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Title: The True Story Book

Editor: Andrew Lang

Release date: December 23, 2008 [eBook #27602]

Language: English

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THE TRUE STORY BOOK

WORKS BY ANDREW
LANG.
HOMER AND THE EPIC. Crown 8vo.
9s. net.
CUSTOM AND MYTH: Studies of Early
Usage and Belief. With 15
Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
BALLADS OF BOOKS. Edited by
Andrew Lang. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. Fcp.
8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
BOOKS AND BOOKMEN. With 2
Coloured Plates and 17
Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
OLD FRIENDS. Fcp. 2s. 6d. net.
LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo.
2s. 6d. net..
GRASS OF PARNASSUS. Fcp. 8vo. 2s.
6d. net.
ANGLING SKETCHES. With 20
Illustrations by W. G. Burn-
Murdoch. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 8 Plates and
130 Illustrations in the Text by H.
J. Ford and G. P. Jacomb Hood.
Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 4 Plates and
96 Illustrations in the Text by H. J.
Ford and Lancelot Speed. Crown
8vo. 6s.

THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 11 Plates and
88 Illustrations in the Text by H. J.
Ford. Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 12 Plates and
88 Illustrations in the Text by H. J.
Ford and Lancelot Speed. Crown
8vo. 6s.
School Edition, without Illustrations.
Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Special Edition, printed on Indian paper.
With Notes, but without
Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
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.
6s.
————
London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
New York: 15 East 16th Street.

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

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
213
Campo
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
" 60
upon him'
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

T HE 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.
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.
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]

CASANOVA'S ESCAPE

I N 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.
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

T HE 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.
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.

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!'

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.

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.

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'

A MONG 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 manœuvring 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

I N 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.
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.
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 'SOME OF THE PIRATES . . . HAD THROWN
generously comforted me, SEVERAL BUCKETS OF CLARET UPON HIM.'
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.

THE SPARTAN THREE HUNDRED

T HIS 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 Eubœa, 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 manœuvre 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]

PRINCE CHARLIE'S WANDERINGS
CHAPTER I

THE FLIGHT

A PRIL 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.
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 30,000l. 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 500l.; 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.

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.

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.'

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.
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.
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]

TWO GREAT MATCHES

T HE 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.'
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.

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

O N 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.
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.
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 (1,200l.) 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]

AN ARTIST'S ADVENTURE

N EARLY 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.
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
HE PREPARED TO ATTACK THE SENTRY 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

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 manœuvre, 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.
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.
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.

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.

HOW LEIF THE LUCKY FOUND VINELAND
THE GOOD

T HIS 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.

'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.

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]

THE ESCAPES OF CERVANTES

M OST 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

A MONG 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.

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.
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.

BARON TRENCK

M OST 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.
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

I N 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.
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.
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

T HE 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 manœuvre 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.
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.'
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.
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.

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.
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]

THE ADVENTURES OF LORD PITSLIGO

W HEN 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.
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.
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.

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]

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.
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.

THE KIDNAPPING OF THE PRINCES
(The following story is adapted from Carlyle's Essay, 'The Prinzenraub')

A BOUT 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.

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

L ONG 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.
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.

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.

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.