fashioned
like the head of some wild animal, or of silver surmounted by plumes of
variously coloured feathers, sprinkled with precious stones, beside
which they wore many ornaments of gold, and their banners were
embroidered with gold and feather-work.

The Aztecs worshipped thirteen principal gods, and more than two hundred
of less importance, each of whom, however, had his day of festival,
which was duly observed. At the head of all stood the war-god, the
terrible Huitzilopochtli, whose fantastic image was loaded with costly
ornaments, and whose temples, in every city of the empire, were the most
splendid and stately. The Aztecs also had a legend that there had once
dwelt upon the earth the great Quetzalcoatl, god of the air, under whose
sway all things had flourished and all people had lived in peace and
prosperity; but he had in some way incurred the wrath of the principal
gods, and was compelled to leave the country. On his way he stopped at
the city of Cholula, where a temple was dedicated to him, of which the
great ruins remain to this day. When he reached the shores of the
Mexican Gulf he embarked in his magic boat, made of serpents' skins, for
the fabulous land of Tlapallan, but before he bade his followers
farewell he promised that he and his descendants would one day come
again. The Aztecs confidently looked forward to the return of their
benevolent god, who was said to have been tall in stature, with a white
skin, long dark hair, and a flowing beard, and this belief of theirs
prepared the way, as you will presently see, for the success of
Cortés.[28] The Mexican temples, or teocallis as they were called--which
means 'Houses of God'--were very numerous, there being several hundreds
of them in each of the principal cities. They looked rather like the
Egyptian pyramids, and were divided into four or five stories, each one
being smaller than the one below it, and the ascent was by a flight of
steps at an angle of the pyramid. This led to a sort of terrace at the
base of the second story, which passed quite round the building to
another flight of steps immediately over the first, so that it was
necessary to go all round the temple several times before reaching the
summit. The top was a broad space on which stood two towers, forty or
fifty feet high, which contained the images of the gods. Before these
towers stood the dreadful stone of sacrifice, and two lofty altars on
which the sacred fires burned continually. Human sacrifices were adopted
by the Aztecs about two hundred years before the coming of the
Spaniards. Rare at first, they became more and more frequent till at
length nearly every festival closed with this cruel abomination. The
unhappy victim was held by five priests upon the stone of sacrifice,
while the sixth, who was clothed in a scarlet mantle, emblematic of his
horrible office, cut open his breast with a sharp razor of 'itztli,' a
volcanic substance as hard as flint, and tearing out his heart, held it
first up to the sun, which they worshipped, and then cast it at the feet
of the god to whom the temple was devoted; and to crown the horror, the
body of the captive thus sacrificed was afterwards given to the warrior
who had taken him in battle, who thereupon gave a great banquet and
served him up amid choice dishes and delicious beverages for the
entertainment of his friends. When the great teocalli of Huitzilopochtli
was dedicated in the year 1486, no less than 70,000 prisoners were thus
sacrificed, and in the whole kingdom every year the victims were never
fewer than 20,000, or, as some old writers say, 50,000. The Aztec
writing was not with letters and words, but consisted of little coloured
pictures, each of which had some special meaning. Thus a 'tongue'
denoted speaking, a 'footprint' travelling, a 'man sitting on the
ground' an earthquake. As a very slight difference in position or colour
intimated a different meaning, this writing was very difficult to read,
and in the Aztec colleges the priests specially taught it to their
pupils. At the time of the coming of the Spaniards there were numbers of
people employed in this picture-writing, but unfortunately hardly any of
the manuscripts were preserved; for the Spaniards, looking upon them as
magic scrolls, caused them to be burned by thousands. In many mechanical
arts the Aztecs had made considerable progress. Their ground was well
cultivated, they had discovered and used silver, lead, tin, and copper.
Gold, which was found in the river-beds, they cast into bars, or used as
money by filling transparent quills with gold dust. They also made many
fantastic ornaments of gold and silver, and cast gold and silver
vessels, which they carved delicately with chisels. Some of the silver
vases were so large that a man could not encircle them with his arms.
But the art in which they most delighted was the wonderful feather-work.
With the gorgeous plumage of the tropical birds they could produce all
the effect of a beautiful mosaic. The feathers, pasted upon a fine
cotton web, were wrought into dresses for the wealthy, hangings for
their palaces, and ornaments for their temples.

These then were the people of whom Grijalva sent back to Cuba a few
vague reports, and these, and the accounts of the splendour of the
treasure, spread like wildfire through the island. The governor having
resolved to send out more ships to follow up these discoveries, looked
about him for a suitable person to command the expedition and share the
expenses of it, and being recommended by several of his friends to
choose Hernando Cortés, he presently did so. Cortés had now attained
his heart's desire, and at once began with the utmost energy to purchase
and fit out the ships. He used all the money he had saved, and as much
more as he could persuade his friends to lend him, and very soon he was
in possession of six vessels, and three hundred recruits had enrolled
themselves under his banner. His orders were, first, to find Grijalva
and to proceed in company with him; then to seek out and rescue six
Christians, the survivors of a previous expedition, who were supposed to
be lingering in captivity in the interior; and to bear in mind, before
all things, that it was the great desire of the Spanish monarch that the
Indians should be converted to Christianity. They were to be invited to
give their allegiance to him, and to send him presents of gold and
jewels to secure his favour and protection. The explorers were also to
survey the coast, acquaint themselves with the general features of the
country, and to barter with the natives.


THE BEGINNING OF THE EXPEDITION

But before Cortés was ready to start, a jealousy and distrust of him
took possession of the mind of Velasquez, so that he determined to
entrust the command of the fleet to someone else. This came to the ears
of Cortés, and he with great promptitude assembled his officers
secretly, and that very night set sail with what supplies he was able to
lay hands upon, his ships being neither ready for sea nor properly
provisioned. When morning broke news was carried to Velasquez that the
fleet was under weigh, and he rose hastily and galloped down to the
quay. Cortés rowed back to within speaking distance.

'This is a courteous way of taking leave of me, truly,' cried the
governor.

'Pardon me,' answered Cortés, 'time presses, and there are some things
that should be done before they are even thought of.' And with that he
returned to his vessel, and the little fleet sailed away to Macaca,
where Cortés laid in more stores. This was on November 18, 1518. Shortly
afterwards he proceeded to Trinidad, a town on the south coast of Cuba,
where he landed, and setting up his standard, invited all who would to
join the expedition, holding out to them great hopes of wealth to be
gained. Volunteers flocked in daily, including many young men of noble
family, who were attracted by the fame of Cortés. Among them were Pedro
de Alvarado, Cristóval de Olid, Alonso de Avila, Juan Velasquez de Leon,
Alonso Hernandez de Puertocarrero, and Gonzalo de Sandoval, of all of
whom you will hear again before the story is finished. Finally, in
February 1519, when all the reinforcements were assembled, Cortés found
he had eleven vessels, one hundred and ten mariners, five hundred and
fifty-three soldiers, and two hundred Indians. He also had sixteen
horses, ten large guns, and four lighter, which were called falconets.
Cortés, before embarking, addressed his little army, saying that he held
out to them a glorious prize, and that if any among them coveted riches,
he would make them masters of such as their countrymen had never dreamed
of; and so they sailed away for the coast of Yucatan.

The first thing that happened was that they were overtaken by a furious
tempest, and Cortés was delayed by looking after a disabled vessel, and
so was the last to reach the island of Cozumel. Here he found that
Alvarado, one of his captains, had landed, plundered a temple, and by
his violence caused the natives to fly and hide themselves inland.

Cortés, much displeased, severely reprimanded his officer, and, by the
aid of an interpreter, explained his peaceful intentions to two Indians
who had been captured. Then he loaded them with presents, and sent them
to persuade their countrymen to return, which they presently did, and
the Spaniards had the satisfaction of bartering the trifles they had
brought for the gold ornaments of the natives. Next Cortés sent two
ships to the opposite coast of Yucatan, where they were to despatch some
Indians inland, to seek for and ransom the Christian captives, of whom
he had gained some tidings from a trader, and while they were gone he
explored the island, and induced the natives to declare themselves
Christians by the very summary method of rolling their venerated idols
out of their temple, and setting up in their stead an image of the
Virgin and Child. When the Indians saw that no terrible consequences
followed, they listened to the teaching of the good priest, Father
Olmedo, who accompanied the expedition, though it is probable that they
did not, after all, understand much of his instruction. After eight days
the two ships came back, but with no news of the captives, and Cortés
sorrowfully decided that he could wait no longer. He accordingly took in
provisions and water, and set sail again, but before they had gone far
one of the ships sprang a leak, which obliged them to put back into the
same port. It was lucky that they did, for soon after they landed a
canoe was seen coming from the shore of Yucatan, which proved to contain
one of the long-lost Spaniards, who was called Aguilas. He had been for
eight years a slave among the natives in the interior, but his master,
tempted by the ransom of glass-beads, hawk-bells, and such treasures,
had consented to release him. When he reached the coast the ships were
gone, but owing to the fortunate accident of their return, he found
himself once more among his countrymen. Cortés at once saw the
importance of having him as an interpreter, but in the end he proved to
be of more use to the explorers than could have been at first imagined.

[Illustration]

Again the fleet set out, and coasted along the Gulf of Mexico till they
reached the mouth of the Rio de Tabasco. Here Cortés landed, but found
that the Indians were hostile, and were drawn up in great force against
him. However, after some hard fighting the Spaniards were victorious,
and having taken possession of the town of Tabasco, Cortés sent
messengers to the chiefs saying that if they did not at once submit
themselves he would ravage the country with fire and sword. As they had
no mind for any more fighting they came humbly, bringing presents, and
among them thirty slaves, one of whom, a beautiful Mexican girl named
Malinche, was afterwards of the utmost importance to the expedition. She
had come into the possession of the cacique of Tabasco through some
traders from the interior of the country, to whom she had been secretly
sold by her mother, who coveted her inheritance. Cortés now reembarked
his soldiers and sailed away to the island of San Juan de Uloa, under
the lee of which they anchored, and soon saw the light pirogues of the
Indians coming off to them from the mainland. They brought presents of
fruit and flowers, and little ornaments of gold which they gladly
exchanged for the usual trifles. Cortés was most anxious to converse
with them, but found to his disappointment that Aguilar could not
understand their dialect. In this dilemma he was informed that one of
the slaves was a Mexican, and could of course speak the language. This
was Malinche, or as the Spaniards always called her, 'Marina.' Cortés
was so charmed with her beauty and cleverness that he made her his
secretary, and kept her always with him; and she very soon learned
enough Spanish to interpret for him without the help of Aguilar. But at
first they were both necessary, and by their aid Cortés learned that his
visitors were subjects of Montezuma, the great Aztec emperor, and were
governed by Tenhtlile, one of his nobles. Cortés having ascertained that
there was abundance of gold in the interior, dismissed them, loaded with
presents, to acquaint their governor with his desire for an interview.
The next morning he landed on the mainland with all his force. It was a
level sandy plain, and the troops employed themselves in cutting down
trees and bushes to provide a shelter from the weather; in this they
were aided by the natives, who built them huts with stakes and earth,
mats and cotton carpets, and flocked from all the country round to see
the wonderful strangers. They brought with them fruits, vegetables,
flowers in abundance, game, and many dishes cooked after the fashion of
the country; and these they gave to, or bartered with, the Spaniards.
The next day came Tenhtlile, the governor, with a numerous train, and
was met by Cortés, and conducted to his tent with great ceremony. All
the principal officers were assembled, and after a ceremonious banquet
at which the governor was regaled with Spanish wines and confections,
the interpreters were sent for and a conversation began. Tenhtlile first
asked about the country of the strangers, and the object of their visit.
Cortés replied that he was the subject of a powerful monarch beyond the
seas, who had heard of the greatness of the Mexican emperor, and had
sent him with a present in token of his goodwill, and with a message
which he must deliver in person. He concluded by asking when he could
be admitted into Montezuma's presence. To this the Aztec noble replied
haughtily,

'How is it that you have been here only two days, and demand to see the
emperor?'

Then he added that he was surprised to hear that there could be another
monarch as powerful as Montezuma, but if it were so his master would be
happy to communicate with him, and that he would forward the royal gift
brought by the Spanish commander, and so soon as he had learned
Montezuma's will would inform him of it. Tenhtlile then ordered his
slaves to bring forward the present for the Spanish general. It
consisted of ten loads of fine cotton, several mantles of gorgeous
feather-work, and a wicker basket of golden ornaments. Cortés received
it with due acknowledgments, and in his turn ordered the presents for
Montezuma to be brought forward. These were an armchair richly carved
and painted, a crimson cloth cap with a gold medal, and a quantity of
collars, bracelets, and other ornaments of cut-glass, which in a country
where glass was unknown were as valuable as real gems. The Aztec
governor observed a soldier in the camp in a shining gilt helmet, and
expressed a wish that Montezuma should see it, as it reminded him of one
worn by the god Quetzalcoatl. Cortés declared his willingness that the
helmet should be sent, and begged that the emperor would return it
filled with the gold dust of the country, that he might compare its
quality with that of his own. He also said that the Spaniards were
troubled with a disease of the heart, for which gold was a sure remedy.
In fact, he made his want of gold very clear to the governor. While
these things were passing Cortés observed one of Tenhtlile's attendants
busy with a pencil, and on looking at his work he found it was a sketch
of the Spaniards, their costumes, weapons, and all objects of interest
being correctly represented both in form and colour. This was the
celebrated picture-writing, and the governor said that this man was
drawing all these things for Montezuma, as he would get a much better
idea of their appearance thus. Cortés thereupon ordered out the cavalry,
and caused them to go through their military exercises upon the firm wet
sands of the beach; and the appearance of the horses--which were
absolutely unknown in Mexico--filled the natives with astonishment,
which turned to alarm when the general ordered the cannon to be fired,
and they saw for the first time the smoke and flame, and beheld the
balls crashing among the trees of the neighbouring forest and reducing
them to splinters. Nothing of this sort was lost upon the painters, who
faithfully recorded every particular, not omitting the ships--the
'water-houses,' as they called them--which swung at anchor in the bay.
Finally, the governor departed as ceremoniously as he had come, leaving
orders with his people to supply the Spanish general with all he might
require till further instructions should come from the emperor.

In the meantime the arrival of the strangers was causing no small stir
in the Mexican capital. A general feeling seems to have prevailed that
the Return of the White God, Quetzalcoatl, was at hand, and many
wonderful signs and occurrences seemed to confirm the belief.

In 1510 the great lake of Tezcuco, without tempest, earthquake, or any
visible cause, became violently agitated, overflowed its banks, and,
pouring into the streets of Mexico, swept away many buildings by the
fury of its waters. In 1511 one of the towers of the great temple took
fire, equally without any apparent cause, and continued to burn in
defiance of all attempts to extinguish it. In the following years three
comets were seen, and not long before the coming of the Spaniards a
strange light broke forth in the east, resembling a great pyramid or
flood of fire thickly powdered with stars: at the same time low voices
were heard in the air, and doleful wailings, as if to announce some
strange, mysterious calamity. A lady of the Royal house died, was
buried, and rose again, prophesying ruin to come. After the conquest she
became a Christian.

Montezuma, terrified at these apparitions, took counsel of
Nezahualpilli, King of Tezcuco, who was a great proficient in astrology;
but far from obtaining any comfort from him, he was still further
depressed by being told that all these things predicted the speedy
downfall of his empire. When, therefore, the picture-writings showing
the Spanish invaders reached Montezuma, they caused him great
apprehension, and he summoned the kings of Tezcuco and Tlacopan to
consult with them as to how the strangers should be received. There was
much division of opinion, but finally Montezuma resolved to send a rich
present which should impress them with a high idea of his wealth and
grandeur, while at the same time he would forbid them to approach the
capital. After eight days at the most, which however seemed a long time
to the Spaniards, who were suffering from the intense heat of the
climate, the embassy, accompanied by the governor Tenhtlile, reached the
camp, and presented to Cortés the magnificent treasure sent by
Montezuma. One of the two nobles had been sent on account of his great
likeness to the picture of Cortés which the Aztec painter had executed
for Montezuma. This resemblance was so striking that the Spanish
soldiers always called this chief 'the Mexican Cortés.' After the usual
ceremonious salutes, the slaves unrolled the delicately wrought mats and
displayed the gifts they had brought. There were shields, helmets, and
cuirasses embossed with plates and ornaments of pure gold, with collars
and bracelets of the same precious metal, sandals, fans, plumes, and
crests of variegated feathers wrought with gold and silver thread and
sprinkled with pearls and precious stones. Also imitations of birds and
animals in wrought or cast gold and silver of exquisite workmanship; and
curtain coverlets and robes of cotton, fine as silk--of rich and varied
hues--interwoven with feather-work that rivalled the most delicate
painting. There were more than thirty loads of cotton cloth, and the
Spanish helmet was returned filled to the brim with grains of gold. But
the things which excited the most admiration were two circular plates of
gold and silver as large as carriage-wheels. One, representing the sun,
was richly carved with plants and animals, and was worth fifty-two
thousand five hundred pounds. The Spaniards could not conceal their
rapture at this exhibition of treasure which exceeded their utmost
dreams; and when they had sufficiently admired it the ambassadors
courteously delivered their message, which was to the effect that
Montezuma had great pleasure in holding communication with so powerful a
monarch as the King of Spain, but he could not grant a personal
interview to the Spaniards; the way to his capital was too long and too
dangerous. Therefore the strangers must return to their own land with
the gifts he had sent them. Cortés, though much vexed, concealed his
annoyance and expressed his sense of the emperor's munificence. It made
him, he said, only the more desirous of a personal interview, so that he
felt it was impossible that he should present himself again before his
sovereign without having accomplished this great object of his journey.
He once more requested them to bear this message to their master, with
another trifling gift. This they seemed unwilling to do, and took their
leave repeating that the general's wish could not be gratified. The
soldiers were by this time suffering greatly from the heat, surrounded
as they were by burning sands and evil-smelling marshes, and swarms of
venomous insects which tormented them night and day. Thirty of their
number died, and the discomfort of the rest was greatly increased by
the indifference of the natives, who no longer brought them such
abundant supplies, and demanded an immense price for what they did
provide. After ten days the Mexican envoys returned, bearing another
rich present of stuffs and gold ornaments, which, though not so valuable
as the first, was yet worth three thousand ounces of gold. Beside this
there were four precious stones, somewhat resembling emeralds, each of
which they assured the Spaniards was worth more than a load of gold, and
was destined as a special mark of respect for the Spanish monarch, since
only the nobles of Mexico were allowed to wear them. Unfortunately,
however, they were of no value at all in Europe. Montezuma's answer was
the same as before. He positively forbade the strangers to approach
nearer to his capital, and requested them to take the treasure he had
bestowed upon them, and return without delay to their own country.
Cortés received this unwelcome message courteously, but coldly, and
turning to his officers exclaimed, 'This is a rich and powerful prince
indeed, yet it shall go hard but we will one day pay him a visit in his
capital.' Father Olmedo then tried to persuade the Aztec chiefs to give
up their idol-worship, and endeavoured by the aid of Marina and Aguilar
to explain to them the mysteries of his own faith, but it is probable
that he was not very successful. The chiefs presently withdrew coldly,
and that same night every hut was deserted by the natives, and the
Spaniards were left without supplies in a desolate wilderness. Cortés
thought this so suspicious that he prepared for an attack, but
everything remained quiet.

The general now decided to remove his camp to a more healthy place a
little farther along the coast, where the ships could anchor and be
sheltered from the north wind. But the soldiers began to grumble and be
discontented, and to say that it was time to return with their spoil,
and not linger upon those barren shores until they had brought the whole
Mexican nation about their ears. Fortunately at this juncture five
Indians made their appearance in the camp, and were taken to the
general's tent. They were quite different from the Mexicans in dress and
appearance, and wore rings of gold and bright blue gems in their ears
and nostrils, while a gold leaf, delicately wrought, was attached to the
under lip. Marina could not understand their language, but luckily she
found that two of them could speak in the Aztec tongue. They explained
that they came from Cempoalla, the chief town of a tribe called the
Totonacs, and that their country had been lately conquered by the
Aztecs, whose oppressions they greatly resented. They also said that the
fame of the Spaniards had reached their master, who had sent to request
them to visit him in his capital. It is easy to imagine how eagerly
Cortés listened to this communication, and how important it was to him.
Hitherto, as he knew absolutely nothing of the state of affairs in the
interior of the country, he had supposed the empire to be strong and
united. Now he saw that the discontent of the provinces conquered by
Montezuma might be turned to his own advantage, and that by their aid he
might hope to succeed in his cherished scheme of subduing the emperor
himself. He therefore dismissed the Totonacs with many presents,
promising soon to visit their city. Then with his usual energy and
diplomacy he turned upon the immediate difficulties which beset him--the
discontent of the soldiers, the jealousy of some of his officers, and
the fact that he had no warrant for his ambitious plans in the
commission that he had received from Velasquez. By tact and cunning he
managed to settle everything as he wished, and set to work to establish
a colony in the name of the Spanish sovereign, and appointed his chief
friend Puertocarrero to be one of its magistrates, and Montejo, who was
a friend of Velasquez, to be the other. The new town was called Villa
Rica de Vera Cruz, 'The rich town of the True Cross,' and, as you see,
its governors and officials were appointed before a single house was
built. To them Cortés then resigned the commission which he had received
from Velasquez, and the council, which consisted chiefly of his own
friends, immediately reappointed him to be captain-general and chief
justice of the colony, with power to do practically just as he liked. Of
course this caused a great commotion in the opposing party, but Cortés
put the leaders into irons and sent them on board one of the ships,
while he sent the soldiers on a foraging expedition into the surrounding
country. By the time these returned with supplies they had altered their
minds, and joined their companions in arms, pledging themselves to a
common cause, while even the cavaliers on board the ship came to the
same conclusion, and were reconciled to the new government, and were
from that time staunch adherents to Cortés.

[Illustration]

Peace being thus restored, the army set out to march northwards to the
place where it had been decided to build the town. They crossed a river
in rafts and broken canoes which they found upon its bank, and presently
came to a very different scene from the burning sandy waste, which they
had left. The wide plains were covered with green grass, and there were
groves of palms, among which the Spaniards saw deer and various wild
animals, and flocks of pheasants and turkeys. On their way they passed
through a deserted village, in the temples of which they found records
in the picture-writing, and also, to their horror, the remains of
sacrificed victims. As they proceeded up the river they were met by
twelve Indians, sent by the cacique of Cempoalla to show them the way to
his town. The farther they went the more beautiful did the country
become. The trees were loaded with gorgeous fruits and flowers, and
birds and butterflies of every hue abounded. As they approached the
Indian city they saw gardens and orchards on each side of the road, and
were met by crowds of natives, who mingled fearlessly with the soldiers,
bringing garlands of flowers, in which they specially delighted, to deck
the general's helmet and to hang about the neck of his horse. The
cacique, who was tall and very fat, received Cortés with much courtesy,
and assigned to the army quarters in a neighbouring temple, where they
were well supplied with provisions, and the general received a present
of gold and fine cotton. But in spite of all this friendliness he
neglected no precautions, stationing sentinels, and posting his
artillery so as to command the entrance. The following morning Cortés
paid the cacique a visit at his own residence, and, by the aid of
Marina, a long conference was held in which the Spanish general gained
much important information, and promised to aid the Totonacs against
Montezuma, and prevent him from carrying off their young men and maidens
to be sacrificed to his gods. The following day the army marched off
again to the town of Chiahuitztla, which stood like a fortress on a crag
overlooking the gulf. Though the inhabitants were alarmed at first, they
soon became friendly, and the chiefs came to confer with Cortés and the
cacique of Cempoallo, who had accompanied him, carried in a litter. Just
then there was a stir among the people, and five men entered the
market-place where they were standing. By their rich and peculiar dress
they seemed to belong to a different race: their dark glossy hair was
tied in a knot at the top of the head, and they carried bunches of
flowers in their hands. Their attendants carried wands, or fans, to
brush away the flies and insects from their lordly masters. These
persons passed the Spaniards haughtily, scarcely deigning to return
their salutations, and they were immediately joined by the Totonac
chiefs, who seemed anxious to conciliate them by every sort of
attention. The general, much astonished, inquired of Marina what this
meant, and she replied that these were Aztec nobles empowered to receive
tribute for Montezuma.

Soon after the chiefs returned in dismay, saying that the Aztecs were
very angry with them for entertaining the Spaniards without the
emperor's permission, and had demanded twenty young men and maidens to
be sacrificed to the gods as a punishment. Cortés was most indignant at
this insolence, and insisted that the Totonacs should not only refuse
the demand, but should also seize the Aztec nobles, and throw them into
prison. This they did, but the Spanish general managed to get two of
them freed in the night, and brought before him. He then very cunningly
made them believe that he regretted the indignity that had been offered
them, and would help them to get away safely, and the next day would do
his best to release their companions. He also told them to report this
to Montezuma, assuring him of the great respect and regard in which he
was held by the Spaniards. Them he sent them away secretly to the port,
and they were taken in one of the vessels, and landed safely at a little
distance along the coast. The Totonacs were furious at the escape of
some of their prisoners, and would at once have sacrificed the
remainder, had not Cortés expressed the utmost horror at the idea, and
sent them on board one of the ships for safe keeping, whence he very
soon allowed them to join their companions. This artful proceeding had,
as we shall presently see, just the effect it was meant to have upon
Montezuma. By order of Cortés, messengers were now sent to all the other
Totonac towns, telling them of the defiance that had been shown to the
emperor, and bidding them also refuse to pay the tribute. The Indians
soon came flocking into Chiahuitztla to see and confer with the powerful
strangers, in the hope of regaining liberty by their aid, and so
cleverly had Cortés managed to embroil them with Montezuma, that even
the most timid felt that they had no choice but to accept the protection
of the Spaniards, and make a bold effort for the recovery of freedom.

Cortés accordingly made them swear allegiance to the Spanish sovereign,
and then set out once more for the port where his colony was to be
planted. This was only half a league distant, in a wide and fruitful
plain, and he was not long in determining the circuit of the walls, and
the site of the fort, granary, and other public buildings. The friendly
Indians brought stone, lime, wood, and bricks, and in a few weeks a town
rose up, which served as a good starting-point for future operations, a
retreat for the disabled, a place for the reception of stores, or
whatever might be sent to or from the mother-country, and was, moreover,
strong enough to overawe the surrounding country. This was the first
colony in New Spain, and was hailed with satisfaction by the simple
natives, who could not foresee that their doom was sealed when a white
man set his foot upon their soil.

While the Spaniards were still occupied with their new settlement they
were surprised by another embassy from Mexico. When the account of the
imprisonment of the royal collectors first reached Montezuma, his
feelings of fear and superstition were swallowed up in indignation, and
he began with great energy to make preparations for punishing his
rebellious vassals, and avenging the insult offered to himself. But when
the Aztec officers liberated by Cortés reached the capital and reported
the courteous treatment they had received from the Spanish commander, he
was induced to resume his former timid and conciliatory policy, and sent
an embassy consisting of two young nephews of his own and four of his
chief nobles to the Spanish quarters. As usual they bore a princely gift
of gold, rich cotton stuffs, and wonderful mantles of feather
embroidery. The envoys on coming before Cortés presented this offering,
with the emperor's thanks to him for the courtesy he had shown to the
captive nobles. At the same time Montezuma expressed his surprise and
regret that the Spaniards should have countenanced the rebellion. He had
no doubt, he said, that Cortés and his followers were the
long-looked-for strangers, and therefore of the same lineage as himself.
From deference to them he would spare the Totonacs while they were
present, but the day of vengeance would come. Cortés entertained the
Indians with frank hospitality, taking care, however, to make such a
display of his resources as should impress them with a sense of his
power. Then he dismissed them with a few trifling gifts and a
conciliatory message to the emperor, to the effect that he would soon
pay his respects to him in his capital, when all misunderstanding
between them would certainly be adjusted. The Totonacs were amazed when
they understood the nature of this interview; for, in spite of the
presence of the Spaniards, they had felt great apprehension as to the
consequence of their rash act, and now they felt absolutely in awe of
the strangers who even at a distance could exercise such a mysterious
influence over the terrible Montezuma.

Not long after the cacique of Cempoalla appealed to Cortés to aid him
against a neighbour with whom he had a quarrel. The general at once
marched to support him with a part of his force, but when they reached
the hostile city they were received in a most friendly manner, and
Cortés had no difficulty in reconciling the two chiefs to one another.
In token of gratitude the Indian cacique sent eight noble maidens,
richly decked with collars and ornaments of gold, whom he begged the
general to give as wives to his captains. Cortés seized the opportunity
of declaring that they must first become Christians, and be baptized,
since the sons of the Church could not be allowed to marry idolaters.
The chief replied that his gods were good enough for him, and that he
should at once resent any insults offered to them, even if they did not
avenge themselves by instantly destroying the Spaniards. However, the
general and his followers had seen too much already of the barbarous
rites of the Indian religion and its horrible sacrifices. Without
hesitation they attacked the principal teocalli, whereupon the cacique
called his men to arms, the priests in their blood-stained robes rushed
frantically about among the people, calling upon them to defend their
gods, and all was tumult and confusion. Cortés acted with his usual
promptitude at this crisis. He caused the cacique and the principal
inhabitants and the priests to be taken prisoners, and then commanded
them to quiet the people, threatening that a single arrow shot at the
Spaniards should cost them their lives. Marina also represented the
madness of resistance, reminding the cacique that if he lost the
friendship of the strangers, he would be left alone to face the
vengeance of Montezuma. This consideration decided him: covering his
face with his hands, he exclaimed that the gods would avenge their own
wrongs. Taking advantage of this tacit consent, fifty soldiers rushed up
the stairway of the temple, and dragging the great wooden idols from
their places in the topmost tower, they rolled them down the steps of
the pyramid amid the groans of the natives and the triumphant shouts of
their comrades, and then burnt them to ashes. The Totonacs, finding that
their gods were unable to prevent or even punish this profanation of
their temple, now believed that they were indeed less to be feared than
the Spaniards, and offered no further resistance. By Cortés's orders the
teocalli was then thoroughly purified, and an altar was erected,
surmounted by a great cross hung with garlands of roses, and Father
Olmedo said Mass before the Indians and Spaniards, who seem to have been
alike impressed by the ceremony. An old disabled soldier, named Juan de
Torres, was left to watch over the sanctuary and instruct the natives in
its services, while the general, taking a friendly leave of his Totonac
allies, set out once more for Villa Rica, to finish his arrangements
before departing for the capital. Here he was surprised to find that a
Spanish vessel had arrived in his absence, having on board twelve
soldiers and two horses, a very welcome addition to the tiny army.
Cortés now resolved to execute a plan of which he had been thinking for
some time. He knew very well that none of his arrangements about the
colony would hold good without the Spanish monarch's sanction, and also
that Velasquez had great interest at court, and would certainly use it
against him. Therefore he resolved to send despatches to the emperor
himself, and such an amount of treasure as should give a great idea of
the extent and importance of his discoveries. He gave up his own share
of the spoil, and persuaded his officers to do the same, and a paper was
circulated among the soldiers, calling upon all who chose to resign the
small portion which was due to them, that a present worthy of the
emperor's acceptance might be sent home. It is only another proof of the
extraordinary power which Cortés had over these rough soldiers, who
cared for nothing but plunder, that not a single one refused to give up
the very treasure which he had risked so much to gain.

[Illustration]

These are some of the wonderful things that were sent. Two collars made
of gold and precious stones. Two birds made of green feathers, with
feet, beaks, and eyes of gold, and in the same piece with them animals
of gold resembling snails. A large alligator's head of gold. Two birds
made of thread and feather-work, having the quills of their wings and
tails, their feet, eyes and the ends of their beaks of gold, standing
upon two reeds covered with gold, which are raised on balls of
feather-work and gold embroidery, one white and the other yellow, with
seven tassels of feather-work hanging from each of them. A large silver
wheel, also bracelets, leaves, and five shields of the same metal. A
box of feather-work embroidered on leather, with a large plate of gold
weighing seventy ounces in the midst. A large wheel of gold with figures
of strange animals on it, and worked with tufts of leaves, weighing
three thousand eight hundred ounces. A fan of variegated feather-work
with thirty-seven rods plated with gold. Sixteen shields of precious
stones, with feathers of various colours hanging from their rims, and
six shields each covered with a plate of gold, with something resembling
a mitre in the centre. Besides all this there was a quantity of gold
ore, and many pieces of richly embroidered cotton cloth and
feather-work. He accompanied this present with a letter to the emperor
in which he gave an account of all his adventures and discoveries, and
ended by beseeching him to confirm his authority, as he was entirely
confident that he should be able to place the Castilian crown in
possession of this great Indian empire. He also sent four slaves, who
had been rescued from the cage in which were kept the victims about to
be sacrificed, and some Mexican manuscripts.

Very soon after the departure of the treasure-ship Cortés discovered
that there was a conspiracy among some of his followers, who either did
not like the way the general arranged matters, or else were terrified at
the prospect of the dangerous campaign that was before them. They had
seized one of the ships, and got provisions and water stored, and were
on the eve of setting sail for Cuba, when one of their number repented
of the part he had taken in the plot, and betrayed it to Cortés, who at
once took measures for the arrest of the ringleaders, two of whom were
afterwards hanged. This affair showed the general that there were some
among his followers who were not heart and soul in the expedition, and
who might therefore fail him when he most needed them, and might also
cause their comrades to desert if there was any chance for them to
escape. He therefore determined to take the bold step of destroying the
ships without the knowledge of his army. Accordingly, he marched the
whole army to Cempoalla, and when he arrived there he told his plan to a
few of his devoted adherents, who entirely approved of it. Through them
he persuaded the pilots to declare the ships unseaworthy, and then
ordered nine of them to be sunk, having first brought on shore their
sails, masts, iron, and all movable fittings. When the news of this
proceeding reached Cempoalla, it caused the deepest consternation among
the Spaniards, who felt themselves betrayed and abandoned, a mere
handful of men arrayed against a great and formidable empire, and cut
off from all chance of escape. They murmured loudly, and a serious
mutiny was threatened. But Cortés, whose presence of mind never deserted
him, managed to reassure them, and to persuade them that he had only
done what was really best for everyone; and he so cunningly dwelt upon
the fame and the treasure which they were on the eve of gaining, that
not one of them accepted the offer which he made to them of returning to
Cuba in the only remaining ship. Their enthusiasm for their leader
revived, and as he concluded his speech they made the air ring with
their shouts of 'To Mexico! To Mexico!'


THE MARCH TO MEXICO

While he was still at Cempoalla, news came to Cortés from Villa Rica
that four strange ships were hovering off the coast, and that they
refused to respond to repeated signals made to them by Don Juan de
Escalante, who was in command of the garrison left in the town. This
greatly alarmed Cortés, who was continually dreading the interference of
his enemy, the governor of Cuba. He rode hastily back to Villa Rica,
and, almost without stopping to rest, pushed on a few leagues northwards
along the coast, where he understood the ships were at anchor. On his
way he met with three Spaniards just landed from them, and learned that
they belonged to a squadron fitted out by Francisco de Garay, who had
landed on the Florida coast a year before, and had obtained from Spain
authority over the countries he might discover in its neighbourhood.
Cortés saw he had nothing to fear from them, but he did wish he could
have induced the crews of the ships to join his expedition. The three
men he easily persuaded, but those who remained on board feared
treachery, and refused to send a boat ashore. Finally, by a stratagem,
Cortés succeeded in capturing three or four more, out of a boat's crew
who came to fetch their comrades, and with this small party of recruits
he returned to Cempoalla. On August 16, 1519, Cortés bade farewell to
his hospitable Indian friends, and set out for Mexico. His force
consisted of about four hundred foot and fifteen horse, with seven
pieces of artillery, and in addition to these he had obtained from the
cacique of Cempoalla thirteen hundred warriors, and a thousand porters
to carry the baggage and drag the guns. During the first day the army
marched through the 'tierra caliente,' or hot region. All around them
fruit and flowers grew in the wildest profusion, as indeed they did all
the year round in that wonderful climate; the air was heavy with
perfume, and bright birds and insects abounded. But after some leagues'
travel, over roads made nearly impassable by the summer rains, they
began to ascend gradually, and at the close of the second day they
reached Xalapa, from which they looked out over one of the grandest
prospects that could be seen anywhere. Down below them lay the hot
region with its gay confusion of meadows, streams, and flowering
forests, sprinkled over with shining Indian villages, while a faint line
of light upon the horizon told them that there was the ocean they had so
lately crossed, beyond which lay their country, which many of them would
never see again. To the south rose the mighty mountain called 'Orizaba,'
in his mantle of snow, and in another direction the Sierra Madre, with
its dark belt of pine-trees, stretched its long lines of shadowy hills
away into the distance. Onward and upward they went, and on the fourth
day they arrived at the strong town of Naulinco. Here the inhabitants
entertained them hospitably, for they were friendly with the Totonacs,
and Cortés endeavoured, through Father Olmedo, to teach them something
about Christianity. They seem to have listened willingly, and allowed
the Spaniards to erect a cross for their adoration, which indeed they
did in most of the places where they halted. The troops now entered upon
a rugged, narrow valley, called 'the Bishop's Pass,' and now it began to
be terribly cold, the snow and hail beat upon them, and the freezing
wind seemed to penetrate to their very bones. The Spaniards were partly
protected by their armour, and their thick coats of quilted cotton, but
the poor Indians, natives of the hot region and with very little
clothing, suffered greatly, and indeed several of them died by the way.
The path lay round a bare and dreadful-looking volcanic mountain, and
often upon the edge of precipices three thousand feet in depth. After
three days of this dreary travelling the army emerged into a more genial
climate; they had reached the great tableland which spreads out for
hundreds of miles along the crests of the Cordilleras, more than seven
thousand feet above the sea-level. The vegetation of the torrid and
temperate regions had of course disappeared, but the fields were
carefully cultivated. Many of the crops were unknown to the Spaniards,
but they recognised maize and aloes, and various kinds of cactus.
Suddenly the troops came upon what seemed to be a populous city, even
larger than Cempoalla, and with loftier and more substantial buildings,
of stone and lime. There were thirteen teocallis in the town, and in one
place in the suburbs one of the Spaniards counted the stored-up skulls
of a hundred thousand sacrificed victims. The lord of the town ruled
over twenty thousand vassals; he was a tributary to Montezuma, and there
was a strong Mexican garrison in the place. This was probably the reason
of his receiving Cortés and his army very coldly, and vaunting the
grandeur of the Mexican emperor, who could, he declared, muster thirty
great vassals, each of whom commanded a hundred thousand men. In answer
to the inquiries of Cortés, he told him about Montezuma and his capital.
How more than twenty thousand prisoners of war were sacrificed every
year upon the altars of his gods, and how the city stood in the midst of
a great lake, and was approached by long causeways connected in places
by wooden bridges, which when raised cut off all communication with the
country--and many other strange things which were not of a kind to
reassure the minds of the Spaniards. They hardly knew whether to believe
the old cacique or not, but at any rate the wonders they heard made
them, as one of their cavaliers said, 'only the more earnest to prove
the adventure, desperate as it might appear.'

[Illustration]

The natives were also very curious to know about the Spaniards, their
horses and dogs, and strange weapons, and Marina in answering their
questions took care to expatiate upon the exploits and victories of her
adopted countrymen, and to state the extraordinary marks of respect they
had received from Montezuma. This had its effect upon the cacique, who
presently sent the general some slaves to make bread for the soldiers,
and supplied them with the means of refreshment and rest, which they
needed so much after their toilful march.

The army rested in this city four or five days, and even at the end of
the last century the Indians would still point out the cypress tree
under the shelter of which the conqueror's horse had been tied. When the
journey was resumed, the way was through a broad green valley, watered
by a splendid river and shaded by lofty trees. On either side of the
river an unbroken line of Indian dwellings extended for several leagues,
and on some rising ground stood a town which might contain five or six
thousand inhabitants, commanded by a fortress with walls and trenches.
Here the troops halted again, and met with friendly treatment.

In their last halting-place Cortés had been advised by the natives to
take the route to the ancient city of Cholula, the inhabitants of which
were a mild race, subjects of Montezuma, and given to peaceful arts, who
were likely to receive him kindly. But his Cempoallan allies declared
that the Cholulans were false and perfidious, and counselled him to go
to Tlascala, a valiant little republic which had managed to maintain its
independence against the arms of Mexico. The tribe had always been
friendly with the Totonacs, and had the reputation of being frank,
fearless, and trustworthy. The Spanish general decided to try and secure
their goodwill, and accordingly despatched four of the principal
Cempoallans with a gift, consisting of a cap of crimson cloth, a sword
and a cross-bow, to ask permission to pass through their country,
expressing at the same time his admiration of their valour, and of their
long resistance of the Aztecs, whose pride he, too, was determined to
humble. Three days after the departure of the envoys the army resumed
its march, lingering somewhat by the way in hopes of receiving an answer
from the Indian Republic. But the messengers did not return, which
occasioned the general no little uneasiness. As they advanced the
country became rougher and the scenery bolder, and at last their
progress was arrested by a most remarkable fortification. It was a stone
wall nine feet high and twenty feet thick, with a parapet a foot and a
half broad at the top, for the protection of those who defended it. It
had only one opening in the centre, made by two semicircular lines of
wall overlapping each other for the space of forty paces, and having a
passage-way between, ten paces wide, so contrived as to be perfectly
commanded by the inner wall. This fortification, which extended for more
than two leagues, rested at either end on the bold, natural buttresses
of the chain of mountains. It was built of immense blocks of stone
nicely laid together without cement, and from the remains that still
exist it is easy to imagine what its size and solidity must have been.
This singular structure marked the limits of Tlascala, and was intended,
the natives said, as a barrier against Mexican invasions. The soldiers
paused amazed, and not a little apprehensive as to their reception in
Tlascala, since a people who were capable of such a work as that would
indeed prove formidable should they not be friendly. But Cortés, putting
himself at the head of his cavalry, shouted, 'Forward, soldiers; the
Holy Cross is our banner, and under that we shall conquer.' And so they
marched through the undefended passage, and found themselves in
Tlascala.

The Tlascalan people belonged to the same great family as the Aztecs,
and had planted themselves upon the western shore of Lake Tezcuco at
about the same period--at the close of the twelfth century. There they
remained many years, until they had, for some reason, incurred the
displeasure of all the surrounding tribes, who combined to attack them,
and a terrible battle took place. Though the Tlascalans were entirely
victorious, they were so disgusted by this state of things that they
resolved to migrate, and the greater number of them finally settled in
the warm and fruitful valley overshadowed by the mountains of Tlascala.
After some years the monarchy was divided, first into two, then four
separate states, each with its own chief, who was independent in his
own territory, and possessed equal authority with the other three in all
matters concerning the whole republic, the affairs of which were settled
by a council consisting of the four chiefs and the inferior nobles. They
were an agricultural people, and the fertility of their new country was
signified by its name--'Tlascala' meaning the land of bread. Presently
their neighbours began to be envious of their prosperity, and they were
frequently obliged to defend themselves against the Cholulans, and were
always successful. But when Axayacatl, king of the Aztecs, sent
demanding the same tribute and obedience from them which the other
people of the country paid him, threatening, if they refused, to destroy
their cities, and give their land to their enemies, they answered
proudly, 'Neither they nor their forefathers had ever paid tribute or
homage to a foreign power, nor ever would pay it. If their country was
invaded, they knew how to defend it.'

This answer brought upon them the forces of the Mexican monarch, and a
pitched battle was fought in which the republic was again victorious,
but from that time hostilities never ceased between the two nations,
every captive was mercilessly sacrificed, and the Tlascalan children
were trained from the cradle to hate the Mexicans with a deadly hatred.
In this struggle the Tlascalans received valuable support from a wild
and warlike race from the north, called the Otomies. Some of them
settled in the republic, and having proved themselves courageous and
faithful, were entrusted with the defence of the frontier. After
Montezuma became emperor of Mexico greater efforts than before were made
to subdue Tlascala. He sent a great army against it, commanded by his
favourite son, but his troops were defeated and his son killed. Enraged
and mortified, Montezuma made still greater preparations and invaded the
valley with a terrific force. But the Tlascalans withdrew to the
recesses of the hills, and watching their opportunity, swept down upon
the enemy and drove them from their territory with dreadful slaughter.
Nevertheless they were greatly harassed by these constant struggles with
a foe so superior to themselves in numbers and resources. The Aztec
armies lay between them and the coast, cutting off all possibility of
obtaining any supplies. There were some things, as cotton, cacas, and
salt, which they were unable to grow or manufacture, of which they had
been deprived for more than fifty years, and their taste was so much
affected by this enforced abstinence that they did not get used to
eating salt with their food for several generations after the conquest.
This was the state of affairs in Tlascala when the Spaniards reached
it, and it is easy to see how important it was to Cortés to form an
alliance with it, but that was not an easy thing to do.

The Tlascalans had heard about the Christians and their victorious
advance, but they had not expected that they would come their way. So
they were much embarrassed by the embassy demanding a passage through
their territories. The council was assembled, and a great difference of
opinion was found among its members. Some believed that these were the
white-skinned, bearded men whose coming was foretold, and at all events
they were enemies to Mexico, and might help them in their struggle
against it. Others argued that this could not be: the march of the
strangers through the land might be tracked by the broken images of the
Indian gods, and desecrated temples. How could they be sure that they
were not friends of Montezuma? They had received his embassies, accepted
his gifts, and were even now on their way to his capital in company with
his vassals. This last was the opinion of an aged chief, one of the four
rulers of the republic. His name was Xicotencatl, and he was nearly
blind, for he was over a hundred years old. He had a son of the same
name as himself, an impetuous young man, who commanded a powerful force
of Tlascalans and Otomies on the eastern frontier where the great
fortification stood. The old chief advised that this force should at
once fall upon the Spaniards. If they were conquered they would be at
the mercy of the Tlascalans, but if by any mischance his son should
fail, the council could declare that they had nothing to do with the
attack, laying the whole blame of it upon the young Xicotencatl.
Meantime the Cempoallan envoys were to be detained under pretence of
assisting at a religious sacrifice. By this time, as we know, Cortés and
his gallant band had passed the rocky rampart, from which, for some
reason or other, the Otomie guard was absent. After advancing a few
leagues he saw a small party of Indians, armed with sword and buckler,
who fled at his approach. He made signs for them to halt, but they only
fled the faster.

The Spaniards spurred their horses, and soon succeeded in overtaking
them, when they at once turned, and, without showing the usual alarm at
the horses and strange weapons of the cavaliers, attacked them
furiously. The latter, however, were far too strong for them, and they
would soon have been cut to pieces had not a body of several thousand
Indians appeared, coming quickly to their rescue. Cortés seeing them,
hastily despatched a messenger to hurry up his infantry. The Indians,
having discharged their missiles, fell upon the little band of
Spaniards, striving to drag the riders from their horses and to tear
their lances from their grasp. They brought one cavalier to the ground,
who afterwards died of his wounds, and they killed two horses, cutting
their necks through with one blow of their formidable broadswords. This
was a most serious loss to Cortés, whose horses were so important, and
so few in number.

The struggle was a hard one, and it was with no small satisfaction that
the Spaniards saw their comrades advancing to their aid. No sooner had
the main body reached the field of battle, than, hastily falling into
position, they poured such a volley from their muskets and cross-bows as
fairly astounded the enemy, who made no further attempt to continue the
fight, but drew off in good order, leaving the road open to the
Spaniards, who were only too glad to get rid of their foes and pursue
their way. Presently they met two Tlascalan envoys, accompanied by two
of the Cempoallans. The former, on being brought to the general, assured
him of a friendly reception in the capital, and declared the late
assault upon the troops to have been quite unauthorised. Cortés received
his message courteously, pretending to believe that all was as he said.
As it was now growing late the Spaniards quickened their pace, anxious
to reach a suitable camping-ground before nightfall, and they chose a
place upon the bank of a stream, where a few deserted huts were
standing. These the weary and famishing soldiers ransacked in search of
food, but could find nothing but some animals resembling dogs, which,
however, they cooked and ate without ceremony, seasoning their unsavoury
repast with the fruit of the Indian fig, which grew wild in the
neighbourhood. After several desperate battles with the Tlascalans,
Cortés finally won a great victory.

The next day--as he usually did after gaining a battle--the Spanish
commander sent a new embassy to the Tlascalan capital, making as before
professions of friendship, but this time threatening that if his offers
were rejected he would visit their city as a conqueror, razing their
house to the ground and putting every inhabitant to the sword. Of course
this message was given to the envoys by the aid of the Lady Marina, who
became day by day more necessary to Cortés, and who was, indeed,
generally admired for her courage and the cheerfulness with which she
endured all the hardships of the camp and raised the drooping spirits of
the soldiers, while by every means in her power she alleviated the
miseries of her own countrymen. This time, the ambassadors of Cortés
received a respectful hearing from the deeply dejected council of
Tlascala, for whom nothing remained but to submit. Four principal
caciques were chosen to offer to the Spaniards a free passage through
the country, and a friendly reception in the capital. Their friendship
was accepted, with many excuses for the past, and the chiefs were
further ordered to touch at the camp of Xicotencatl, the Tlascalan
general, and require him to cease hostilities and furnish the white men
with a plentiful supply of provisions.

[Illustration]

While the Tlascalan envoys were still in the camp came a fresh embassy
from Montezuma. Tidings had been sent to him of each step in the
progress of the Spaniards, and it was with great satisfaction that he
had heard of their taking the road to Tlascala, trusting that if they
were mortal men they would find their graves there. Great was his
dismay, therefore, when courier after courier brought him news of their
successes, and how the most redoubtable warriors had been scattered by
this handful of strangers. His superstitious fears returned with greater
force than ever, and in his alarm and uncertainty he despatched five
great nobles of his court, attended by two hundred slaves, to bear to
Cortés a gift consisting of three thousand ounces of gold and several
hundred robes of cotton and feather-work. As they laid it at his feet
they said that they had come to offer Montezuma's congratulations upon
his victories, and to express his regret that he could not receive them
in his capital, where the numerous population was so unruly that he
could not be answerable for their safety. The merest hint of the
emperor's wishes would have been enough to influence any of the natives,
but they made very little impression upon Cortés; and, seeing this, the
envoys proceeded, in their master's name, to offer tribute to the
Spanish sovereign, provided the general would give up the idea of
visiting the capital. This was a fatal mistake, and a most strange one
for such a brave and powerful monarch to make, for it amounted to an
admission that he was unable to protect his treasures. Cortés in
replying expressed the greatest respect for Montezuma, but urged his own
sovereign's commands as a reason for disregarding his wishes. He added
that though he had not at present the power of requiting his generosity
as he could wish, he trusted 'to repay him at some future day with good
works.' You will hear before long how he kept his word.

The Mexican ambassadors were anything but pleased at finding the war at
an end and a firm friendship established between their mortal enemies
and the Spaniards, and the general saw with some satisfaction the
evidences of a jealousy between them, which was his surest hope of
success in undermining the Mexican empire. Two of the Aztecs presently
returned to acquaint Montezuma with the state of affairs; the others
remained with the Spaniards, Cortés being willing that they should see
the deference paid to him by the Tlascalans, who were most anxious for
his presence in their city.

[Illustration]

The city of Tlascala lay about six leagues away from the Spanish camp,
and the road led through a hilly region, and across a deep ravine over
which a bridge had just been built for the passage of the army; they
passed some towns by the way, where they were received with the greatest
hospitality. The people flocked out to meet them, bringing garlands of
roses, with which they decorated the Spanish soldiers, and wreathed
about the necks of their horses. Priests in their white robes mingled
with the crowd, scattering clouds of incense from their censers, and
thus escorted the army slowly made its way through the gates of the city
of Tlascala. Here the press became so great that it was with difficulty
that a passage was cleared for it. The flat housetops were crowded with
eager spectators, while garlands of green boughs, roses, and
honeysuckle were thrown across the streets, and the air was rent with
songs and shouts and the wild music of the national instruments.
Presently the procession halted before the palace of the aged
Xicotencatl, the father of the general, and Cortés dismounted from his
horse, that the blind old man might satisfy his natural curiosity
respecting him, by passing his hand over his face. He then led the way
to a spacious hall, where a banquet was served to the whole army, after
which, quarters were assigned to them in a neighbouring teocalli, the
Mexican ambassadors being, at the desire of Cortés, lodged next to
himself that he might the better protect them in the city of their foes.

For some days the Spaniards were feasted and entertained in four
quarters of the city, which was really like separate towns divided from
one another by high walls, in each of which lived one of the rulers of
the republic, surrounded by his own vassals. But amid all these friendly
demonstrations the general never for a moment relaxed the strict
discipline of the camp, and no soldier was allowed to leave his quarters
without special permission. At first this offended the Tlascalan chiefs,
as they thought it showed distrust of them. But when Cortés explained
that this was only in accordance with the established military system of
his country, they began to think it admirable, and the young Xicotencatl
proposed, if possible, to imitate it. The Spanish commander now turned
his thoughts to the converting of the Tlascalans; but as they refused to
part with their own gods, though they were willing enough to add the God
of the Christians to their number, he took the advice of the wise Father
Olmedo, and abandoned the idea for the time. However, a cross was
erected in one of the great squares, and there the Spaniards held their
religious services unmolested, and it happened, strangely enough, that
they had scarcely left the city when a thin, transparent cloud settled
like a column upon the cross, wrapping it round, and continuing through
the night to shed a soft light about it. This occurrence did more for
the conversion of the natives than all the preaching of Father Olmedo.
Several of the Indian princesses were now baptized, and given in
marriage to the officers of Cortés. One, who was the daughter of
Xicotencatl, became the wife of Alvarado, who was always a great
favourite with the Tlascalans. From his gay manners, joyous countenance,
and bright golden hair, he gained the nickname of 'Tonatiuh,' or the
'Sun,' while Cortés, who hardly ever appeared anywhere without the
beautiful Marina, was called by the natives 'Malinche,' which you will
remember was her Indian name. While all this was happening, came yet
another embassy from Montezuma, loaded as usual with costly gifts. This
time he invited the Spaniards to visit him in his capital, assuring them
that they would be welcome. Further, he besought them to enter into no
alliance with the base and barbarous Tlascalans, but he invited them to
take the route of the friendly city of Cholula, where arrangements were
being made, by his orders, for their reception. The Tlascalans were much
concerned that Cortés should propose to go to Mexico, and what they told
him fully confirmed all the reports he had heard of the power and
ambition of Montezuma, of the strength of his capital, and the number of
his soldiers. They warned him not to trust to his gifts and his fair
words, and when the general said that he hoped to bring about a better
understanding between the emperor and themselves, they replied that it
was impossible; however smooth his words, he would hate them at heart.
They also heartily protested against the general's going to Cholula. The
people, they said, though not brave in the open field, were crafty; they
were Montezuma's tools, and would do his bidding. That city, too, was
specially under the protection of the god Quetzalcoatl, and the priests
were confidently believed to have the power of opening an inundation
from the foundations of his shrine, which should overwhelm their enemies
in the deluge, and lastly, though many distant places had sent to
testify their goodwill, and offer their allegiance, Cholula, only six
leagues distant, had done neither. This consideration weighed more with
the general than either of the preceding ones, and he promptly
despatched a summons to the city demanding a formal tender of its
submission. It was not long before deputies arrived from Cholula profuse
in expressions of goodwill and invitations to visit their city; but the
Tlascalans pointed out that these messengers were below the usual rank
of ambassadors, which Cortés regarded as a fresh indignity. He therefore
sent a new summons, declaring that if they did not at once send a
deputation of their principal men he would treat them as rebels to his
own sovereign, the rightful lord of these realms. This soon brought some
of the highest nobles to the camp, who excused their tardy appearance,
by saying that they had feared for their personal safety in the capital
of their enemies. The Tlascalans were now more than ever averse to the
projected visit. A strong Aztec force was known to be near Cholula, and
the city was being actively prepared for defence. Cortés, too, was
disturbed by these circumstances, but he had gone too far to recede
without showing fear, which could not fail to have a bad effect on his
own men, as well as on the natives. Therefore, after a short
consultation with his officers, he decided finally to take the road to
Cholula. This ancient city lay six leagues to the south of Tlascala, and
was most populous and flourishing. The inhabitants excelled in the art
of working in metals and manufacturing cotton cloth and delicate
pottery, but were indisposed to war, and less distinguished for courage
than for cunning. You will remember that it was in this place that the
god Quetzalcoatl had paused on his way to the coast, and in his honour a
tremendous pyramid had been erected, probably by building over a natural
hill, and on the top of this rose a gorgeous temple, in which stood an
image of the god bedecked with gold and jewels. To this temple pilgrims
flocked from every corner of the empire, and many were the terrible
sacrifices offered there, as, indeed, in all the other teocallis, of
which there were about four hundred in the city. On the day appointed,
the Spanish army set out for Cholula, followed by crowds of citizens,
who admired the courage displayed by this little handful of men in
proposing to brave the mighty Montezuma in his own territory. An immense
body of warriors had offered to join the expedition, but Cortés thought
it wise to accept only six thousand, and even these he left encamped at
some distance from Cholula, because the caciques of that city, who came
out to meet the Spaniards, objected to having their mortal enemies
brought within its walls. As the troops drew near the town they were met
by swarms of men, women, and children, all eager to catch a glimpse of
the strangers, whose persons, horses, and weapons were equally objects
of intense curiosity to them. They in their turn were struck by the
noble aspect of the Cholulans, who were much superior in dress and
general appearance to the other tribes they had encountered. An immense
number of priests swinging censers mingled with the crowd, and, as
before, they were decorated with garlands and bunches of flowers, and
accompanied by gay music from various instruments. The Spaniards were
also struck by the width and cleanliness of the streets and the solidity
of the houses. They were lodged in the court of one of the many
teocallis, and visited by the great nobles of the city, who supplied
them plentifully with all they needed, and at first paid them such
attentions as caused them to believe that the evil apprehensions of the
Tlascalans had been merely suspicion and prejudice. But very soon the
scene changed. Messengers came from Montezuma, who shortly and
pleasantly told Cortés that his approach occasioned much disquietude to
their master, and then conferred apart with the Mexicans who were still
in the Spanish camp, presently departing, and taking one of them away
with them. From this time the Cholulans visited the Spanish quarters no
more, and when invited to do so excused themselves, saying they were
ill. Also, the supply of provisions ran short, and they said it was
because maize was scarce. Naturally, Cortés became very uneasy at this
change, and his alarm was increased by the reports of the Cempoallans,
who told him that in wandering about the city they had seen several
streets barricaded, and in some places holes had been dug, and a sharp
stake planted upright in each, and branches strewn to conceal them,
while the flat roofs of the houses were being stored with stones and
other missiles. Some Tlascalans also came in from their camp to inform
him that a great sacrifice, mostly of children, had been held in a
distant quarter of the town, to secure the aid of the gods in some
intended enterprise, and numbers of the people had taken their wives and
children out of the city.

These tidings confirmed the worst suspicions of Cortés, but just then
the Lady Marina made a discovery which changed his doubts into
certainty. The wife of one of the Cholulan caciques had taken a great
fancy to the Mexican girl, and continually urged her to visit her house,
hinting mysteriously that she would in this way escape a great danger
which threatened the Spaniards. Marina pretended to be delighted with
this proposal, and glad of the chance of escaping from the white men,
and by degrees she thus won the confidence of the Cholulan, who
presently revealed the whole plot to her. It originated, she said, with
the Aztec emperor, who had bribed the caciques of Cholula, her husband
among the number, to assault the Spaniards as they marched out of the
city, and to throw them into confusion all sorts of obstacles had been
placed in their way. A force of twenty thousand Mexicans was already
quartered near the city to support the Cholulans, and the Spaniards
would, it was confidently expected, fall an easy prey to their united
enemies. A sufficient number of them were to be reserved to be
sacrificed in Cholula, and the rest led in fetters to the capital of
Montezuma. While this conversation was taking place, Marina was making a
show of collecting and packing up such dresses and jewels as she was to
take with her to the house of her new friend. But after a while she
managed to slip away without exciting her suspicion, and, rushing to the
general, told him all. Cortés at once caused the cacique's wife to be
seized, and she repeated to him the same story that she had told to
Marina. He was most anxious to gain further particulars of the
conspiracy, and accordingly induced two priests, one of them a person of
much influence, to visit his quarters, where by courteous treatment and
rich presents he got from them a complete confirmation of the report.
The emperor had been in a state of pitiable vacillation since the
arrival of the Spaniards. His first orders had been that they should be
kindly received, but on consulting his oracles anew he had obtained for
answer that Cholula would be the grave of his enemies, and so positive
of success were the Aztecs, that they had already sent into the city
numbers of the poles with thongs attached to them with which to bind the
prisoners. Cortés now dismissed the priests, bidding them observe the
strictest secrecy, which, indeed they were likely to do for their own
sakes. He also requested that they would induce some of the principal
caciques to grant him an interview in his quarters. When they came he
gently rebuked them for their want of hospitality, and said that the
Spaniards would burden them no longer, but would leave the city early
the next morning. He also asked that they would supply him with two
thousand men to carry his artillery and baggage. The chiefs, after some
consultation, agreed to this as being likely to favour their own plans.
Then he sent for the Mexican ambassadors, and acquainted them with his
discovery of the plot, saying that it grieved him much to find Montezuma
mixed up in so treacherous an affair, and that the Spaniards must now
march as enemies against a monarch they had hoped to visit as a friend.
The ambassadors, however, asserted their entire ignorance of the
conspiracy, and their belief that Montezuma also knew nothing of it. The
night that followed was one of intense anxiety; every soldier lay down
fully armed, and the number of sentinels was doubled; but all remained
quiet in the populous city, and the only sounds which reached their ears
were the hoarse cries of the priests who, from the turrets of the
teocallis, proclaimed through their trumpets the watches of the night.

With the first streak of morning light Cortés was on horseback,
directing the movements of his little band, part of which he posted in
the great square court. A strong guard was placed at each of the three
gates, and the rest had charge of the great guns which were outside the
enclosure, and so placed as to command the roads which led to the
teocalli. The arrangements were hardly completed before the Cholulan
caciques appeared, bringing a larger body of porters than had been
demanded. They were marched at once into the square, which was, as we
have seen, completely lined by the Spanish troops. Cortés then took the
caciques aside, and sternly and abruptly charged them with the
conspiracy, taking care to show that he knew every detail. The Cholulans
were thunderstruck, and gazed with awe upon the strangers who seemed to
have the power of reading their most secret thoughts. They made no
attempt to deny the accusation, but tried to excuse themselves by
throwing the blame on Montezuma. Cortés, however, declared with still
more indignation that such a pretence would not serve them, and that he
would now make such an example of them as should be a warning to the
cities far and near, and then the fatal signal--the firing of a gun--was
given, and in an instant every musket and crossbow was levelled at the
unhappy Cholulans as they stood crowded together in the centre. They
were completely taken by surprise, having heard nothing of what was
going forward, and offered hardly any resistance to the Spanish
soldiers, who followed up the discharge of their pieces by rushing upon
them with their swords and mowing them down in ranks as they stood.

While this dreadful massacre was going on the Cholulans from outside,
attracted by the noise, began a furious assault upon the Spaniards, but
the heavy guns opened fire upon them and swept them off in files as they
rushed on, and in the intervals of reloading the cavalry charged into
their midst. By this time the Tlascalans had come up, having by order of
Cortés bound wreaths of sedge about their heads that they might be the
more easily distinguished from the Cholulans, and they fell upon the
rear of the wretched townsmen, who, thus harassed on all sides, could no
longer maintain their ground. They fled, some to the near buildings,
which were speedily set on fire, others to the temples. One strong body
headed by the priests got possession of the great teocalli. There was,
as you remember, a tradition that if part of the wall was removed the
god would send a flood to overwhelm his enemies. Now the Cholulans
strove with might and main, and at last succeeded in wrenching away a
few stones, but dust, not water, followed. In despair they crowded into
the wooden turrets which surmounted the temple, and poured down stones,
javelins, and burning arrows upon the Spaniards as they came swarming up
the steps. But the fiery shower fell harmlessly upon the steel
head-pieces of the soldiers, and they used the blazing shafts to set
fire to the wooden towers, so that the wretched natives either perished
in the flames or threw themselves headlong from the parapet. In the fair
city, lately so peaceful and prosperous, all was confusion and
slaughter, burning and plundering. The division of spoil was greatly
simplified by the fact that the Tlascalans desired wearing-apparel and
provisions far more than gold or jewels; they also took hundreds of
prisoners, but these Cortés afterwards induced them to release. The work
of destruction had gone on for some hours before the general yielded to
the entreaties of the Cholulan chiefs who had been saved from the
massacre, and of the Mexican envoys, and called off his men, putting a
stop as well as he could to further violence. Two of the caciques were
also permitted to go to their countrymen with offers of pardon and
protection to all who would return to their obedience, and so by degrees
the tumult was appeased. Presently Cortés helped the Cholulans to choose
a successor to their principal cacique, who was among the slain, and
confidence being thus restored the people from the country round began
to flock in, the markets were again opened, and the ordinary life of the
city resumed, though the black and smouldering ruins remained to tell
the sad tale of the massacre of Cholula. This terrible vengeance made a
great impression upon the natives, and none trembled more than the
Mexican monarch upon his throne among the mountains. He felt his empire
melting away from him like a morning mist, for some of the most
important cities, overawed by the fate of Cholula, now sent envoys to
the Spanish camp tendering their allegiance, and trying to secure the
favour of the conqueror by rich gifts of gold and slaves. Again did
Montezuma seek counsel from his gods, but the answers he obtained were
far from reassuring, and he determined to send another embassy to Cortés
to declare that he had nothing to do with the conspiracy at Cholula. As
usual the envoys were charged with a splendid present of golden vessels
and ornaments, and among other things were artificial birds, made in
imitation of turkeys with plumage of worked gold; there were also
fifteen hundred robes of delicate cotton cloth. The emperor's message
expressed regret for the late catastrophe, and denied all knowledge of
the plot which had, he said, brought a retribution upon its authors
which they richly deserved; and he explained the presence of the Aztec
force in the neighbourhood by saying that there was a disturbance that
had to be quelled. More than a fortnight had passed since the Spaniards
entered Cholula, and the general had, after the city was once more
restored to order, tried to induce the people to give up their false
gods, but this they would not do willingly. However, he seized upon the
great teocalli of which all the woodwork had been burned, and built a
church of the stone that remained, and he opened the cages in which the
wretched victims about to be sacrificed were imprisoned, and restored
them to liberty, and then he thought it time to begin the march to
Mexico once more. So the allied army of Spaniards and Tlascalans set
out upon their journey through luxuriant plains and flourishing
plantations, met occasionally by embassies from different towns, anxious
to claim the protection of the white men, and bringing rich gifts of
gold to propitiate them. They passed between the two enormous mountain
peaks, Popocatapetl, 'the hill that smokes,' and Iztaccihuatl, 'the
white woman,' and presently encountered a blinding snow-storm, from
which they found shelter in one of the large stone buildings, put up by
the Mexicans for the use of travellers and couriers, and here they
encamped for the night. The next morning they reached the top of a range
of hills where progress was comparatively easy, and they had not gone
far when, turning sharply round the shoulder of a hill, they saw spread
out before them the lovely Mexican valley. The clearness of the air
enabled them to see distinctly the shining cities, the lakes, woods,
fields and gardens, and in the midst of all the fair city of Mexico rose
as it were from the waters of the great lake, with its towers and
temples white and gleaming, and behind it the royal hill of Chapoltepec,
the residence of the Mexican kings, crowned with the very same gigantic
cypress trees which to this day fling their broad shadows across the
land. The Spaniards gazed in rapture over the gay scene, exclaiming, 'It
is the promised land!' but presently the evidences of a power and
civilisation so far superior to anything they had yet encountered
disheartened the more timid among them, they shrank from the unequal
contest, and begged to be led back again to Vera Cruz. But this was not
the effect produced upon Cortés by the glorious prospect. His desire for
treasure and love of adventure were sharpened by the sight of the
dazzling spoil at his very feet, and with threats, arguments, and
entreaties he revived the drooping spirits of his soldiers, and by the
aid of his brave captains succeeded in once more rousing them to
enthusiasm, and the march down the slope of the hill was gaily resumed.

[Illustration]

With every step of their progress the woods became thinner, and villages
were seen in green and sheltered nooks, the inhabitants of which came
out to meet and welcome the Spaniards. Everywhere Cortés heard with
satisfaction complaints of the cruelty and injustice of Montezuma, and
he encouraged the natives to rely on his protection, as he had come to
redress their wrongs. The army advanced but slowly, and was soon met by
another embassy from the emperor, consisting of several Aztec lords
bringing a rich gift of gold, and robes of delicate furs and feathers,
and offering four loads of gold to the general, and one to each of his
captains, with a yearly tribute to the Spanish sovereign, if they would
even then turn back from Mexico. But Cortés replied that he could not
answer it to his sovereign if he were to return without visiting the
emperor in his capital. The Spaniards came in the spirit of peace as
Montezuma would see for himself; but should their presence prove
burdensome to him, it would be very easy for them to relieve him of it.

This embassy had been intended to reach the Spaniards before they
crossed the mountains, and the dismay of the Aztec emperor was great
when he learned that it had failed, and that the dreaded strangers were
actually on their march across the valley. They were so utterly unlike
anything he had ever known before, these strange beings, who seemed to
have dropped from another planet, and by their superior knowledge and
more deadly weapons overcome the hitherto unconquerable nations, though
a mere handful of men in comparison to the swarms of his own countrymen.
He felt himself to be the victim of a destiny from which nothing could
save him. All peace, power, and security seemed to be gone from him, and
in despair he shut himself up in his palace, refusing food, and trying
by prayers and sacrifices to wring some favour from his gods. But the
oracles were dumb. Then he called a council of his chief nobles, but a
great difference of opinion arose amongst them. Cacama, the emperor's
nephew, king of Tezcuco, counselled him to receive the Spaniards
courteously as ambassadors of a foreign prince, while Cuitlahua, his
brother, urged him to muster his forces and then and there drive back
the invaders, or die in the defence of his capital. But Montezuma could
not rouse himself for this struggle. He exclaimed in deep dejection, "Of
what avail is resistance when the gods have declared themselves against
us? Yet I mourn for the old and infirm, the women and children, too
feeble to fight or fly. For myself and the brave men around me, we must
face the storm as best we may!" and he straightway sent off a last
embassy, with his nephew at its head, to meet the Spaniards and welcome
them to Mexico. By this time the army had reached the first of the towns
built on piles driven into the lake, and were delighted with its fine
stone houses, with canals between them instead of streets, up and down
which boats passed continually, laden with all kinds of merchandise.
Though received with great hospitality, Cortés still was strictly on his
guard, and neglected no precaution for the security of his men. Before
he left this place a messenger came, requesting him to wait for the
arrival of the king of Tezcuco, who very soon afterwards appeared, borne
in a palanquin richly decorated with plates of gold and precious stones,
having pillars curiously wrought which supported a canopy of green
plumes. He was accompanied by a numerous retinue of nobles and inferior
attendants, and when he came into the presence of Cortés he descended
from his palanquin and advanced towards him, his officers sweeping the
ground before him as he did so.

The prince was a handsome young man, erect and dignified; he made the
usual Mexican salutation to people of high rank, touching the earth with
his right hand and raising it to his head, and said that he came as the
representative of Montezuma to bid the Spaniards welcome to Mexico, and
presented the general with three pearls of uncommon size and lustre.
Cortés embraced him, and in return threw over his neck a chain of cut
glass. After this exchange of courtesies, and the most friendly and
respectful assurances on the part of Cortés, the Indian prince withdrew,
leaving the Spaniards much impressed by his superiority in state and
bearing to anything they had before seen in the country.

Resuming their march along the southern shore of Lake Chalco, through
splendid woods, and orchards glowing with unknown fruits, the army came
at length to a great dyke or causeway four or five miles long, which
divided the Lake Chalco from Xochicalco on the west. It was a lance in
breadth at the narrowest part, and in some places wide enough for eight
horsemen to ride abreast, and was solidly built of stone and lime. As
they passed along it they saw multitudes of Indians darting up and down
the lake in their light pirogues, eager to catch a glimpse of the
strangers, and they were amazed at the sight of the floating islands,
covered with flowers and vegetables and moving like rafts over the
waters. All round the margin, and occasionally far out in the lake, they
saw little towns and villages half buried in foliage; and the whole
scene seemed to them so new and wonderful that they could only compare
it to the magical pictures of the old romances. Midway across the lake
the army halted at the town of Cuitlahuae, which was not large, but was
remarkable for the beauty of its buildings. The curiosity of the Indians
increased as the Spaniards proceeded, and they clambered up the causeway
and lined the sides of the road, so that the troops were quite
embarrassed by them, and Cortés was obliged to resort to commands, and
even menaces, to clear a passage. He found, as he neared the capital, a
considerable change in the feeling shown towards the government, and
heard only of the pomp and magnificence of Montezuma, and nothing of his
oppressions. From the causeway the army descended on a narrow point of
land which lay between the two lakes, and crossing it reached the royal
residence of Iztapalapan.

This place was governed by the emperor's brother, who, to do greater
honour to Cortés, had invited the neighbouring lords to be present at
his reception, and at the banquet which followed. The Spaniards were
struck with admiration, when, after the usual ceremonies had been gone
through, and a gift of gold and costly stuffs had been presented, they
were led into one of the gorgeous halls of the palace, the roof of which
was of odorous cedar-wood, and the stone walls tapestried with brilliant
hangings. But, indeed, this was only one of the many beautiful things
which they saw in this fairy city. There were gardens cunningly planted,
and watered in every part by means of canals and aqueducts, in which
grew gorgeous flowers and luscious fruits. There was an aviary filled
with all kinds of birds, remarkable for the brilliancy of their plumage
and the sweetness of their songs. But the most elaborate piece of work
was a huge reservoir of stone full of water and stocked with all kinds
of fish, and by this all the fountains and aqueducts were supplied. In
this city of enchantment the army rested for the night, within sight of
the capital into which Cortés intended to lead them on the morrow.


THE OCCUPATION OF MEXICO.

[Illustration: MONTEZUMA GREETS THE SPANIARDS]

With the first faint streak of dawn, on the morning of November 8, 1519,
the Spanish general was astir and mustering his followers, and as the
sun rose above the eastern mountains he set forth with his little troop
of horsemen as a sort of advanced guard, the Spanish infantry followed,
then the baggage, and finally the dark files of the Tlascalan warriors.
The whole number cannot have amounted to seven thousand, of which less
than four hundred were Spaniards. For a short distance the army kept
along the narrow tongue of land between the lakes, and then entered upon
the great dyke which crosses the salt waters of Lake Tezcuco to the very
gates of the capital. It was wide enough all the way for ten horsemen to
ride abreast, and from it the Spaniards could see many towns and
villages--some upon the shores of the lake, some built upon piles
running far out into its waters. These cities were evidently crowded
with a thriving population, and contained many temples and other
important buildings which were covered with a hard white stucco
glistening like enamel in the sunshine. The lake was darkened with a
swarm of canoes filled with Indians who were eager to gaze upon the
strangers, and here and there floated those fairy islands of flowers
which rose and fell with every undulation of the water, and yet were
substantial enough to support trees of a considerable size. At the
distance of half a league from the capital they encountered a solid
fortification, like a curtain of stone, which was built across the dyke.
It was twelve feet high, and had a tower at each end, and in the centre
a battlemented gateway through which the troops passed. This place was
called the Fort of Xoloc, and was afterwards occupied by Cortés in the
famous siege of Mexico. Here they were met by several hundred Aztec
chiefs in their gay and fanciful costume. Some of them wore broad
mantles of delicate feather embroidery, and collars and bracelets of
turquoise mosaic with which fine plumage was curiously mingled, while
their ears, underlips, and sometimes even their noses, were adorned with
pendants of precious stones, or crescents of fine gold. After the usual
formal salutations, which caused some delay, the march was resumed, and
the army presently reached a wooden drawbridge which crossed an opening
in the dyke, meant to serve as an outlet for the water, should it for
any reason rise beyond its usual height. As they left this bridge
behind them the Spaniards felt that they were indeed committing
themselves to the mercy of Montezuma, who might, by means of it, cut
them off from communication with the country, and hold them prisoners in
his capital. They now beheld the glittering retinue of the emperor
emerging from the great street which led through the heart of the city.
Amidst a crowd of Indian nobles, preceded by three officers of state
bearing golden wands, they saw the royal palanquin, blazing with
burnished gold. It was borne on the shoulders of nobles, and over it a
canopy of gorgeous feather-work, powdered with jewels and fringed with
silver, was supported by four attendants, also of high rank, who were
barefooted and walked with a slow, measured pace, with their eyes bent
upon the ground. As soon as the procession had come within a short
distance of the Spaniards the emperor descended from his palanquin, and
advanced under the canopy, leaning upon the arms of his nephew and his
brother. The ground before him was strewn with cotton tapestry by his
attendants, and the natives who lined the sides of the causeway bent
forward with their eyes fixed upon the ground as he passed, whilst some
of the humbler class prostrated themselves before him. Montezuma wore
the usual broad girdle and square cloak of the finest cotton, on his
feet were sandals with soles of gold, and leathern thongs ornamented
with the same metal. Both cloak and sandals were sprinkled with pearls
and precious stones, principally emeralds, and the green 'chalchivitl,'
which was more highly esteemed by the Aztecs than any jewel. On his head
he wore only a plume of royal green feathers, a badge of his military
rank. He was at this time about forty years of age, and was tall and
thin, and of a lighter complexion than is usual among his countrymen; he
moved with dignity, and there was a benignity in his whole demeanour
which was not to have been anticipated from the reports of his character
which had reached the Spaniards. The army halted as Montezuma drew near,
and Cortés dismounted and advanced to meet him with a few of the
principal cavaliers. The emperor received him with princely courtesy,
and expressed his satisfaction at seeing him in his capital. Cortés
responded by the most profound expressions of respect and gratitude for
all Montezuma's munificence to the Spaniards; he then hung round the
emperor's neck a chain of coloured crystal, making at the same time a
movement as if to embrace him, but was restrained by the two Aztec
lords, who were shocked at the idea of such presumption. Montezuma then
appointed his brother to conduct the Spaniards to their quarters in
the city, and again entering his litter was borne off amid prostrate
crowds in the same state in which he had come. The Spaniards quickly
followed, and with colours flying and music playing entered the southern
portion of the city of Mexico. The great wide street facing the causeway
stretched for some miles in nearly a straight line through the centre of
the city. In the clear atmosphere of the tableland it was easy to see
the blue mountains in the distance beyond the temples, houses, and
gardens which stood on either side of it. But what most impressed the
Spaniards was the swarm of people who thronged every street, canal, and
roof, and filled every window and doorway. To the Aztecs it must indeed
have been a strange sensation when they beheld the fair-faced strangers,
and for the first time heard their well-paved streets ringing under the
iron tramp of the horses--those unknown animals which they regarded with
superstitious terror. But their wonder changed to anger when they saw
their detested enemies, the Tlascalans, stalking through their city with
looks of ferocity and defiance.

As they passed along the troops frequently crossed bridges which spanned
some of the numerous canals, and at length they halted in a wide open
space, near the centre of the city, close to the huge temple of the
war-god. Facing the western gate of the temple enclosure stood a range
of low stone buildings, spreading over a large extent of ground, once a
palace belonging to the emperor's father. This was to be the lodging of
the Spaniards. Montezuma himself was waiting in the courtyard to receive
them. Approaching Cortés he took from one of his slaves a massive
collar, made of the shells of a kind of crawfish much prized by the
Indians, set in gold, and connected by heavy golden links; from this
hung eight finely-worked ornaments, each a span long, made to resemble
the crawfish, but of fine gold. This gorgeous collar he hung round the
neck of the general, saying: 'This palace belongs to you, Malinche'
(this was the name by which he always addressed him), 'and your
brethren. Rest after your fatigues, for you have much need to do so; in
a little while I will visit you again.' So saying, he withdrew with his
attendants. The general's first care was to inspect his new quarters.
The rooms were of great size, and afforded accommodation for the whole
army--the Tlascalans probably encamping in the outer courts. The best
apartments were hung with draperies of gaily coloured cotton, and the
floors were covered with mats or rushes. There were also low stools
carved from single pieces of wood, and most of the rooms had beds made
of the palm-leaf, woven into a thick mat, with coverlets, and sometimes
canopies of cotton. The general, after a rapid survey, assigned his
troops their respective quarters, and took as vigilant precautions for
security as if he expected a siege; he planted his cannon so as to
command the approaches to the palace, stationed sentinels along the
walls, and ordered that no soldier should leave his quarters under pain
of death. After all these precautions he allowed his men to enjoy the
banquet prepared for them. This over, the emperor came again, attended
by a few nobles; he was received with great deference by Cortés, and
with Marina's aid they conversed, while the Aztecs and the cavaliers
stood around in respectful silence. Montezuma made many inquiries
concerning the country of the Spaniards, its sovereign, and its
government, and especially asked their reasons for visiting Mexico.
Cortés replied that they had desired to see its great monarch, and to
declare to him the true faith professed by the Christians. The emperor
showed himself to be fully acquainted with all the doings of the
Spaniards since their landing, and was curious as to their rank in their
own country; he also learned the names of the principal cavaliers, and
their position in the army. At the conclusion of the interview the
Aztecs brought forward a gift of cotton robes, enough to supply every
man, even including the Tlascalans, and gold chains and ornaments, which
were distributed in profusion among the Spaniards. That evening Cortés
ordered a general discharge of artillery, and the noise of the guns and
the volumes of smoke filled the superstitious Aztecs with dismay,
reminding them of the explosions of the great volcano.

On the following morning he asked permission to return the emperor's
visit, and Montezuma sent officers to conduct the Spaniards to his
presence.

[Illustration: CORTÉS IN THE TEMPLE OF HUITZILOPOCHTLI]

On reaching the hall of audience the Mexican officers took off their
sandals, and covered their gay attire with mantles of 'nequen,' a coarse
stuff made from the fibres of the aloe, and worn only by the poorest
classes; for it was thus humbly that all, excepting the members of his
own family, approached the sovereign. Then with downcast eyes and formal
obeisance they ushered the Spaniards into the royal presence. They found
Montezuma surrounded by a few of his favourite chiefs, and were kindly
received by him; and Cortés soon began upon the subject uppermost in his
thoughts, setting forth as clearly as he could the mysteries of his
faith, and assuring Montezuma his idols would sink him in perdition.
But the emperor only listened calmly, and showed no sign of being
convinced. He had no doubt, he said, that the god of the Spaniards was
good, but his own gods were good also; what Cortés told him of the
creation of the world was like what he had been taught to believe. It
was not worth while to discuss the matter farther. He added that his
ancestors were not the original possessors of his land, but had been led
there by the great Being, who, after giving them laws, and ruling over
them for a time, had withdrawn to the region where the sun rises,
declaring on his departure that he or his descendants would some day
come again and reign. The wonderful deeds of the Spaniards, their fair
faces, and the quarter whence they came all showed that they were his
descendants. If Montezuma had resisted their visit to his capital, it
was because he had heard that they were cruel, that they sent the
lightning to consume his people, or crushed them to pieces under the
hard feet of the ferocious animals on which they rode. He was now
convinced that these were idle tales, that the Spaniards were kind and
generous,--mortals indeed, but of a different race from the Aztecs,
wiser, and more valiant. You, too, he added with a smile, have perhaps
been told that I am a god and dwell in palaces of gold and silver. But
you see it is false: my houses, though large, are of wood and stone; and
as to my body, he said, baring his tawny arm, you see it is flesh and
bone like yours. It is true that I have a great empire inherited from my
ancestors, lands, and gold and silver, but your sovereign beyond the
waters is, I know, the rightful lord of all. I rule in his name. You,
Malinche, are his ambassador; you and your brethren shall share these
things with me. Rest now from your labours. You are here in your own
dwellings, and everything shall be provided for your subsistence. I will
see that your wishes shall be obeyed in the same way as my own. Cortés,
while he encouraged the idea that his own sovereign was the great Being,
as Montezuma believed, assured him that his master had no desire to
interfere with his authority otherwise than, out of concern for his
welfare, to effect his conversion, and that of his people, to
Christianity. Before the emperor dismissed his visitors, rich stuffs and
ornaments of gold were distributed among them, so that the poorest
soldier received at least two heavy collars of gold, and on their
homeward way they could talk of nothing but the generosity and courtesy
of the Indian monarch. But the general was harassed by many anxious
thoughts. He had not been prepared to find so much luxury, civilisation,
and power. He was in the heart of a great capital which seemed like an
extensive fortification, with its dykes and drawbridges, where every
house might be converted into a castle. At a nod from the sovereign all
communication with the rest of the country might be cut off, and the
whole warlike population be at once hurled upon himself and his handful
of followers, and against such odds of what avail would be his superior
science? As to the conquest of the empire, now he had seen the capital,
it must have seemed to him a more doubtful enterprise than ever; but at
any rate his best policy was to foster the superstitious reverence in
which he was held by both prince and people, and to find out all he
could about the city and its inhabitants. To this end he asked the
emperor's permission to visit the principal public buildings, which was
readily granted, Montezuma even arranging to meet him at the great
temple. Cortés put himself at the head of his cavalry, and, followed by
nearly all the Spanish foot, set out under the guidance of several
caciques sent by Montezuma. They led him to the great teocalli near
their own quarters. It stood in the midst of a vast space which was
surrounded by a wall of stone and lime about eight feet high, ornamented
on the outer side by raised figures of serpents, which gave it the name
of the 'Coatepantli,' or 'wall of serpents.' This wall was pierced by
huge battlemented gateways, opening upon the four principal streets of
the city, and over each gate was a kind of arsenal filled with arms and
warlike gear. The teocalli itself was of the usual pyramidal shape, and
five stories high, coated on the outside with hewn stones. The ascent
was by flights of steps on the outside, and Cortés found two priests and
several caciques waiting to carry him up them as they had just carried
the emperor; but the general declined this compliment, preferring to
march up at the head of his men. On reaching the great paved space at
the summit, the first thing they saw was the stone on which the unhappy
victims were stretched for sacrifice; at the other end of the platform
stood two-towers, each three stories high, the lower story being of
stone, the two upper of carved wood. In these stood the images of the
gods, and before each stood an altar upon which blazed the undying
fires, the putting out of which was supposed to portend so much woe to
the nation. Here also was the huge drum, made of serpents' skins, struck
only on extraordinary occasions, when it sent forth a melancholy sound
that could be heard for miles--a sound of woe to the Spaniards in after
times. Montezuma, attended by a high priest, came forward to receive
Cortés. After conferring with the priests the emperor conducted the
Spaniards into the building, which was adorned with sculptured figures;
at one end was a recess, with a roof of timber richly carved and gilt,
and here stood a colossal image of Huitzilopochtli, the war-god. His
countenance was hideous; in his right hand he held a bow, and in his
left a bunch of golden arrows, which a mystic legend connected with the
victories of his people. A huge serpent of pearls and precious stones
was coiled about his waist, and costly jewels were profusely sprinkled
over his person. On his left foot were the delicate feathers of the
humming-bird, from which, singularly enough, he took his name, while
round his neck hung a chain of gold and silver hearts, as an emblem of
the sacrifice in which he most delighted. Indeed, even at that moment
three bleeding human hearts lay upon the altar before him. The next
sanctuary was dedicated to Tezcatlipoca, who, they believed, had created
the earth and watched over it. He was represented as a young man, and
his image of polished black stone was garnished with gold plates and
ornaments, among which was a shield burnished like a mirror, in which he
was supposed to see reflected all the doings of the world; and before
this shrine also lay five hearts in a golden platter. From the horrors
of this place the Spaniards gladly escaped into the open air, and Cortés
said, turning to Montezuma, 'I do not understand how a great and wise
prince like you can put faith in such evil spirits as these idols. If
you will but permit us to erect here the true cross, and place the
images of the Blessed Virgin and her Son in your sanctuaries, you will
soon see how your false gods will shrink before them.' Montezuma was
greatly shocked at this speech. 'These,' said he, 'are the gods who have
led the Aztecs on to victory since they were a nation, and who send us
the seed time and harvest. Had I thought you would have offered them
this outrage I would not have admitted you into their presence.' Cortés
then took his leave, expressing concern for having wounded the feelings
of the emperor, who remained to expiate, if possible, the crime of
having exposed the shrines of his gods to such profanation by the
strangers. On descending into the court the Spaniards took a leisurely
survey of the other buildings in the enclosure; there were several other
teocallis, but much smaller ones, in which the Spaniards saw implements
of sacrifice and many other horrors. And there was also a great mound
with a timber framework upon its summit, upon which were strung hundreds
of thousands of skulls--those of the victims who had been sacrificed.
Schools, granaries, gardens, and fountains filled up the remainder of
the enclosed space, which seemed a complete city in itself, containing a
mixture of barbarism and civilisation altogether characteristic of the
Aztec nation. The next day the Spaniards asked permission to convert one
of the halls in their palace into a chapel where they might hold the
services of their church. The request was granted, and while the work
was in progress some of them discovered what seemed to be a door
recently plastered over. As there was a rumour that Montezuma kept the
treasures of his father in this palace, they did not scruple to gratify
their curiosity by removing the plaster and forcing open the door which
it concealed, when they beheld a great hall filled with rich and
beautiful stuffs, articles of curious workmanship of various kinds, gold
and silver in bars or just as it had been dug from the earth, and many
jewels of great value. 'I was a young man,' says one of the Spaniards
who was allowed a sight of the treasure, 'and it seemed to me that all
the riches of the world were in that room.'

By Cortés' order the wall was built up again, and strict injunctions
were given that the discovery should be kept a profound secret. The
Spaniards had now been a week in Mexico, and the general's anxieties
increased daily. Cortés resolved upon a bold stroke. Calling a council
of his officers, he laid his difficulties before them, and, ignoring the
opinion of some who advised an immediate retreat, he proposed to march
to the royal palace and by persuasion or force to induce Montezuma to
take up his abode in the Spanish quarters. Once having obtained
possession of his person, it would be easy to rule in his name by
allowing him a show of sovereignty, until they had taken measures to
secure their own safety and the success of their enterprise. A pretext
for the seizure of the emperor was afforded by a circumstance which had
come to the ears of Cortés while he was still in Cholula. Don Juan de
Escalante, who had been left in charge of the Spanish settlement at Vera
Cruz, had received a message from an Aztec chief called Quanhpopoca
declaring his desire to come in person and tender his allegiance to the
Spaniards, and requesting that four soldiers might be sent to protect
him through the country of an unfriendly tribe. This was not an uncommon
request, and the soldiers were sent, but on their arrival two of them
were treacherously murdered by the Aztec; the others escaped, and made
their way back to the garrison. The commander at once marched with fifty
of his men and some thousands of Indians to take vengeance upon the
cacique, and though his allies fled before the Mexicans, the few
Spaniards stood firm, and by the aid of their firearms made good the
field against the enemy. Unfortunately, seven or eight of them were
killed, including Escalante himself, and the Indians who were taken
prisoners declared that the whole proceeding had been by Montezuma's
orders. One of the Spaniards fell into the hands of the enemy, but soon
died from his wounds. He happened to be a very big man of ferocious
appearance, and when his head was sent to Montezuma, the Aztec emperor
gazed upon it with a shudder, and commanded that it should be taken out
of the city, and not offered at the shrine of any of his gods. He seemed
to see in those terrible features a prophecy of his sure destruction.
The bolder spirits among the cavaliers approved of the general's plan,
and the next day, having asked an audience of Montezuma, Cortés made the
necessary arrangements for his enterprise. The principal part of his
force was drawn up in the courtyard; one detachment was stationed in the
avenue leading to the palace, to prevent any attempt at rescue by the
citizens. Twenty-five or thirty soldiers were ordered to drop in at the
palace by twos and threes, as if accidentally, and he took with him five
cavaliers on whose coolness and courage he could rely.

That they should all be in full armour excited no suspicion; it was too
common an occurrence. The Spaniards were graciously received by the
emperor, who by the aid of interpreters held a gay conversation with
them, and as usual presented them with gold and jewels. He paid Cortés
the compliment of offering him one of his daughters in marriage--an
honour which was respectfully declined, on the ground that he already
had one wife. But as soon as the general saw that his soldiers had all
come upon the scene he abruptly changed his tone, and accused the
emperor of being the author of the treacherous proceedings on the coast.
Montezuma listened in surprise, and declared that such an act could only
have been imputed to him by his enemies. Cortés pretended to believe
him, but said that Quanhpopoca and his accomplices must be sent for that
they might be dealt with after their deserts. Montezuma agreed, and,
taking his royal signet from his wrist, gave it to one of his nobles,
with orders to show it to the Aztec governor and require his immediate
presence in the capital, and in case of his resistance to call in the
aid of the neighbouring towns. When the messenger had gone, Cortés
assured the emperor that he was now convinced of his innocence in the
matter, but that it was necessary that his own sovereign should be
equally convinced of it. Nothing would promote this so much as for
Montezuma to transfer his residence to the palace occupied by the
Spaniards, as this would show a condescension and personal regard for
them which would absolve him from all suspicion. The emperor listened to
this proposal with profound amazement, exclaiming with resentment and
offended dignity:

'When was it ever heard that a great prince like myself willingly left
his own palace to become a prisoner in the hands of strangers?'

Cortés declared that he would not go as a prisoner, but would be simply
changing his residence. 'If I should consent to such degradation,' he
cried, 'my subjects never would.'

When further pressed, he offered one of his sons and two of his
daughters as hostages, so that he might be spared this disgrace. Two
hours passed in this fruitless discussion, till Velasquez de Leon,
impatient of the long delay, and seeing that to fail in the attempt must
ruin them, cried out, 'Why do we waste words on this barbarian? Let us
seize him, and if he resists plunge our swords into his body!' The
fierce tone and menacing gesture alarmed the emperor, who asked Marina
what the angry Spaniard said. She explained as gently as she could,
beseeching him to accompany the white men, who would treat him with all
respect and kindness, while if he refused he would but expose himself to
violence, perhaps to death.

This last appeal shook the resolution of Montezuma; looking round for
support and sympathy, he saw only the stern faces and mail-clad forms of
the Spaniards, and felt that his hour had indeed come. In a scarcely
audible voice he consented to accompany them, and orders were given for
the royal litter to be brought. The nobles who bore and attended it
could hardly credit their senses, but now Montezuma had consented to go
pride made him wish to appear to go willingly. As the royal retinue
marched dejectedly down the avenue, escorted by the Spaniards, the
people ran together in crowds, declaring that the emperor had been
carried off by force, and a tumult would have arisen had not he himself
called out to them to disperse, since he was of his own accord visiting
his friends, and on reaching the Spanish quarters he sent out his nobles
to the mob with similar assurances, bidding them all return to their
homes.

He was received with ostentatious respect by the Spaniards, and chose
the apartments which pleased him best, which were speedily furnished
with tapestry, featherwork, and all other Indian luxuries. He was
attended by his own household, and his meals were served with the usual
pomp and ceremony, while not even the general himself approached him
without due obeisance, or sat down in his presence uninvited.
Nevertheless it was but too clear to his people that he was a prisoner,
for day and night the palace was guarded by sixty sentinels in front and
sixty in the rear, while another body was stationed in the royal
antechamber. This was the state of affairs when Quanhpopoca arrived from
the coast. Montezuma received him coldly, and referred the matter to
Cortés, who speedily made an end of it by condemning the unhappy chief
and his followers to be burnt to death. The funeral piles were erected
in the courtyard before the palace, and were made of arrows, javelins,
and other weapons drawn by the emperor's permission from those stored
round the great teocalli. To crown these extraordinary proceedings,
Cortés, just before the executions took place, entered the emperor's
apartments, followed by a soldier bearing fetters in his hands. Sternly
he again accused Montezuma of having been the original contriver of the
treacherous deed, and said that a crime which merited death in a subject
must in some way be atoned for even by a king, whereupon he ordered the
soldier to fasten the fetters upon Montezuma's ankles, and after coolly
waiting until it was done turned his back and quitted the room.

The emperor was speechless under this last insult, like one struck down
by a heavy blow. But though he offered no resistance low moans broke
from him, which showed the anguish of his spirit. His faithful
attendants did their utmost to console him, holding his feet in their
arms, and trying to keep the irons from touching him by inserting their
own robes; but it was not the bodily discomfort that so afflicted him,
but the feeling that he was no more a king, and so utterly broken in
spirit was he that when Cortés came after the execution had taken place,
and with his own hands unclasped the irons, Montezuma actually thanked
him as if for some great and unmerited favour. Not long after the
Spanish general expressed his willingness that the emperor should if he
wished return to his own palace, but Montezuma declined the offer,
doubtless fearing to trust himself again to the haughty and ferocious
chieftains, who could not but despise the cowardly proceedings of their
master, so unlike the usual conduct of an Aztec monarch. Montezuma often
amused himself with seeing the Spanish troops go through their
exercises, or with playing at some of the national games with Cortés and
his officers. A favourite one was called 'totoloque,' played with
golden balls, which were thrown at a golden target, and the emperor
always staked precious stones or ingots of gold, and won or lost with
equal good-humour, and indeed it did not much matter to him, since if he
did win he gave away his gains to his attendants. But while Montezuma
thus resigned himself without a struggle to a life of captivity, some of
his kinsmen were feeling very differently about the matter, and
especially his nephew Cacama, lord of the Tezcuco, and second in power
to Montezuma himself.

[Illustration]

This prince saw with alarm and indignation his uncle's abject submission
to the Spaniards, and endeavoured to form a league with the other chiefs
to rescue him out of their hands. But they, from jealousy, declined to
join him, declaring themselves unwilling to do anything without the
emperor's sanction. These plots came to the ears of Cortés, who wished
at once to march upon Tezcuco and stamp out this spark of rebellion, but
Montezuma dissuaded him. He therefore sent a friendly message of
expostulation, which met with a haughty response, and to a second
message asserting the supremacy of the King of Spain Cacama replied that
'he acknowledged no such authority. He knew nothing of the Spanish
sovereign or his people, nor did he wish to know anything of them.' When
Montezuma sent to him to come to Mexico that this difference might be
adjusted, he answered that he understood the position of his uncle, and
that when he did visit the capital it would be to rescue it, as well as
the emperor himself and their common gods, from bondage, to drive out
the detested strangers who had brought such dishonour on their country.
This reply made Cortés very angry; but Montezuma, anxious to prevent
bloodshed, begged him still to refrain from declaring war against
Cacama, saying that it would be better to obtain possession of him
personally, which he could easily do by means of several Tezcucan nobles
who were in his own pay. So Cacama was enticed by these faithless chiefs
into a villa overhanging the lake, where he was easily overpowered and
forced into a boat, which speedily brought him to Mexico. Cortés
promptly fettered and imprisoned him, while Montezuma declared that he
had by his rebellion forfeited his kingdom and appointed his brother--a
mere boy--to reign in his stead. Now Cortés felt himself powerful enough
to demand that Montezuma and all his nobles should formally swear
allegiance to the Spanish sovereigns, and accordingly the emperor
assembled his principal caciques and briefly stated to them the object
for which he had summoned them.

'You all know,' said he, 'our ancient tradition--how the great Being,
who once ruled over the land, declared that he would one day return and
reign again. That time has now arrived. The white men have come from the
land beyond the ocean, where the sun rises, sent by their master to
reclaim the obedience of his ancient subjects. I am ready, for my part,
to acknowledge his authority. You have been faithful vassals of mine all
the years that I have sat upon the throne of my fathers; I now expect
that you will show me a last act of obedience, by acknowledging the
great king beyond the waters to be your lord also, and that you will pay
him tribute as you have hitherto done to me.' As he spoke the tears fell
fast down his cheeks, and his nobles were deeply affected by the sight
of his distress. Many of them, coming from a distance, and not having
realised what was taking place in the capital, were filled with
astonishment on beholding the voluntary abasement of their master, whom
they had reverenced as the all-powerful lord of the whole country. His
will, they told him, was their law now as ever, and if he thought the
sovereign of the strangers was the ancient lord of their country, they
were willing to swear allegiance to him as such. Accordingly the oaths
were administered with all due solemnity, and a full record of the
proceedings was drawn up by the royal notary to be sent to Spain. Cortés
now seemed to have accomplished most of the great objects of his
expedition, but towards the conversion of the natives he had made no
progress, and still the horrible sacrifices took place day by day. The
general could bear it no longer, but told the emperor that the
Christians could not consent to hold the services of their religion shut
in within the narrow walls of the garrison. They wished to spread its
light abroad and share its blessings with the people. To this end they
requested that the great teocalli should be given up to them as a fit
place where their worship might be conducted in the presence of the
whole city. Montezuma listened in consternation.

'Malinche,' said he, 'why will you push matters to an extremity that
must surely bring down the vengeance of our gods and stir up an
insurrection among my people, who will never endure this profanation of
their temple?'

Cortés, seeing that he was much agitated, pretended that the demand had
come from his followers, and that he would endeavour to persuade them to
be contented with one of the sanctuaries of the teocalli. If that were
not granted, they should be obliged to take it by force and to throw
down the idols in the face of the city. Montezuma, still greatly
disturbed, promised to confer with the priests, and in the end the
Spaniards were allowed to take possession of one of the sanctuaries, in
which, when it had been purified, an altar was raised, surmounted by a
crucifix and the imago of the Virgin; its walls were decorated with
garlands of fresh flowers, and an old soldier was stationed to watch
over it. Then the whole army moved in solemn procession up the winding
ascent of the pyramid, and mass was celebrated by Father Olmedo and
another priest, while the Aztecs looked on with mingled curiosity and
repugnance. For a nation will endure any outrage sooner than that which
attacks its religion, and this profanation touched a feeling in the
natives which the priests were not slow to take advantage of.

Soon the Spaniards noticed a change in Montezuma. He was grave instead
of cheerful, and avoided their society. Many conferences went on between
him and the priests and nobles, at which even Orteguilla, his favourite
page, was not allowed to be present. Presently Cortés received a summons
to appear before the emperor, who told him that his predictions had come
to pass, his gods were offended, and threatened to forsake the city if
the sacrilegious strangers were not driven from it, or sacrificed on
their altars as an expiation. 'If you have any regard for your safety,'
he continued, 'you will leave the country without delay. I have only to
raise my finger, and every Aztec in the land will rise against you.'

Cortés knew well enough that this was true, but, concealing his dismay,
he replied that he should much regret to leave the capital so
precipitately, especially when he had no ships to take him back to his
own country. He should also regret that if he quitted it under these
circumstances he should be driven to taking the emperor with him.
Montezuma was evidently troubled by this last suggestion, and finally
offered to send workmen to the coast to build ships under the direction
of the Spaniards, while he restrained the impatience of his people with
the assurance that the white men would leave their land as soon as they
were ready. This was accordingly done, and the work went forward at Vera
Cruz with great apparent alacrity, but those who directed it took care
to interpose as many delays as possible, while Cortés hoped in the
meantime to receive such reinforcements from Spain as should enable him
to hold his ground. Nevertheless the whole aspect of affairs in the
Spanish quarters was utterly changed; apprehension had taken the place
of security, and as many precautions were observed as if the garrison
was actually in a state of siege. Such was the unpleasant state of
affairs when, in May 1520, six months after his arrival in the capital,
Cortés received tidings from the coast which caused him greater alarm
than even the threatened insurrection of the Aztecs. The jealous
governor of Cuba was sending an expedition to attack Cortés.

It was the news of the arrival of this fleet at the place where he had
himself landed at first that had caused Cortés so much consternation,
for he at once suspected that it was sent by his bitter enemy the
governor. The commander of this second expedition, who was called
Narvaez, having landed, soon met with a Spaniard from one of the
exploring parties sent out by Cortés. This man related all that had
occurred since the Spanish envoys left Vera Cruz, the march into the
interior, the furious battles with the Tlascalans, the occupation of
Mexico, the rich treasures found in it, and the seizure of Montezuma,
'whereby,' said the soldier, 'Cortés rules over the land like its own
sovereign, so that a Spaniard may travel unarmed from one end of the
country to the other without insult or injury.'

Narvaez and his followers listened in speechless amazement to this
marvellous report, and the leader waxed more and more indignant at the
thought of all that had been snatched from Velasquez, whose adherent he
was. He now openly proclaimed his intention of marching against Cortés
and punishing him, so that even the natives who had flocked to this new
camp comprehended that these white men were enemies of those who had
come before. Narvaez proposed to establish a colony in the barren, sandy
spot which Cortés had abandoned, and when informed of the existence of
Villa Rica, he sent to demand the submission of the garrison. Sandoval
had kept a sharp eye upon the movements of Narvaez from the time that
his ships had first appeared upon the horizon, and when he heard of his
having landed he prepared to defend his post to the last extremity. But
the only invaders of Villa Rica were a priest named Guevara and four
other Spaniards, who formally addressed Sandoval, pompously enumerating
the services and claims of Velasquez, taxing Cortés with rebellion, and
finally demanding that Sandoval should tender his submission to Narvaez.
That officer, greatly exasperated, promptly seized the unlucky priest
and his companions, and, remarking that they might read the obnoxious
proclamation to the general himself in Mexico, ordered them to be bound
like bales of goods upon the backs of sturdy porters and placed under a
guard of twenty Spaniards, and in this way, travelling day and night,
only stopping to obtain relays of carriers, they came within sight of
the capital at the end of the fourth day.

Its inhabitants were already aware of the fresh arrival of white men
upon the coast. Indeed Montezuma had sent for Cortés and told him there
was no longer any obstacle to his leaving the country, as a fleet was
ready for him, and in answer to his astonished inquiries, had shown him
a picture map sent him from the coast, whereon the Spaniards, with their
ships and equipments, were minutely depicted. Cortés pretended to be
vastly pleased by this intelligence, and the tidings were received in
the camp with firing of cannon and other demonstrations of joy, for the
soldiers took the newcomers for a reinforcement from Spain. Not so
Cortés, who guessed from the first that they came from the governor of
Cuba. He told his suspicions to his officers, who in turn informed the
men; but, though alarm succeeded their joy, they resolved to stand by
their leader come what might. When Sandoval's letter acquainting him
with all particulars was brought to Cortés, he instantly sent and
released the bewildered prisoners from their ignominious position, and
furnished them with horses to make their entry into the capital, where,
by treating them with the utmost courtesy and loading them with gifts,
he speedily converted them from enemies into friends, and obtained from
them much important information respecting the designs of Narvaez and
the feelings of his army. He gathered that gold was the great object of
the soldiers, who were evidently willing to co-operate with Cortés if by
so doing they could obtain it. Indeed, they had no particular regard for
their own leader, who was arrogant, and by no means liberal. Profiting
by these important hints, the general sent a conciliatory letter to
Narvaez, beseeching him not to unsettle the natives by a show of
animosity, when it was only by union they could hope for success, and
declaring that for his part he was ready to greet Narvaez as a brother
in arms, to share with him the fruits of conquest, and, if he could
produce a royal commission, to submit to his authority. Of course Cortés
knew well enough that he had no such commission to show. Soon after the
departure of Guevara he resolved to send a special envoy of his own, and
chose Father Olmedo for the task, with instructions to converse
privately with as many of the officers and soldiers as he could with a
view to securing their goodwill; and to this end he was also provided
with a liberal supply of gold. During this time Narvaez had abandoned
his idea of planting a colony on the sea-coast, and had marched inland
and taken up his quarters at Cempoalla. He received the letter of Cortés
with scorn, which changed to stern displeasure when Guevara enlarged
upon the power of his rival and urged him to accept his friendly offers.
But the troops, on the other hand, listened with greedy ears to the
accounts of Cortés, his frank and liberal manners, and the wealth of his
camp, where the meanest soldier could stake his ingot and his chain of
gold at play, and where all revelled in plenty. And when Father Olmedo
arrived, his eloquence and his gifts soon created a party in the
interest of Cortés. This could not go on so secretly as not to excite
the suspicions of Narvaez, and the worthy priest was sent back to his
master, but the seed which he had sown was left to grow.

Narvaez continued to speak of Cortés as a traitor whom he intended to
punish, and he also declared he would release Montezuma from captivity
and restore him to his throne. It was rumoured that the Aztec monarch
had sent him a rich gift, and entered into correspondence with him. All
this was observed by the watchful eye of Sandoval, whose spies
frequented his enemy's camp, and he presently sent to Cortés saying that
something must speedily be done to prevent Villa Rica from falling into
the hands of the enemy, and pointing out that many of the Indians, from
sheer perplexity, were no longer to be relied upon.

The general felt that it was indeed time to act, but the situation was
one of great difficulty. However, he marched against Narvaez, defeated
and captured him, embodied his forces, and set out on his return to
Mexico, where he had left Alvarado in command.

On his march he received a letter from Alvarado, which conveyed the
startling news that the Mexicans were up in arms and had assaulted the
Spanish quarters, that they had overwhelmed the garrison with a torrent
of missiles, which had killed some and wounded many, and had burned some
brigantines which Cortés had built to secure a means of retreat, and it
ended by imploring him to hasten to the relief of his men if he would
save them or keep his hold on the capital. This was a heavy blow to
Cortés, but there was no time for hesitation. He laid the matter fully
before his soldiers, and all declared their readiness to follow him.

On June 24, 1520, the army reached the same causeway by which they had
before entered the capital; but now no crowds lined the roads, and no
pirogues swarmed upon the lake; a death-like stillness brooded over the
scene. As they marched across Cortés ordered the trumpets to sound, and
their shrill notes were answered by a joyful peal of artillery from the
beleaguered fortress. The soldiers quickened their pace, and all were
soon in the city once more. But here the appearance of things was far
from reassuring. In many places they saw the smaller bridges had been
taken away; the town seemed deserted, and the tramp of the horses
awakened melancholy echoes in the deserted streets. When they reached
the palace the great gates were speedily thrown open, and Cortés and his
party were eagerly welcomed by the garrison, who had much to tell and to
hear. Of course the general's first inquiry was as to the origin of the
tumult, and this was the story he heard.

The Aztec festival called 'The incensing of Huitzilopochtli' was about
to be celebrated, in which, as it was an important one, nearly all the
nobles took part. The caciques asked the permission of Alvarado to
perform their rites in the teocalli which contained the chapel of the
Spaniards, and to be allowed the presence of Montezuma. This latter
request was refused, but he consented to their using the teocalli
provided they came unarmed and held no human sacrifice. Accordingly, on
the day appointed the Aztecs assembled to the number of at least six
hundred. They wore their magnificent gala costumes, with mantles of
featherwork sprinkled with precious stones, and collars, bracelets, and
ornaments of gold. Alvarado and his men, fully armed, attended as
spectators, and when the hapless natives were engaged in one of their
ceremonial dances, they fell upon them suddenly, sword in hand. Then
followed a great and dreadful slaughter. Unarmed, and taken unawares,
the Aztecs were hewn down without resistance. Those who attempted to
escape by climbing the wall of serpents were speared ruthlessly, till
presently not one of that gay company remained alive; then the Spaniards
added the crowning horror to their dreadful deed by plundering the
bodies of their murdered victims. The tidings of the massacre flew like
wildfire through the capital, and every long-smothered feeling of
hostility burst forth in the cry that arose for vengeance. The city rose
in arms to a man and almost before the Spaniards could secure themselves
in their defences, they were assaulted with desperate fury: some of the
assailants attempted to scale the walls, others succeeded in partially
undermining and setting fire to the works. It is impossible to say how
the attack would have ended, but the Spaniards entreated Montezuma to
interfere, and he, mounting the battlements, conjured the furious people
to desist from storming the fortress out of regard for his safety. They
so far respected him that they changed their operations into a regular
blockade, throwing up works round the palace to prevent the egress of
the Spaniards, and suspending the market so that they might not obtain
any supplies, and then they sat down to wait sullenly till famine should
throw their enemies into their hands.

The condition of the besieged was gloomy enough. True their provisions
still held out, but they suffered greatly from want of water, that
within the enclosure being quite brackish, until a fresh spring was
suddenly discovered in the courtyard. Even then the fact that scarcely a
man had escaped unwounded, and that they had no prospect before them but
a lingering death by famine, or one more dreadful still upon the altar
of sacrifice, made their situation a very trying one. The coming of
their comrades was therefore doubly welcome. As an explanation of his
atrocious act, Alvarado declared that he had but struck the blow to
intimidate the natives and crush an intended rising of the people, of
which he had received information through his spies.

Cortés listened calmly till the story was finished, then exclaimed with
undisguised displeasure, 'You have done badly. You have been false to
your trust. Your conduct has been that of a madman!' And so saying, he
turned and left him abruptly, no doubt bitterly regretting that he had
entrusted so important a command to one whose frank and captivating
exterior was but the mask for a rash and cruel nature. Vexed with his
faithless lieutenant, and embarrassed by the disastrous consequences of
his actions, Cortés for the first time lost his self-control, and
allowed his disgust and irritation to be plainly seen. He treated
Montezuma with haughty coldness, even speaking of him as 'this dog of a
king' in the presence of his chiefs, and bidding them fiercely go tell
their master and his people to open the markets, or he would do it for
them to their cost. The chiefs retired in deep resentment at the insult,
which they comprehended well enough from his look and gesture, and the
message lost nothing of its effect in transmission. By the suggestion of
Montezuma, Cortés now released his brother Cuitlahua, thinking he might
allay the tumult and bring about a better state of things. But this
failed utterly, for the prince, who was bold and ambitious, was bitterly
incensed by the injuries he had received from the Spaniards. Moreover,
he was the heir presumptive to the crown, and was welcomed by the people
as a substitute for the captive Montezuma. So being an experienced
warrior, he set himself to arrange a more efficient plan of operations
against the Spaniards, and the effect was soon visible. Cortés,
meanwhile, had so little doubt of his ability to quench the insurrection
that he said as much in the letter that he wrote to the garrison of
Villa Rica informing them of his safe arrival in the capital. But his
messenger had not been gone half-an-hour before he returned breathless
with terror, and covered with wounds, saying that the city was in arms,
the drawbridges were raised, and the enemy would soon be upon them.

Surely enough before long a hoarse, sullen roar arose, becoming louder
and louder, till from the parapet surrounding the enclosure the great
avenues that led to it could be seen dark with masses of warriors
rolling on in a confused tide towards the fortress, while at the same
time the flat roofs of the neighbouring houses were suddenly covered, as
if by magic, with swarms of menacing figures, brandishing their
weapons--a sight to appal the stoutest heart.


FIGHTING IN MEXICO.

When notice was given of the approach of the Aztecs, each man was soon
at his post, and prepared to give them a warm reception. On they came,
rushing forward in dense columns, each with its gay banner, and as they
neared the enclosure they set up the hideous yell or shrill whistle used
in fight, which rose high above the sound of their rude musical
instruments. They followed this by a tempest of stones, darts, and
arrows, which fell thick as rain on the besieged, and at the same time
those upon the roofs also discharged a blinding volley. The Spaniards
waited until the foremost column was within fire, and then, with a
general discharge of artillery, swept the ranks of their assailants,
mowing them down by hundreds. The Mexicans for a moment stood aghast,
but soon rallying swept boldly forward over the prostrate bodies of
their comrades: a second and third volley checked them and threw their
ranks into disorder, but still they pressed on, letting off clouds of
arrows, while those on the house-tops took deliberate aim at the
soldiers in the courtyard. Soon some of the Aztecs succeeded in getting
close enough to the wall to be sheltered by it from the fire of the
Spaniards, and they made gallant efforts to scale the parapet, but only
to be shot down, one after another, as soon as their heads appeared
above the rampart. Defeated here, they tried to effect a breach by
battering the wall with heavy pieces of timber, but it proved too strong
for them, and then they shot burning arrows among the temporary
buildings in the courtyard. Several of these took fire, and soon a
fierce conflagration was raging, which was only to be checked by
throwing down part of the wall itself, and thus laying open a formidable
breach. This was protected by a battery of heavy guns, and a file of
arquebusiers, who kept up an incessant volley through the opening. All
day the fight raged with fury, and even when night came, and the Aztecs
suspended operations according to their usual custom, the Spaniards
found but little repose, being in hourly expectation of an assault.
Early the next morning the combatants returned to the charge. Cortés did
not yet realise the ferocity and determination of the Mexicans, and
thought by a vigorous sortie he would reduce them to order, and, indeed,
when the gates were thrown open, and he sallied out, followed by his
cavalry, supported by a large body of infantry and Tlascalans, they were
taken by surprise and retreated in some confusion behind a barricade
which they had thrown up across the street.

But by the time Cortés had ordered up his heavy guns and demolished the
barrier they had rallied again, and though, when the fight had raged all
day, Cortés was, on the whole, victorious, still he had been so harassed
on all sides by the battalions of natives who swarmed in from every side
street and lane, by those in canoes upon the canal, and by the showers
of huge stones from those upon the house-tops, that his losses had been
severe. Earlier in the day he had caused a number of houses to be burned
to rid himself of some of his tormentors, but the Aztecs could probably
better afford to lose a hundred men than the Spaniards one, and the
Mexican ranks showed no signs of thinning. At length, exhausted by toil
and hunger, the Spanish commander drew off his men, and retreated into
his quarters, pursued to the last by showers of darts and arrows; and
when the Spaniards re-entered their fortress, the Indians once more
encamped round it; and though through the night they were inactive,
still they frequently broke the stillness with menacing cries and
insults.

'The gods have delivered you into our hands at last!' they said.
'Huitzilopochtli has long cried for his victims. The stone of sacrifice
is ready--the knives are sharpened. The wild beasts in the palace are
roaring for their feast.' These taunts, which sounded dismally in the
ears of the besieged, were mingled with piteous lamentations for
Montezuma, whom they entreated the Spaniards to deliver up to them.
Cortés was suffering much from a severe wound and from his many
anxieties, and he determined to induce Montezuma to exert his authority
to allay the tumult. In order to give greater effect to his appearance
he put on his imperial robes. His mantle of blue and white was held by a
rich clasp of the precious 'chalchivitl,' which with emeralds of
uncommon size, set in gold, also ornamented other portions of his dress.
His feet were shod with golden sandals, and upon his head he wore the
Mexican diadem. Surrounded by a guard of Spaniards and preceded by a
golden wand, the symbol of sovereignty, the Indian monarch ascended the
central turret of the palace. His presence was instantly recognised by
the people, and a magical change came over the scene: the clang of the
instruments and the fierce cries of the assailants ceased, and many in
the hushed throng knelt or prostrated themselves, while all eyes were
turned with eager expectation upon the monarch whom they had been taught
to regard with slavish awe. Montezuma saw his advantage, and in the
presence of his awestruck people felt once more a king. With his former
calm authority and confidence he addressed them:

'Why do I see my people here in arms against the palace of my fathers?
Is it that you think your sovereign a prisoner, and wish to release him?
If so you have done well; but you are mistaken. I am no prisoner. The
strangers are my guests. I remain with them only for choice, and can
leave them when I will. Have you come to drive them from the city? That
is unnecessary; they will depart of their own accord if you will open a
way for them. Return to your homes then. Lay down your arms. Show your
obedience to me, whose right it is. The white men shall go back to their
land, and all shall be well again within the walls of Mexico.'

As Montezuma declared himself the friend of the detested strangers a
murmur of contempt ran through the multitude. Their rage and desire for
vengeance made them forget their ancient reverence, and turned them
against their unfortunate monarch.

'Base Aztec,' they cried, 'woman, coward! The white men have made you a
woman, fit only to weave and spin.'

A chief of high rank brandished a javelin at Montezuma, as these taunts
were uttered, and in an instant the place where he stood was assailed
with a cloud of stones and arrows. The Spaniards, who had been thrown
off their guard by the respect shown by the people on their lord's
appearance, now hastily interposed their shields, but it was too late:
Montezuma was wounded by three of the missiles, one of which, a stone,
struck him on the head with such violence that he fell senseless to the
ground. The Mexicans, shocked at their own sacrilegious act, set up a
dismal cry, and dispersed panic-stricken until not one of all the host
remained in the great square before the palace. Meanwhile, the unhappy
king was borne to his own apartments, and as soon as he recovered from
his insensibility the full misery of his situation broke upon him. He
had tasted the last bitterness of degradation. He had been reviled and
rejected by his people. Even the meanest of the rabble had raised their
hands against him, and he had nothing left to live for. In vain did
Cortés and his officers endeavour to soothe the anguish of his spirit
and encourage him to hope for better things. Montezuma answered not a
word. His wounds, though dangerous, need not have proved fatal had he
not refused all remedies, tearing off the bandages as often as they were
applied, and maintaining all the while a determined silence. He sat
motionless, with downcast eyes, brooding over his humiliation; but from
this painful scene the Spanish general was soon called away by the new
dangers which threatened the garrison.

[Illustration: MONTEZUMA ASSAILED BY MISSILES]

Opposite to the Spanish quarters stood the great teocalli of
Huitzilopochtli, rising to a height of nearly a hundred and fifty feet,
and thus completely commanding the palace occupied by the Spaniards. A
body of five or six hundred Mexicans, many of them nobles and warriors
of the highest rank, now took possession of the teocalli, whence they
discharged such a tempest of arrows upon the garrison that it was
impossible for any soldier to show himself for an instant outside his
defences without great danger, while the Mexicans themselves were
completely sheltered. It was absolutely necessary that they should be
dislodged, and Cortés entrusted the task to his chamberlain Escobar,
giving him a hundred men for the purpose. But after making three
desperate attempts, in which he was repulsed with considerable loss,
this officer returned unsuccessful, and Cortés determined to lead the
storming party himself, though he was suffering much from a wound which
disabled his left hand. He made the arm serviceable, however, by
strapping his shield to it, and thus prepared sallied forth at the head
of three hundred chosen cavaliers and several thousand of the Indian
allies. In the courtyard of the temple a body of Mexicans was drawn up
to oppose him, and he charged them briskly, but the horses could not
keep their footing on the slippery pavement, and many of them fell.
Hastily dismounting the Spaniards sent the animals back to their
quarters, and then, renewing the assault, had little difficulty in
dispersing the Indians and securing a passage to the teocalli. And now
began a great and terrible struggle. You will remember that the huge
pyramid-shaped teocalli was built in five divisions, growing smaller and
smaller, till at the top you came out upon a square platform, crowned
only by the two sanctuaries in which stood the images of the Aztec gods.
You will also remember that the only ascent was by flights of stone
steps on the outside, one above another, and that it was necessary
between each flight to pass by a kind of terrace, right round the
building, so that a distance of nearly a mile had to be traversed before
reaching the top. Cortés sprang up the lower stairway, followed by
Alvarado, Sandoval, Ordaz, and the other gallant cavaliers, leaving a
strong detachment to hold the enemy in check at the foot of the temple.
On every terrace as well as on the topmost platform the Aztec warriors
were drawn up to dispute his passage. From their elevated position they
showered down heavy stones, beams, and burning rafters, which thundering
along the stairway overturned the ascending Spaniards and carried
desolation through their ranks. The more fortunate, eluding or springing
over these obstacles, succeeded in gaining the first terrace, where they
fell upon their enemies and compelled them to give way, and then, aided
by a brisk fire from the musketeers below, they pressed on, forcing
their opponents to retreat higher and higher, until at last they were
glad to take shelter on the broad summit of the teocalli. Cortés and his
companions were close behind them, and the two parties soon found
themselves face to face upon this strange battle-field, engaged in
mortal combat in the presence of the whole city, while even the troops
in the courtyard ceased hostilities, as if by mutual consent, and
watched with breathless interest the issue of the struggle.

The Spaniards and Mexicans closed with the desperate fury of men who
have no hope but in victory. Quarter was neither asked nor given, and to
fly was impossible. The edge of the platform was unprotected by parapet
or battlement, and many of the combatants, as they struggled together,
were seen to roll over the edge of the precipice, locked in a
death-grip. Cortés himself but narrowly escaped this frightful fate. Two
powerful warriors had seized upon him, and were dragging him violently
towards the side of the pyramid, when, by sheer strength, he tore
himself from their grasp and hurled one of them over the brink with his
own arm.

[Illustration]

The battle raged unceasingly for three hours. The number of the Mexicans
was double that of the Spaniards, but the armour of the latter and their
skill as swordsmen outweighed the odds against them. Resistance grew
fainter and fainter on the side of the Aztecs. The priests, who had run
to and fro among them with streaming hair and wild gestures, encouraging
and urging them on, were all slain or captured. One by one the warriors
fell dead upon the blood-drenched pavement, or were hurled from the
dizzy height, until at last the wild struggle ceased, and the Spaniards
stood alone upon the field of battle. Their victory had cost them dear,
for forty-five of their comrades lay dead, and nearly all the remainder
were more or less seriously wounded; but there was no time for regrets.
The victorious cavaliers rushed to the sanctuaries to find that the
cross and the image of the Virgin had disappeared from the one they had
appropriated, and that in the other, before the grim figure of
Huitzilopochtli, lay the usual offering of human hearts, possibly those
of their own countrymen! With shouts of triumph the Spaniards tore the
hideous idol from its niche, and in the sight of the horror-stricken
Aztecs hurled it down the steps of the teocalli, and, after having set
fire to the sanctuaries, descended joyfully into the courtyard.

Passing through the ranks of the Mexicans, who were too much dismayed by
all they had witnessed to offer any resistance, they reached their own
quarters in safety, and that very night they followed up the blow they
had struck by sallying forth into the sleeping town and burning three
hundred houses. Cortés now hoped that the natives were sufficiently
subdued to be willing to come to terms with him. He therefore invited
them to a parley, and addressed the principal chiefs, who had assembled
in the great square, from the turret before occupied by Montezuma. As
usual, Marina interpreted for him, and the Indians gazed curiously at
their countrywoman, whose influence with the Spanish general was well
known. Cortés told them that they must now know how little they had to
hope from their opposition to the Spaniards. They had seen their gods
trampled in the dust, their altars destroyed, their dwellings burned,
and their warriors falling on all sides. 'All this,' he continued, 'you
have brought upon yourselves by your rebellion. Yet, for the sake of the
affection felt for you by the sovereign you have treated so unworthily,
I would willingly stay my hand if you will lay down your arms and return
once more to your obedience. But if you do not,' he concluded, 'I will
make your city a heap of ruins, and leave not a soul alive to mourn over
it.'

But the Spanish commander did not yet understand the character of the
Aztecs if he thought to intimidate them by menaces. It was true, they
replied, that he had destroyed their temples, broken in pieces their
gods, and massacred their countrymen. Many more doubtless were yet to
fall under their terrible swords. But they were content so long as for
every thousand Mexicans they could shed the blood of a single white man.
'Look out,' they said, 'upon our streets and terraces. See them still
thronged with warriors as far as your eyes can reach. Our numbers are
scarcely diminished by our losses. Yours, on the contrary, are lessening
hour by hour. Your provisions and water are failing. You are perishing
from hunger and sickness; you must soon fall into our hands. _The
bridges are broken down, and you cannot escape!_ There will be too few
of you left to glut the vengeance of our gods.' With this they
discharged a volley of arrows, which compelled the Spaniards to beat a
speedy retreat from the turret. The fierce answer of the Aztecs filled
the besieged with dismay.

The general himself, pressed by enemies without and factions within,
was, as usual, only roused to more energetic action by a situation which
would have paralysed any ordinary mind. He calmly surveyed his position
before deciding what course he would pursue. To retreat was hazardous,
and it mortified him cruelly to abandon the city in which he had so long
been master and the rich treasure which he had secured, with which he
had hoped to propitiate the King of Spain. To fly now was to acknowledge
himself further than ever from the conquest and to give great
opportunity to his enemy, the Governor of Cuba, to triumph over him. On
the other hand, with his men daily diminishing in strength and numbers,
with the stock of provisions so nearly exhausted that one small daily
ration of bread was all the soldiers had, with the breaches in his
fortifications widening every day and his ammunition nearly gone, it was
manifestly impossible to hold the place much longer against the enemy.
Having reached this conclusion, the next difficulty was to decide how
and when it would be well to evacuate the city. He tried to fight his
way out, but he failed, and when night fell the Mexicans dispersed as
usual, and the Spaniards, tired, famished, and weak from their wounds,
slowly re-entered the citadel, only to receive tidings of a fresh
misfortune. Montezuma was dead. 'The tidings of his death,' says the old
Spanish chronicler, 'were received with real grief by every cavalier and
soldier in the army who had had access to his person, for we all loved
him as a father, and no wonder, seeing how good he was.'

Montezuma's death was a real misfortune for the Spaniards. While he
lived there was still a possibility of his influence with the natives
being of use to them. Now that hope was gone. The Spanish commander
showed all respect for his memory. His body, arrayed in its royal robes,
was laid upon a bier, and borne on the shoulders of those nobles who had
remained with him to the last to his subjects in the city, whose
wailings over it were distinctly heard by the Spaniards; but where he
was buried, and with what honours, they never knew.

The Spanish general now called a council to decide as speedily as
possible the all-important question of the retreat. It was his intention
to fall back upon Tlascala, and once there to arrange according to
circumstances his future operations. There was some difference of
opinion as to the hour of departure; but owing to the predictions of a
soldier named Botello, who pretended to be able to read the stars, and
who announced that to leave the city at night would be for the good of
his comrades, though he himself would meet his death through it, it was
decided that the fortress should be abandoned that very night. After
events proved that Botello's prophecy was unfortunately only true as far
as he himself was concerned.

The general's first care was to provide for the safe conveyance of the
treasure. The soldiers had most of them converted their share into gold
chains or collars which could be easily carried about their persons. But
the royal fifth, with that of Cortés himself and his principal officers,
was in bars and wedges of solid gold.

That belonging to the crown was now given in charge to the royal
officers, with the strongest horse to carry it, and a special guard for
its protection. But much treasure belonging to the crown and to private
individuals was necessarily abandoned, and the precious metal lay in
shining heaps upon the floors of the palace. 'Take what you will of it,'
said Cortés to the soldiers; 'better you should have it than those
Mexican hounds. But be careful not to overload yourselves: he travels
safest who travels lightest.' His own wary soldiers took heed to his
counsel, taking few treasures, and those of the smallest size. But the
troops of Narvaez thought that the very mines of Mexico lay open before
them, and the riches for which they had risked so much were within their
reach at last. Rushing upon the spoil, they loaded themselves with all
they could possibly carry or stow away.

Cortés next arranged the order of march. The van consisted of two
hundred Spanish foot, commanded by Sandoval, with twenty other
cavaliers. The rest of the infantry formed the rear-guard under Alvarado
and De Leon, while the general himself took charge of the centre, some
of the heavy guns, the baggage, the treasure, and the prisoners, among
whom were a son and two daughters of Montezuma, Cacama, and several
nobles. The Tlascalans were pretty equally divided among the three
divisions. The general had previously superintended the construction of
a portable bridge to be laid across the open canals. This was entrusted
to the care of an officer named Magarino and forty men, all pledged to
defend the passage to the last extremity. Well would it have been if
three such bridges had been made, but the labour would have been great
and the time was short. At midnight all was ready, and after a solemn
mass had been celebrated by Father Olmedo, the Spaniards for the last
time sallied forth from the ancient fortress, the scene of so much
suffering and of such great courage.


THE NIGHT OR HORROR.

The night was dark, and a fine rain fell steadily. The vast square
before the palace was deserted, as indeed it had been since the death of
Montezuma, and the Spaniards made their way across it as noiselessly as
possible, and entered the great street of Tlacopan. Though to their
anxious eyes every dark lane and alley seemed to swarm with the shadowy
forms of their enemies, it was not really so, and all went well until
the van drew near the spot where the street opened upon the causeway.
Before the bridge could be adjusted across the uncovered breach the
Mexican sentinels stationed there fled, raising the alarm as they went.
The priests from the summits of the teocallis heard them, and sounded
their shells, while the huge drum upon the desolate temple of the
war-god sent forth its solemn sound, which--heard only in seasons of
calamity--vibrated through every corner of the capital. The Spaniards
saw that there was no time to be lost; the bridge was fitted with all
speed, and Sandoval rode across first to try its strength, followed by
the first division, then came Cortés with the baggage and artillery, but
before he was well over, a sound was heard as of a stormy wind rising in
a forest. Nearer and nearer it came, and from the dark waters of the
lake rose the plashing noise of many oars. Then a few stones and arrows
fell at random among the hurrying troops, to be followed by more and
more, ever thicker and faster, till they became a terrible blinding
storm, while the air was rent with the yells and war-cries of the enemy,
who seemed to be swarming in myriads over land and lake.

The Spaniards pushed on steadily, though the Mexicans, dashing their
canoes against the sides of the causeway, clambered up and broke in upon
their ranks. The soldiers, anxious only to make their escape, simply
shook them off, or rode over them, or with their guns and swords drove
them headlong down the sides of the dyke again. But the advance of such
a body of men necessarily took time, and the leading files had already
reached the second gap in the causeway before those in the rear had
cleared the first. They were forced to halt, though severely harassed by
the fire from the canoes, which clustered thickly round this opening,
and many were the urgent messages which were sent to the rear, to hurry
up the bridge. But when it was at length clear, and Magarino and his
sturdy followers endeavoured to raise it, they found to their horror
that the weight of the artillery and the horses passing over it had
jammed it firmly into the sides of the dyke, and it was absolutely
immovable. Not till many of his men were slain and all wounded did
Magarino abandon the attempt, and then the dreadful tidings spread
rapidly from man to man, and a cry of despair arose. All means of
retreat were cut off; they were held as in a trap. Order and discipline
were at an end, for no one could hope to escape except by his own
desperate exertions. Those behind pressed forward, trampling the weak
and wounded under foot, heeding not friend or foe. Those in front were
forced over the edge of the gulf, across which some of the cavaliers
succeeded in swimming their horses, but many failed, or rolled back into
the lake in attempting to ascend the opposite bank. The infantry
followed pell-mell, heaped one upon the other, frequently pierced by the
Aztec arrows, or struck down by their clubs, and dragged into the canoes
to be reserved for a more dreadful death. All along the causeway the
battle raged fiercely.

[Illustration]

The Mexicans clambered continually up the sides of the dyke, and
grappled with the Spaniards, till they rolled together down into the
canoes. But while the Aztec fell among friends, his unhappy antagonist
was secured, and borne away in triumph to the sacrifice. The struggle
was long and deadly, but by degrees the opening in the causeway was
filled up by the wreck of the waggons, guns, rich bales of stuffs,
chests of solid ingots, and bodies of men and horses which had fallen
into it; and over this dismal ruin those in the rear were able to reach
the other side. Cortés had found a place that was fordable, and, halting
halfway across, had vainly endeavoured to check the confusion, and lead
his followers safely to the opposite bank. But his voice was lost in the
wild uproar; and at length, attended by a few trusty cavaliers, he
pushed forward to the front. Here he found Sandoval and his companions,
halting before the last breach, trying to cheer on the soldiers to
attempt the crossing; but, though not so beset with enemies as the last,
it was wide and deep, and the men's resolution failed them. Again the
cavaliers set the example, by plunging into the lake. Horse and foot
followed, swimming or clinging to the manes and tails of the horses.
Those fared best, as the general had predicted, who travelled lightest,
and many were the unfortunate wretches, who, weighed down by the fatal
treasure, were buried with it at the bottom of the lake. Cortés, with a
few others, still kept in advance, leading the miserable remnant off the
causeway. The din of battle was growing faint in the distance, when the
rumour reached them that, without speedy succour, the rearguard must be
utterly overwhelmed. It seemed a desperate venture, but the cavaliers,
without thinking of the danger, turned their horses, and galloped back
to the relief of their comrades. Swimming the canal again, they threw
themselves into the thick of the fray. The first gleam of morning light
showed the hideous confusion of the scene; the masses of combatants upon
the dyke were struggling till the very causeway seemed to rock, while as
far as the eye could see, the lake was covered with a dense crowd of
canoes full of warriors. The cavaliers found Alvarado unhorsed, and,
with a mere handful of followers, defending himself against an
overwhelming tide of the enemy, who by this time possessed the whole
rear of the causeway, and received constant reinforcements from the
city. The Spanish artillery, which had done good service at first, had
been overthrown, and utterly confounded by the rush from the back. In
the general ruin, Cortés strove by a resolute charge to give his
countrymen time to rally, but it was only for a moment: they were
speedily borne down by the returning rush. The general and his
companions were forced to plunge into the lake once more, though with
their numbers reduced this time, and Alvarado stood for an instant upon
the brink, uncertain what to do. There was no time to be lost. He was a
tall and powerful man. Setting his long lance firmly on the wreck which
strewed the lake, he gave a mighty leap which landed him in safety upon
the opposite bank. Aztecs and Tlascalans looked on in amazement at this
almost incredible feat, and a general shout arose. 'This is truly the
Tonatiuh--the Child of the Sun.' To this day, the place is called
'Alvarado's Leap.' Cortés now rode to the front, where the troops were
straggling miserably off the fatal causeway. Most fortunately, the
attention of the Aztecs was diverted by the rich spoil that strewed the
ground, and their pursuit ceased, so that the Spaniards passed
unmolested through the village of Popotla. There the Spanish commander
dismounted from his weary steed, and sitting down on the steps of an
Indian temple, looked mournfully on while the broken files dragged
slowly past. It was a piteous spectacle. The cavalry, many of them
dismounted, were mingled with the infantry, their shattered mail
dripping with the salt ooze, and showing through its rents many a
ghastly wound; their firearms, banners, baggage, artillery, everything
was gone. Cortés, as he looked sadly on their thin, disordered ranks,
sought in vain many a familiar face, and missed more than one trusty
comrade who had stood by his side through all the perils of the
conquest; and accustomed as he was to conceal his emotions, he could
bear it no longer, but covered his face with his hands, while he wept
tears of anguish. It was, however, some consolation to him that Marina
had been carried safely through the awful night by her faithful guards.
Aguilar was also alive, and Martin Lopez, who had built two boats for
him in Mexico, as well as Alvarado, Avila, Sandoval, Olid, and Ordaz.

[Illustration]

But this was no time to give way to vain regrets. Cortés hastily mounted
again and led his men as speedily as possible through Tlacopan, and, as
soon as he reached the open country, endeavoured to bring his
disorganised battalions into something like order. The broken army,
half-starved, moved slowly towards the coast. On the seventh morning the
army reached the mountain range which overlooks the plains of Otumba.
All the day before, parties of the enemy had hovered round, crying
vindictively, 'Hasten on. You will soon find yourselves where you cannot
escape!' Now, as they climbed the steep hillside, Cortés realised what
this meant, for his scouts came back reporting that a powerful body of
Aztecs was encamped upon the other side waiting for them, and truly
enough, when they looked down into the valley, they saw it filled with a
mighty host of warriors who had been gathered together by Cuitlahua, and
stationed at this point to dispute the passage of the Spaniards. Every
chief of importance had taken the field with his whole array. As far as
the eye could reach extended a moving mass of glittering shields and
spears, mingled with the banners and bright feather-mail of the
caciques, and the white cotton robes of their followers. It was a sight
to dismay the stoutest heart among the Spaniards, and even Cortés felt
that his last hour was come. But since to escape was impossible, he
disposed his little army to the best advantage, and prepared to cut his
way through the enemy or perish in the attempt. He gave his force as
broad a front as possible, protecting it on each flank with his cavalry,
now reduced to twenty horsemen, who were instructed to direct their long
lances at the faces of the enemy, and on no account to lose their hold
of them. The infantry were to thrust, not strike, with their swords, and
above all to make for the leaders of the enemy, and then, after a few
brave words of encouragement, he and his little band began to descend
the hill, rushing, as it seemed, to certain destruction. The enemy met
them with the usual storm of stones and arrows, but when the Spaniards
closed with them, their superiority became apparent, and the natives
were thrown into confusion by their own numbers as they fell back from
the charge. The infantry followed up their advantage, and a wide lane
was opened in the ranks of the enemy, who receded on all sides as if to
allow them a free passage. But it was only to return with fresh fury,
and soon the little army was entirely surrounded, standing firmly,
protected on all sides by its bristling swords and lances, like an
island in the midst of a raging sea. In spite of many gallant deeds and
desperate struggles, the Spaniards found themselves, at the end of
several hours, only more deeply wedged in by the dense masses of the
enemy. Cortés had received another wound, in the head, his horse had
fallen under him, and he had been obliged to mount one taken from the
baggage train. The fiery rays of the sun poured down upon the nearly
exhausted soldiers, who were beginning to despair and give way, while
the enemy, constantly reinforced from the rear, pressed on with
redoubled fury. At this critical moment the eagle eye of Cortés, ever on
the watch for any chance of arresting the coming ruin, descried in the
distance a chief, who, from his dress and surroundings, he knew must be
the commander of the Aztec forces. He wore a rich surcoat of
feather-work, and a gorgeous plume of jewelled feathers floated from his
helmet, while above this, and attached to his back between the
shoulders, showed a golden net fastened to a short staff--the customary
symbol of authority for an Aztec commander. Turning quickly round to
Sandoval, Olid, Alvarado, and Avila who surrounded him, he cried,
pointing to the chief, 'There is our mark! Follow and support me!' And
shouting his war-cry he plunged into the thickest of the press. Taken by
surprise the enemy fell back; those who could not escape were trampled
under his horse's feet, or pierced by his long lance; the cavaliers
followed him closely; in a few minutes they were close to the Aztec
chief, and Cortés hurled him to the ground with one stroke from his
lance; a young cavalier named Juan de Salamanca hastily dismounted and
slew him where he lay, and tearing away his banner presented it to the
Spanish general. The cacique's guard, overpowered by this sudden onset,
fled precipitately, and their panic spread to the other Indians, who,
on hearing of the death of their chief, fought no more, but thought only
of escape. In their blind terror they impeded and trampled down their
own comrades, and the Spaniards, availing themselves fully of the
marvellous turn affairs had taken, pursued them off the field, and then
returned to secure the rich booty they had left behind them.

[Illustration]

Cortés reached Tlascala in safety, and at once began to prepare his
revenge on the Mexicans, aided by reinforcements of a few Spaniards from
Vera Cruz. Gunpowder had also to be manufactured, and a cavalier named
Francio Montaño undertook the perilous task of obtaining sulphur for the
purpose from the terrible volcano of Popocatepetl. He set out with four
comrades, and after some days journeying, they reached the dense forest
which covered the base of the mountain, and forcing their way upward,
came by degrees to a more open region. As they neared the top the track
ended, and they had to climb as best they could over the black glazed
surface of the lava, which, having issued from the crater in a boiling
flood, had risen into a thousand odd forms wherever it met with any
obstacle, and continually impeded their progress. After this they
arrived at the region of perpetual snow, which increased their
difficulties, the treacherous ice giving way at every step, so that many
times they narrowly escaped falling into the frozen chasms that yawned
all round them. At last, however, they reached the mouth of the crater,
and, crawling cautiously to the very edge, peered down into its gloomy
depths. At the bottom of the abyss, which seemed to them to go down into
the very heart of the earth, a lurid flame burned sullenly, sending up a
sulphureous steam, which cooling as it rose, fell again in showers upon
the sides of the cavity. Into this one of the brave explorers had to
descend, and when they had cast lots the choice fell upon Montaño
himself. His preparations were soon made, and his companions lowered him
in a basket into the horrible chasm to a depth of four hundred feet, and
there as he hung, he scraped the sulphur from the sides of the crater,
descending again and again until he had procured enough for the wants of
the army, with which they returned triumphantly to Tlascala. Meanwhile
the construction of the ships went forward prosperously, and by
Christmas, in the year 1520, there was no longer any reason to delay the
march to Mexico.

[Illustration]

While all these preparations were being made, some changes had taken
place among the Aztecs. Cuitlahua had suddenly died after reigning four
months, and Guatemozin his nephew had been chosen in his stead. This
young prince had married one of Montezuma's daughters. He was handsome
and valiant, and so terrible that his followers trembled in his
presence. He had a sort of religious hatred of the Spaniards, and
prepared manfully to meet the perils which he saw threatening his
country, for by means of spies he had kept a watch upon the movements of
the Spaniards, and had discovered their intention of besieging the
capital. Cortés, upon reviewing his army, found that his whole force
fell little short of six hundred men, of whom forty were cavalry, and
eighty arquebusiers and cross-bowmen. The rest were armed with sword,
target, and the long copper-headed pikes, which had been made specially
by the general's directions. There were also nine cannons of moderate
size, but the supply of powder was but indifferent. Cortés published a
code of strict regulations for the guidance of his men before they set
out, and addressed them as usual with stirring words, touching all the
springs of devotion, honour, and ambition in their hearts, and rousing
their enthusiasm as only he could have done. His plan of action was to
establish his headquarters at some place upon the Tezcucan lake, whence
he could cut off the supplies from the surrounding country, and place
Mexico in a state of blockade until the completion of his ships should
enable him to begin a direct assault. The most difficult of the three
ways into the valley was the one Cortés chose; it led right across the
mountain chain, and he judged wisely that he would be less likely to be
annoyed by the enemy in that direction. Before long the army halted
within three leagues of Tezcuco, which you will remember was upon the
opposite shore of the lake to Mexico, and somewhat further north. Up to
this time they only had had a few slight skirmishes with the Aztecs,
though beacon fires had blazed upon every hill-top, showing that the
country was roused. Cortés thought it very unlikely that he would be
allowed to enter Tezcuco, which was now reigned over by Coanaco, the
friend and ally of Guatemozin. But the next morning, before the troops
were well under arms, came an embassy bearing a golden flag, and a gift
for Cortés, and imploring him to spare Coanaco's territories, and to
take up his quarters in his capital. Cortés first sternly demanded an
account of the Spaniards who, while convoying treasure to the coast, had
been slain by Coanaco just when Cortés himself was retreating to
Tlascala. The envoys declared at once that the Mexican emperor alone was
to blame; he had ordered it to be done, and had received the gold and
the prisoners. They then urged that to give them time to prepare
suitable accommodation for him, Cortés should not enter Tezcuco until
the next day; but disregarding this he marched in at once, only to find
the place deserted, and Coanaco well on his way across the lake to
Mexico. The general, however, turned this to his own advantage by
assembling the few persons left in the city, and then and there electing
a brother of the late sovereign to be ruler in his place, and when a few
months later he died, he was succeeded by Ixtlilxochitl, son of
Negahualpilli, who, always a friend of the Spaniards, now became their
most valuable ally, and by the support of his personal authority and all
his military resources, did more than any other Aztec chieftain to rivet
the chains of the strangers round the necks of his own countrymen.


THE SIEGE AND SURRENDER OF MEXICO.

The city of Tezcuco, which lay about half a league from the shore of the
lake, was probably the best position Cortés could have chosen for the
headquarters of the army. His first care was to strengthen the defences
of the palace in which they were lodged, and next to employ eight
thousand Indian labourers in widening a stream, which ran towards the
lake, so that when the ships arrived they might be put together in
Tezcuco, and floated safely down to be launched upon it. Meanwhile many
of the places in the neighbourhood sent in their submission to Cortés,
and several noble Aztecs fell into his hands. These men he employed to
bear a message to Guatemozin, in which he deprecated the necessity of
the present hostilities, and declared himself willing to forget the
past, inviting the Mexicans by a timely submission to save their capital
from the horrors of a siege. But every man in Mexico was determined to
defend it to the uttermost, and this appeal produced no effect. The
general now turned his attention to securing all the strong places upon
the lake. Iztapalapan was the first; the attacking party, after a sharp
struggle, succeeded in entering the town; many of the inhabitants fled
in their canoes, but those who remained were massacred by the Tlascalans
in spite of all Cortés could do to restrain them. Darkness set in while
the soldiers were eagerly loading themselves with plunder; some of the
houses had been set on fire, and the flames lighted up the scene of ruin
and desolation. Suddenly a sound was heard as of the rush of the
incoming tide--and Cortés with great alarm realised that the Indians had
broken down the dykes, and that before long the low-lying ground upon
which the town stood would be under water. He hastily called off his men
and retreated, the soldiers, heavily laden, wading with difficulty
through the flood which gained fast upon them. As they left the burning
city behind them they could no longer find their way, and sometimes
plunged into deep water where many of the allies, unable to swim, were
carried away and drowned. When morning dawned they were harassed by the
enemy, who hovered round and discharged volleys of arrows and stones, so
that it was with no small satisfaction that they presently found
themselves once more within the walls of Tezcuco. Cortés was greatly
disappointed at this disastrous end of an expedition which had begun so
well, but after all the fate of Iztapalapan produced a good effect, and
many more towns sent to tender their allegiance, amongst others Otumba
and Chalco, which was a place of great importance. Cortés also managed
to induce the tribes, who though friendly to him were hostile to one
another, to forget their feuds and combine against Mexico, and to this
wise policy he owed much of his future success.

News now came from Tlascala that the ships were ready, and Sandoval was
despatched with a considerable guard to bring them to Tezcuco. On his
way he was to stop at Zoltepec, where the massacre of the Spaniards had
taken place, to find out and punish all who had had a hand in the
matter; but when they got there the inhabitants had fled. In the
deserted temples they had the horror of finding many traces of the fate
of their comrades; for beside their arms and clothing, and the hides of
their horses, the heads of several soldiers were found suspended as
trophies of victory; while traced in charcoal upon the wall in one
building were the words, in the Spanish language, 'In this place the
unfortunate Juan Juste, with many others of his company, was
imprisoned.' It was fortunate that the inhabitants had fled, for they
would have met with but scant mercy from the Spaniards, who were full of
indignation at the thought of the horrible doom which had overtaken
their companions. Sandoval now resumed his march to Tlascala, but before
he could reach it, the convoy appeared transporting the ships through
the mountain passes. Retaining twenty thousand of the warriors as a
guard, the Spanish captain dismissed the rest, and after four laborious
days Cortés and his garrison had the joy of welcoming them safe within
the walls of Tezcuco. It was not long before the general once more
sallied forth to reconnoitre the capital, and by the way to chastise
certain places which had sent him hostile messages. After an exciting
struggle Xaltocan and three other towns were taken, and a considerable
quantity of gold and food fell into the hands of the victors. Marching
on, the general found himself before Tlacopan, through whose streets he
had hurried in consternation at the end of the night of horror. It was
his intention to occupy the town, which he did after a sharp fight, just
before nightfall, and the next morning, seeing the enemy in battle array
on the open ground before the city, he marched out against them and
routed them utterly. The Aztecs fled into the town, but were driven
through its streets at the point of the lance, and compelled once more
to abandon it, after which the Tlascalans pillaged and set fire to the
houses, much against the will of Cortés, but they were a fierce race,
and sometimes dangerous to friends as well as foes. After six days the
general went back to Tezcuco, and for some time things went on as
before, with many skirmishes and expeditions against the towns
garrisoned by the Mexicans. Sandoval took several strongholds which
threatened the security of Chalco, and all the while the work upon the
canal was going rapidly forward, and the ships were nearing completion
in spite of three attempts made by the enemy to burn them. Just at this
time came the welcome news that three vessels had arrived at Villa Rica,
with two hundred men on board well provided with arms and ammunition,
and with seventy or eighty horses, and the new comers soon made their
way to Tezcuco, for the roads to the port were now safe and open.

In April 1521, Cortés started once more to scour the country with a
large force, passing quite round the great lakes, and exploring the
mountain regions to the south of them. Here he came upon Aztec forces
intrenched in strong towns, often built like eagles' nests upon some
rocky height, so that to take them was a work of great difficulty and
danger. Once he found himself before a city which it was absolutely
necessary to subdue, but he was separated from it by a cleft in the
solid rock of no great width, but going sheer down thousands of feet.
The bridges which generally crossed it had been broken down at the
approach of the Spaniards, and as they stood there, unable to advance,
the enemy's archers as usual kept up a steady fire, to which they were
unavoidably exposed. The general sent a party to seek a passage lower
down, but they met with no success until they came to a spot where two
large trees, growing one on either side of the ravine, interlaced their
branches overhead, and by this unsteady and perilous bridge one of the
Tlascalans ventured to cross. His example was soon followed, and one by
one about thirty Spaniards and some more of the natives crawled across,
swinging dizzily above the abyss. Three lost their hold and fell, but
the rest alighted in safety on the other side and attacked the Aztecs,
who were as much amazed at their sudden appearance as if they had
dropped from the clouds. Presently a temporary bridge was contrived by
which the remainder of the force managed to cross also, and before long
the town was taken, and the trembling caciques appeared before Cortés,
throwing the blame of their resistance upon the Mexicans, and promising
submission for the future.

The general then continued his march across the eastern shoulder of the
mountain, descending finally upon Xochimilco, which was built partly
upon the lake like Mexico itself, and was approached by causeways,
which, however, were of no great length. It was in the first attack upon
this town that Cortés was as nearly as possible taken prisoner by the
Aztecs. He had thrown himself into the thick of the fight with his usual
bravery, and was trying to resist an unexpected rush of the enemy, when
his horse stumbled and fell, he himself received a severe blow upon the
head before he could rise, and was seized and dragged off in triumph by
several Indians. At this moment a Tlascalan saw his danger and sprang
furiously upon his captors, trying to tear him from their grasp. Two
Spaniards also rushed to the rescue, and between them the Aztecs were
forced to quit their hold of the general, who lost no time in regaining
his saddle, and laying about him with his good sword as vigorously as
before. After a terrible struggle the enemy was driven out, and Cortés
took possession of the city. As it was not yet dusk he ascended the
principal teocalli to reconnoitre the surrounding country, and there
beheld a sight which could but cause him grave anxiety. The lake was
covered with rapidly approaching canoes full of warriors, while inland
Indian squadrons were marching up in dense columns. Xochimilco was but
four leagues from the capital, and at the first tidings of the arrival
of the Spaniards, Guatemozin had mustered a strong force and marched to
its relief. Cortés made all possible preparations for the defence of his
quarters, but not until the next day did the Mexicans attack him, and
then the battle raged long and with varying success; but in the end
Spanish discipline prevailed, and the natives were routed with such
dreadful slaughter that they made no further attempt to renew the
conflict. The city yielded a rich hoard of plunder, being well stored
with gold and feather-work, and many other articles of use or luxury, so
that when the general mustered his men upon the neighbouring plain
before resuming his march, many of them came staggering under the weight
of their spoil. This caused him much uneasiness, since their way would
be through a hostile country; but seeing that the soldiers were
determined to keep what they had so hardly won, he contented himself
with ordering the baggage to be placed in the centre guarded by part of
the cavalry, and having disposed the rest to the best advantage, they
once more set forth, at the last moment setting fire to the wooden
buildings of Xochimilco, which blazed furiously, the glare upon the
water telling far and wide the fate that had befallen it. Resting here
and there, and engaging in many skirmishes with the Aztecs who followed
them up, furious at the sight of the plunder which was being carried
away by the invaders, the army presently completed the circuit of the
lakes, and reached Tezcuco, to be greeted with the news that the ships
were fully rigged and the canal completed, so that there was no longer
any reason to delay their operations against Mexico.

It was a triumphant moment when the vessels were launched, and reached
the lake in good order. Cortés saw to their being properly armed and
manned, and then reviewed the rest of his forces, and summoned his
native allies to furnish their promised levies at once.

The general's plan of action against Mexico was to send Sandoval with
one division to take possession of Iztapalapan at the southern end of
the lake, while Alvarado and Olid were to secure Tlacopan and
Chapoltepec upon its western shore, and at the latter place destroy the
aqueduct, and so cut off the supply of fresh water from Mexico. This
they did successfully, and in several days of fierce fighting breach
after breach was carried, and the Spaniards penetrated the city as far
as the great teocalli, driving the natives before them, while the
Tlascalans in the rear filled up the gaps in the dyke as well as they
could, and brought up the heavy guns. Cortés and his men now pushed
their way into the inclosure of the temple, and some of them rushed to
the top, so lately the scene of their terrible battle, and there found a
fresh image of the war-god. Tearing away the gold and jewels with which
it was bedecked, they hurled it and its attendant priests over the side
of the pyramid, and hastened down to the assistance of their comrades,
who were by this time in a most perilous position, the Aztecs having
rallied and attacked them furiously. Indeed it seemed likely to go hard
with them, for they were driven helplessly back down the great street in
utter confusion and panic; but the timely arrival of a small body of
cavalry created a diversion in their favour, and Cortés managed to turn
them once more and drive the enemy back into the enclosure with much
loss. As it was by this time evening, he retreated in good order to
Xoloc. Though this affair caused some consternation among the Mexicans,
they speedily opened the canals and built up the ramparts again, so that
when Cortés renewed the attack the whole scene had to be gone through as
before. When they had once gained the street, however, they found it
much easier to advance, the Tlascalans having on the last occasion
pulled down many of the houses on either side. This time Cortés had
determined to destroy some of the cherished buildings of the Mexicans,
and began by setting fire to his old quarters, the palace of Axayacatl,
and then the palace of Montezuma on the other side of the great square.
The sight so maddened the natives that the Spaniards had some ado to
make good their retreat, and few reached their camp that night
unwounded. The Aztec emperor for his part made frequent sallies against
the Spaniards both by land and upon the lake, sometimes with
considerable success. At first he managed to obtain supplies of food in
canoes, under cover of the darkness, but by degrees the large towns on
the mainland, seeing the Mexicans unable to defend themselves, gave in
their allegiance to the Spaniards, and then starvation began to be felt
in the unhappy city. In spite of everything, however, all offers of
terms from Cortés were steadily refused.

At this juncture, the general was persuaded by some of his officers that
it would be well for two of the divisions to unite, and occupy the great
market-place in the heart of the town, and so at a given time they
marched along their respective causeways and entered the city. Strict
orders were given by Cortés that as they advanced every opening in the
causeways should be filled up and made secure. The attack began, and the
enemy, taken apparently by surprise, gave way and fell back; on rushed
the Spaniards by every street, eager to reach the appointed meeting
place. Only the general suspected that the enemy might be purposely
luring them on to turn upon them when they were hopelessly involved.
Taking a few men with him, he hastily proceeded to see for himself if
the way was clear should a retreat become necessary, and found, as he
had feared, that all had been too eager to be in the front to attend to
this most important duty. In the first street he traversed was a huge
gap, twelve feet wide, and at least as many deep, full of water, for it
connected two canals. A feeble attempt had been made to fill this up
with beams and rubbish, but it had been left before any good had been
done. Worse than all Cortés saw that this breach was freshly made, and
that his officers had probably rushed headlong into a snare laid by the
enemy. Before his men could do anything towards filling up the trench,
the distant sounds of the battle changed into an ever-increasing tumult,
the mingled yells and war cries, and the trampling of many feet grew
nearer, and at last, to his horror, Cortés beheld his men driven to the
edge of the fatal gulf, confused, helpless, surrounded by their foes.
The foremost files were soon hurried over the edge, some trying to swim
across, some beaten down by the struggles of their comrades, or pierced
by the darts of the Indians. In vain with outstretched hands did Cortés
try to rescue his soldiers from death, or worse still from capture; he
was soon recognised, and six of the enemy tried to seize and drag him
into a canoe. It was only after a severe struggle, in which he was
wounded in the leg, that he was rescued by his brave followers. Two were
killed in the attempt, while another was taken alive as he held the
general's horse for him to mount. In all, sixty Spaniards were captured
on this fatal day, and it was only when the rest reached their guns in
the open space before the causeway that they were able to rally and beat
back the Aztecs. The other division had fared equally ill, and were
moreover in great anxiety as to the fate of Cortés, who was reported to
have been killed. When they once more reached their quarters, Sandoval,
though badly wounded, rode into the camp of Cortés to learn the truth,
and had a long and earnest consultation with him over the disaster, and
what was next to be done. As he returned to his camp he was startled by
the sound of the great drum on the temple of the war-god, heard only
once before during the night of horror, and looking up he saw a long
file of priests and warriors, winding round the terraces of the
teocalli. As they came out upon the platform at the top he perceived,
with rage and despair, that his own countrymen were about to be
sacrificed with the usual ghastly ceremonies. The camp was near enough
to the city for the white skins of the victims and their unavailing
struggles to be distinctly seen by their comrades, who were nevertheless
powerless to help them, and their distress and fury may be imagined.

For five days the horrible scenes went on, the Mexicans feasting,
singing, and dancing, while their priests predicted that in eight days
the war-god, appeased by these sacrifices, would overwhelm their enemies
and deliver them into their hands. These prophecies had a great effect
upon the native allies of Cortés, who withdrew from him in immense
numbers. But the general treated their superstition with cheerful
contempt, and only bargained with the deserters to remain close by and
see what would happen. When the ninth day came, and the city was still
seen to be beset on every side, they ceased to believe in the oracle,
and returned, with their anger against the Mexicans rekindled, and their
confidence in the Spaniards greatly strengthened. At this time another
vessel loaded with stores and ammunition touched at Vera Cruz, and her
cargo was seized and sent on to Cortés by the governor. With his
strength thus renewed the Spanish general resumed active operations.
This time not a step was taken in advance without securing the entire
safety of the army, once and for all, by solidly building up the dykes,
filling every canal, and pulling down every house, so that slowly and by
degrees a bare open space was made, which took in more and more of the
town, till at last the unhappy Aztecs, after many desperate sallies,
were shut into the portion of the city which lay between the northern
and western causeways. Here famine and pestilence did their awful work
unchecked. The ordinary articles of food were long exhausted, and the
wretched people ate moss, insects, grass, weeds, or the bark of trees.
They had no fresh water. The dead were unburied, the wounded lay in
misery, yet all the endeavours of Cortés to induce Guatemozin and his
chiefs to submit were useless. Though the two divisions of the army had
proceeded with their work of destruction until they could join their
forces, and seven-eighths of the city lay in ruins, though the banner of
Castile floated undisturbed from the smouldering remains of the
sanctuary on the teocalli of the war-god, still the Aztecs defied the
conquerors, and fiercely rejected their overtures of peace.

Hundreds of famishing wretches died every day, and lay where they fell,
for there was no one to bury them. Familiarity with the spectacle made
men indifferent to it. They looked on in dumb despair waiting for their
own turn to come. There was no complaint or lamentation, but deep,
unutterable woe. In the midst of this appalling misery Guatemozin
remained calm and courageous, and as firmly resolved not to capitulate
as at the beginning of the siege. It is even said that when Cortés
persuaded a noble Aztec prisoner to bear his proposals for a treaty to
the emperor, Guatemozin instantly ordered him to be sacrificed. The
general, who had suspended hostilities for several days hoping for a
favourable answer to his message, now resolved to drive him to
submission by a general assault, and for that purpose led his men across
the dreary waste of ruins to the narrow quarter of the city into which
the wretched Mexicans had retreated. But he was met by several chiefs,
who, holding out their emaciated arms, exclaimed, 'Why do you delay so
long to put an end to our miseries? Rather kill us at once that we may
go to our god Huitzilopochtli, who waits to give us rest from our
sufferings!'

Cortés, moved by the piteous sight, replied that he desired not their
death but their submission. 'Why does your master refuse to treat with
me,' he said, 'when in a single hour I can crush him and all his
people?' Then once more he sent to demand an interview with Guatemozin.
This time the emperor hesitated, and agreed that next day he would meet
the Spanish general. Cortés, well satisfied, withdrew his force, and
next morning presented himself at the appointed place in the great
square, where a stone platform had been spread with mats and carpets and
a banquet made ready. But after all Guatemozin, instead of coming
himself, sent his nobles. Cortés, though greatly disappointed, received
them courteously, persuading them to partake of the feast he had
prepared, and dismissing them with a supply of provisions for their
master and a renewed entreaty that he would next day come in person. But
though he waited for three hours beyond the time appointed, neither the
emperor nor his chiefs appeared, and the general heard that the Mexicans
were preparing to resist an assault. He delayed no longer, but ordering
Sandoval to support him by bringing up the ships and directing his big
guns against the houses near the water, he marched at once into the
enemy's quarters. The Mexicans set up a fierce war-cry, and with their
usual spirit sent off clouds of arrows and darts; but the struggle soon
became a hand-to-hand one; and weakened by starvation and hemmed in as
they were the unhappy Aztecs had no chance against their foes. After a
scene of indescribable horror, which appalled even the soldiers of
Cortés, used as they were to war and violence, the Spanish commander
sounded a retreat and withdrew to his quarters, leaving behind him forty
thousand corpses and a smouldering ruin. Through the long night that
followed all was silent in the Mexican quarter. There was neither light
nor movement. This last blow seemed to have utterly stunned them. They
had nothing left to hope for. In the Spanish camp, however, all was
rejoicing at the prospect of a speedy termination to the wearisome
campaign. The great object of Cortés was now to secure the person of
Guatemozin, and the next day, which was August 18, 1521, he led his
forces for the last time across the black and blasted ruin which was all
that remained of the once beautiful city. In order to give the
distressed garrison one more chance, he obtained an interview with the
principal chiefs and reasoned with them about the conduct of their
emperor.

'Surely,' he said, 'Guatemozin will not see you all perish when he can
so easily save you.' But when he had with difficulty prevailed upon them
to urge the king to confer with him, the only answer they could bring
was that Guatemozin was ready to die where he was, but would hold no
communication with the Spanish commander. 'Go then,' replied the stern
conqueror, 'and prepare your countrymen for death. Their last moment is
come.' Still, however, he postponed the attack for several hours; but
the troops were impatient at the delay, and a rumour spread that
Guatemozin was preparing to escape by the lake. It was useless to
hesitate: the word was given, and the terrible scene that ensued
repeated the horrors of the day before. While this was going forward on
shore numbers of canoes pushed off across the lake, most of them only
to be intercepted and sunk by the Spanish ships, which beat down upon
them, firing to right and left. Some few, however, under cover of the
smoke, succeeded in getting into open water. Sandoval had given
particular orders that his captains should watch any boat that might
contain Guatemozin, and now two or three large canoes together attracted
the attention of one named Garci Holguin, who instantly gave chase, and
with a favourable wind soon overtook the fugitives, though they rowed
with the energy of despair. As his men levelled their guns at the
occupants of the boat one rose saying, 'I am Guatemozin; lead me to
Malinche; I am his prisoner. But let no harm come to my wife and
followers.'

[Illustration]

Holguin took them on board, and then requested that the emperor would
order the people in the other canoes to surrender. 'There is no need,'
he answered sadly, 'they will fight no longer when they see their prince
is taken.' And so it was, for when the news of his capture reached the
shore the Mexicans at once ceased to defend themselves. It seemed as if
they had only gone on so long to give their sovereign a better chance
of escape. Cortés, who had taken up his station on the flat roof of one
of the houses, now sent to command that Guatemozin should be brought
before him, and he came, escorted by Sandoval and Holguin, who each
claimed the honour of having captured him. The conqueror, who was, as
usual, accompanied by the Lady Marina, came forward with dignified
courtesy to receive his noble prisoner. The Aztec monarch broke the
silence saying, 'I have done all I could to defend myself and my people.
I am now reduced to this state. Deal with me, Malinche, as you will.'
Then laying his hand on a dagger which hung from the belt of Cortés, he
added, 'Better despatch me at once with this and rid me of life.'

'Fear not,' answered the conqueror. 'You shall be treated with honour.
You have defended your capital like a brave warrior, and a Spaniard
knows how to respect valour even in an enemy.' He then sent for the
queen, who had remained on board the Spanish ship, and after ordering
that the royal captives should be well cared for and supplied with all
they needed, he proceeded to dispose of his troops. Olid and Alvarado
drew off their divisions to their quarters, leaving only a small guard
in the wasted suburbs of the pestilence stricken city, whilst the
general himself, with Sandoval and the prisoners, retired to a town at
the end of the southern causeway. That night a tremendous tempest arose,
such as the Spaniards had never before witnessed, shaking to its
foundations all that remained of the city of Mexico. The next day, at
the request of Guatemozin, the Mexicans were allowed to leave the
capital, and for three days a mournful train of men, women, and children
straggled feebly across the causeways, sick and wounded, wasted with
famine and misery, turning often to take one more look at the spot which
was once their pleasant home. When they were gone the conquerors took
possession of the place and purified it as speedily as possible, burying
the dead and lighting huge bonfires in the deserted streets. The
treasure of gold and jewels found in it fell far short of the
expectation of the Spaniards, the Aztecs having probably buried their
hoards or sunk them in the lake on purpose to disappoint the avarice of
their enemies. Cortés, therefore, to his eternal disgrace, caused
Guatemozin to be tortured; but fire and cord could not wring the secret
of the treasure from this illustrious prince. In later days Cortés
hanged Guatemozin, on pretence of a conspiracy. Cortés, having no
further need for his native allies, now dismissed them with presents
and flattering speeches, and they departed well pleased, loaded with the
plunder of the Mexican houses, which was despised by the Spanish
soldiers. Great was the satisfaction of the conquerors at having thus
brought the long campaign successfully to an end. Cortés celebrated the
event by a banquet as sumptuous as circumstances would permit, and the
next day, at the request of Father Olmedo, the whole army took part in a
solemn service and procession in token of their thankfulness for
victory.

Thus, after a siege of nearly three months, in which the beleaguered
Mexicans showed a constancy and courage under their sufferings which is
unmatched in history, fell the renowned capital of the Aztecs, and with
its fall the story of the nation comes to an end.

The Aztec empire fell by its own sin. The constant capture of men from
neighbouring states as victims for sacrifice had caused the Aztecs to be
hated; thus Cortés obtained the aid of the Tlascalans, but for which
even his courage and energy would have been of no avail. He deserted
Marina when she ceased to be useful, and gave her as a wife to one of
his followers.

FOOTNOTE:

[28] In 1121 Bishop Eric left Iceland for Vinland, part of America
discovered by Leif the Lucky (1000-1002). Bishop Eric was heard of no
more. Can he have reached the Aztecs, and been regarded as a god?



_ADVENTURES OF BARTHOLOMEW PORTUGUES, A PIRATE_


A CERTAIN pirate, born in Portugal, and from the name of his country
called Bartholomew Portugues, was cruising from Jamaica in his boat (in
which he had only thirty men and four small guns) near the Cape de
Corrientes, in the island of Cuba. In this place he met with a great
ship bound for the Havana, well provided, with twenty great guns and
threescore and ten men, passengers and mariners. This ship he assaulted,
but found strongly defended by them that were on board. The pirate
escaping the first encounter, resolved to attack her more vigorously
than before, seeing he had sustained no great damage hitherto. This
resolution he boldly performed, renewing his assaults so often that
after a long and dangerous fight he became master of the great vessel,
having lost only ten men, and had four wounded.

Having possessed themselves of such a ship, and the wind being contrary
for returning into Jamaica, the pirates resolved to steer towards the
Cape of St. Anthony, on the western side of the isle of Cuba, there to
repair themselves and take in fresh water, of which they had great
necessity at the time.

Being now very near the cape above mentioned, they unexpectedly met with
three great ships that were coming from New Spain, and bound for the
Havana. By these, not being able to escape, were easily retaken both
ship and pirates. Thus they were all made prisoners through the sudden
change of fortune, and found themselves poor, oppressed, and stripped of
all the riches they had won.

Two days after this misfortune there happened to arise a huge and
dangerous tempest, which separated the ships one from another. The great
vessel in which the pirates were arrived at Campeche, where many
considerable merchants came to salute and welcome the captain. These
knew the Portuguese pirate as one who had committed innumerable crimes
upon these coasts, not only murders and robberies, but also lamentable
burnings, which those of Campeche still preserved very fresh in their
memory.

The next day after their arrival the magistrates of the city sent
several of their officers to demand and take into custody the prisoners
from on board the ship, with intent to punish them according to their
deserts. Yet fearing lest the captain of the pirates should escape out
of their hands on shore (as he had formerly done, being once their
prisoner in the city before), they judged it more convenient to leave
him safely guarded on board the ship for the present. In the meanwhile
they caused a gibbet to be erected, whereon to hang him the very next
day, without any other form of trial than to lead him from the ship to
the place of punishment.

The rumour of this tragedy was presently brought to the ears of
Bartholomew Portugues, and he sought all the means he could to escape
that night. With this design he took two earthen jars, in which the
Spaniards usually carry wine from Spain to the West Indies, and he
stopped them very well, intending to use them for swimming, as those who
are unskilled in that art do a sort of pumpkins in Spain, and in other
places they use empty bladders. Having made this necessary preparation,
he waited for the night when all should be asleep, even the sentry that
guarded him. But seeing he could not escape his vigilance, he secretly
purchased a knife, and with the same gave him a stab that suddenly
deprived him of life and the possibility of making any noise. At that
instant Bartholomew Portugues committed himself to the sea, with those
two earthen jars before mentioned, and by their help and support, though
never having learned to swim, he reached the shore. Having landed,
without any delay he took refuge in the woods, where he hid himself for
three days without daring to appear, not eating any food but wild herbs.

[Illustration]

Those of the city failed not the next day to make diligent search for
him in the woods, where they concluded him to be. This strict search
Bartholomew Portugues watched from the hollow of a tree, wherein he lay
concealed. Seeing them return without finding what they sought for, he
adventured to sally forth towards the coast of Golfotriste, forty
leagues distant from the city of Campeche. Here he arrived within a
fortnight after his escape from the ship, in which time, as also
afterwards, he endured extreme hunger, thirst, and fear of falling again
into the hands of the Spaniards. For during all this journey he had no
provision but a small calabash with a little water: neither did he eat
anything but a few shellfish, which he found among the rocks nigh the
seashore. Besides this, he was compelled to pass some rivers, not
knowing well how to swim. Being in this distress, he found an old board
which the waves had thrown upon the shore, in which there stuck a few
great nails. These he took, and with no small labour whetted against a
stone, until he made them sharp like knives. With these, and no other
instruments, he cut down some branches of trees, which he joined
together with twigs and osiers, and as well as he could made a boat, or
rather a raft, with which he crossed over the rivers. Thus he reached
the Cape of Golfotriste, as was said before, where he happened to find a
certain vessel of pirates who wore great comrades of his own, and were
lately come from Jamaica.

To these pirates he instantly related all his misfortunes, and asked of
them a boat and twenty men to return to Campeche and assault the ship
that was in the river, from which he had escaped fourteen days before.
They readily granted his request, and equipped him a boat with the said
number of men. With this small company he set forth for the execution of
his design, which he bravely performed eight days after he separated
from his comrades; for being arrived at the river of Campeche, with
undaunted courage he assaulted the ship before mentioned. Those that
were on board were persuaded that Bartholomew's was a boat from the land
that came to bring goods, and therefore were not on their defence. So
the pirates assaulted them without any fear of ill success, and in a
short space of time compelled the Spaniards to surrender.

Being now masters of the ship, they immediately weighed anchor and set
sail, determining to fly from the port, lest they should be pursued by
other vessels. This they did with extreme joy, seeing themselves
possessors of such a brave ship--especially Bartholomew Portugues, their
captain, who now, by a second turn of fortune's wheel, was become rich
and powerful again, who had been so lately in that same vessel a poor
miserable prisoner, and condemned to the gallows. With this plunder he
designed to do great things, for he had found in the vessel a great
quantity of rich merchandise. Thus he continued his voyage towards
Jamaica for four days. But coming nigh to the isle of Pino, on the south
side of the island of Cuba, fortune suddenly turned her back once more,
never to show him her countenance again; for a horrible storm arising at
sea caused the ship to split against the rocks, and it was totally lost,
and Bartholomew, with his companions, escaped in a canoe.

In this manner he arrived in Jamaica, where he remained but a short
time, till he was ready to seek his fortune anew. But from that day of
disaster it was always ill-luck with him.



_THE RETURN OF THE FRENCH FREEBOOTERS_[29]


IN January, 1688, the daring band of French pirates who, sometimes
alone, sometimes in company with English captains, had been cruising in
the South Seas, resolved to return to St. Domingo with all the treasure
they had won from the Spaniards. But it was manifest that this return
would be a matter of great difficulty. They had not one seaworthy vessel
left in which to set out for a long voyage, and, with forces exhausted
by the frightful hardships they had gone through in the past years, they
had to pass through a country peopled by Spaniards--cowardly, indeed,
but innumerable, and only longing for revenge on the reckless crew that
had plundered so many of their rich ships and towns. Moreover,
provisions were scarce among the Spaniards themselves, and it seemed
likely that the freebooters, in their passage, would find scant
entertainment. But they were determined to risk everything, and having
prayed, and sunk their canoes that the Spaniards might make no use of
them, they set out on their journey. What followed is thus recounted by
one of their party, Raveneau de Lussan:--

The Spaniards, having been warned of our approach, employed every means
they could think of for our destruction, burning all the provisions
before us, setting fire to the prairies we entered, so that we and our
horses were almost stifled, and continually blocking our way with great
barricades of trees. About three hundred of them formed themselves into
a kind of escort, and morning and evening diverted us with the sound of
trumpets, but never dared to show their faces.

A detachment of our men were always set to fire into woods and thickets,
to find out if a Spanish ambush were concealed there. On January 9 we
reached an opening in the forest where we could see a good way before
us, and therefore did not fire. But we had been looking in front for
what was really on both sides of us, for in the bushes right and left
the Spaniards were crouching, and presently they let fly on us so
suddenly that only half the guard had time to fire back, and two of our
men were killed on the spot.

[Illustration]

On the 10th we found another ambush, where we surprised our enemies, who
took to flight, abandoning their horses, which became our property.

On the 11th, as we drew near Segovia, we found yet another ambuscade,
which we forced to retire, and passed into the town, ready to fight our
best--for we thought that here the Spaniards might make a great effort
to expel us. But they only discharged their muskets at us now and then
from the shelter of the pine-wood above the town, into which they had
fled. But we found nothing to eat, for they had burned all the
provisions.

On the 13th, having left Segovia, we climbed a hill which looked like a
good place to camp, and we saw opposite us, on a mountain slope from
which only a narrow valley divided us, twelve to fifteen hundred horses,
which for some time we took for cattle pasturing there. Rejoicing in the
prospect of good cheer, we sent forty men to make sure, and when they
came back they told us that what we had taken for cattle were horses,
ready saddled, and that in the same place they had found three
intrenchments a pistol shot from each other, which, rising by degrees to
about the middle of the mountain slope, entirely barred the way which we
meant to travel the next day. These intrenchments commanded the river
which ran the length of the valley, into which it was absolutely
necessary for us to descend, there being no other way. They saw a man
who, having discovered them, threatened them with a bare cutlass.

This grievous news was a bitter disappointment to us, especially the
loss of our supposed cows, for we were perishing with hunger. But we had
to take courage and find out how to leave this place--and without delay,
for the Spaniards, who were assembling from all the country round, would
fall upon our little troop, which must be overwhelmed, if we waited for
them. The means were not easy to find, and perhaps escape would have
seemed impossible, except to our reckless band, who had hitherto
succeeded in nearly all our exploits. But ten thousand men could not
have crossed that guarded valley without being cut off entirely, both by
reason of the number of the Spaniards and the position they occupied.

Men alone could have gone round without crossing the valley, but we
could find no way round for the horses and baggage. For the country on
each side was nothing but a thick forest, without the trace of a path,
all precipices and ravines, and choked with a multitude of fallen trees.
And even had we found a way of escape through so many obstacles, it was
indispensable to fight the Spaniards sooner or later, if they were ever
to let us alone!

There was only one thing to be done--to cross these woods, rocks, and
mountains, however inaccessible they seemed, and surprise our enemies,
taking advantage of the place by coming upon them from above, where they
certainly would not expect us. As to our prisoners, horses, and baggage,
since through all our march a troop of three hundred Spaniards had been
dogging our steps without daring to approach, we would leave eighty men
to guard them--enough to beat four times as many Spaniards.

At nightfall we set out, leaving our eighty men, with orders to the
sentinels to fire and beat the retreat and the diane at the usual times,
to make the three hundred Spaniards who lurked near us think that we had
not left the camp. If we were successful we would send back messengers
with the good news, but if, an hour after the firing ended, none of us
returned, they were to escape how they could.

All being arranged, we prayed in a low voice, not to be heard by the
Spaniards, and set out by the moonlight, two hundred men of us, through
this country of rocks, woods, and frightful precipices, where we went
leaping and climbing, our feet seeming to be much less use to us than
our hands and knees.

On the 14th, at the break of day, when we had already gained a great
height, and were climbing on in profound silence, with the Spanish
intrenchments to our left, we saw a sentry party, which, thanks to the
fog--always thick in this country till ten o'clock in the morning--did
not discover us. When it had passed we went straight to the place where
we had seen it, and we found that there was really a road there. This,
when we had halted half an hour to take breath, we followed, guided by
the voices of the Spaniards, who were at matins. But we had only gone a
few steps when we found two sentinels, very far advanced, on whom we
were forced to fire, which warned the Spaniards, who dreamed of nothing
less than our coming upon them from above, since they only expected us
from below. So those who guarded the intrenchment--about five hundred
men--being taken at a disadvantage when they thought they had all the
advantage on their side, were so terribly frightened that, when we fell
upon them all at once, they vanished from the place in an instant, and
escaped into the thick fog.

This unexpected assault so utterly upset their plans that the men in the
second intrenchment all passed into the lowest one, where they prepared
to defend themselves. We fought them a whole hour, under cover of the
first intrenchment, which we had taken, and which commanded them, being
higher up the mountain side. But as they would not yield we fancied our
shots must have missed, since the fog hindered us from seeing our foes
distinctly, so, resolved to waste no more powder, we went down, and fell
right on the spot whence they had been firing. Then we assailed them
furiously, and at sight of our weapons close upon them--which hitherto
the fog had concealed--they left everything, and fled into the road
below the intrenchments. Here they fell into their own trap; for,
thinking it was the only road we could possibly come by, they had cut
down trees and blocked it up, and their way being stopped, we could fire
upon them from their intrenchment without once missing aim.

At last, seeing the river in the ravine running down with blood, and
tired of pursuing the fugitives, we spared the few remaining Spaniards.
After we had chanted the 'Te Deum,' sixty of us went to tell those left
in the camp of the victory which Heaven had vouchsafed to us. We found
them on the point of giving battle to the three hundred Spaniards, who
had already (on finding out their weakness) sent a message to them by an
officer to tell them that it was hopeless for them to expect to cross
the valley, and to offer terms of peace. To which our men replied that
were there as many Spaniards as the blades of grass in the prairie they
would not be afraid, but would pass through in spite of them, and go
where they liked!

The officer, being just dismissed with this message when we arrived,
shrugged his shoulders with astonishment when he saw us safe back again,
and mounted on the horses of his comrades of the intrenchments. He rode
off with the news to his troop, whom we presently fired upon, to rid
them altogether from their desire to follow in our wake. Unfortunately
for them they had not time to mount their horses, so after a brief
conflict, in which a great number of them fell, we let the rest go,
though we kept their horses. Then, with our baggage, we joined those of
our men who had stayed to guard the intrenchments. In both these combats
we had only two men slain and four wounded.

Continuing our journey, we passed one more Spanish intrenchment, where,
since the news of our victory had gone before us, we found no
resistance. At last, on the sixteenth day of our march, we reached the
river which we had been seeking eagerly, by whose means we meant to gain
the sea into which it flowed.

At once we entered the woods which are on its banks, and everyone set to
work in good earnest to cut down trees, in order to construct
_piperies_, with which to descend the river. The reader may perhaps
imagine that these piperies were some kind of comfortable boat to carry
us pleasantly along the stream, but they were anything but this. We
joined together four or five trunks of a kind of tree with light
floating wood, merely stripping off their bark, and binding them,
instead of cord, with a climbing plant growing in those forests, and
embracing the trees like ivy, and when these structures, each large
enough to hold two men (and in appearance something like huge wicker
baskets) were completed, vessels and crew were ready.

[Illustration]

The safest plan was to stand upright in them, armed with long poles to
push them off from the rocks, against which the fierce current every
moment threatened to dash them. As it was, they sank two or three feet
deep in the water, so that we were nearly always immersed up to our
waists.

This river rises in the mountains of Segovia, and falls into the sea at
Cape Gracia á Dios, after having flowed for a long distance, with
frightful rapidity, among an infinite number of huge rocks, and between
the most terrible precipices imaginable. We had to pass more than a
hundred cataracts great and small, and there were three which the most
daring of us could not look at without turning giddy with fear, when we
saw and heard the water plunging from such a height into those horrible
gulfs. Everything was so fearful that only those who have experienced
it can imagine it; as for me, though I shall all my life have my memory
full of pictures of the perils of that voyage, it would be impossible
for me to give any idea of it which would not be far below the reality.

We let ourselves go with the current, so rapid that often, in spite of
our resistance, it bore us into foaming whirlpools, where we were
engulfed with our pieces of wood. But happily before the greatest
cataracts, and also just beyond them, there was a basin of calm water,
which made it possible for us to gain the bank, drawing our piperies
after us. Then, taking out of them whatever valuables we had there, we
descended with these, leaping from rock to rock till we had reached the
foot of the cataract. Then one of us would return and throw the
piperies, which we had left behind, down into the flood--and we below
caught them as they descended. Sometimes, indeed, we failed to catch
them, and had to make new ones.

When we first set out we voyaged all together, that in case of accident
we might come to each other's aid. But in three days, being out of all
danger of the Spaniards, we began to travel separately, since a piperie
dashed against the rocks had often been prevented from freeing itself by
other piperies which the current hurled against it. It was arranged for
those who descended first, when they came to an especially dangerous
rapid, to hoist a little flag at the end of a stick, not to warn those
behind of the cataract, since they could hear it nearly a league away,
but to mark the side on which they ought to land. This plan saved a
number of lives, nevertheless many others were lost.

The bananas which we found on the river bank were almost our only
nourishment, and saved us from dying of hunger; for, though there was
plenty of game, our powder and weapons were all wet and spoiled, so that
we could not hunt.

Some days after we had begun to descend the river, as we were travelling
separate, several freebooters who had lost all their spoils in gambling
were guilty of most cruel treachery. Having gone in advance, these
villains concealed themselves behind some rocks commanding the river, in
front of which we all had to pass, and as everyone was looking after
himself, and we descended unsuspiciously, at some distance from each
other--for the reasons already given--they had time to fix upon and to
massacre five Englishmen, who possessed greater shares of booty than the
rest of us. They were completely plundered by these assassins, and my
companion and I found their dead bodies on the shore. At night, when we
were encamped on the river bank, I reported what we had seen, and the
story was confirmed both by the absence of the dead Englishmen and of
their murderers, who dared not come back to us, and whom we never saw
again.

On the 20th of February we found the river much wider, and there were no
more cataracts. When we had descended some leagues further it was very
fine, and the current was gentle, and seeing that the worst of our
perils were over, we dispersed into bands of forty each to make canoes,
in which we might safely complete our voyage down the river.

On the 1st of March, by dint of great diligence, having finished four
canoes, a hundred and twenty of us embarked, leaving the others, whose
canoes were still incomplete, to follow.

On the 9th we reached the mouth of the river in safety, and lived there
among the mulattos and negroes who inhabit the coast, till an English
boat, touching there, took on board fifty of us, of whom I was one. On
the 6th of April, without any other accident, we arrived at our
destination, St. Domingo.


          PRINTED BY
          SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
          LONDON

FOOTNOTE:

[29] 'The return of the French Freebooters from the South Sea, by the
mainland, in 1688.' Written by Sieur Raveneau de Lussan, one of the
party, taken from his _Journal du voyage fait à la Mer du Sud avec les
filibustiers de l'Amérique en 1684 et années suivantes_. Paris. 1689.



Just published. Crown 8vo. price 7_s._ 6_d._

With 546 Illustrations, including 18 Coloured Plates.

THE OUTDOOR WORLD

OR

_THE YOUNG COLLECTOR'S HANDBOOK._

By W. FURNEAUX, F.R.G.S.

CONTENTS.

PART I.--ANIMAL LIFE.

          CHAP.

             I. Ponds and Streams.

            II. Insects and Insect Hunting.

           III. The Sea-shore.

            IV. Snails and Slugs.

             V. Spiders, Centipedes, and Millepedes.

            VI. Reptiles and Reptile Hunting.

           VII. British Birds.

          VIII. British Mammals.


PART II.--THE VEGETABLE WORLD.

            IX. Sea-weeds.

             X. Fungi.

            XI. Mosses.

           XII. Ferns.

          XIII. Wild Flowers.

           XIV. Grasses.

            XV. Our Forest Trees.


PART III.--THE MINERAL WORLD.

           XVI. Minerals and Fossils.



          London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
          New York: 15 East 16th Street.



       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors corrected.

The illustration that was originally on page 271 was moved to 269 so
that it would not interrupt the flow of a paragraph. This was also done
with the plate originally on page 277. It is now on page 274.

Many and varied were the hyphenations in this text due to the different
stories. Examples are: battlefield and battle-field, and bodyguard and
body-guard. These variations were retained.

Page 156, although the original does have "Ireland", possibly "Iceland"
was meant (within sight of Ireland)

Page 159, "Cortes" changed to "Cortés" (first took Cortés)

Page 237, "slik" changed to "silk" (silk--of rich and)

Page 248, "miles" changed to "feet" (seven thousand feet above)

Page 261, "sacrified" changed to "sacrificed" (reserved to be
sacrificed)

Page 266, "Atzec" changed to "Aztec" (dismay of the Aztec)





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