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Title: The Red True Story Book

Editor: Andrew Lang

Illustrator: H. J. Ford

Release date: December 23, 2008 [eBook #27603]

Language: English

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THE

RED TRUE STORY BOOK

WORKS BY ANDREW
LANG.
COCK LANE AND COMMON SENSE:
a Series of Papers Crown 8vo. 6s.
6d. net.
BAN and ARRIÈRE BAN: a Rally of
Fugitive Rhymes. Crown 8vo. 5s.
net.
ST. ANDREWS. With 8 Plates and 24
Illustrations in the Text by T.
Hodge. 8vo. 15s. net.
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. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo.
2s. 6d. net.
GRASS OF PARNASSUS. Fcp. 8vo. 2s.
6d. net.
ANGLING SKETCHES. With 3 Etchings
and numerous Illustrations by W.
G. Burn-Murdoch. Crown 8vo. 3s.
6d.

THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 134
Illustrations by H. J. Ford and G.
P. Jacomb Hood. Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 100
Illustrations by H. J. Ford and
Lancelot Speed. Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 99
Illustrations by H. J. Ford. Crown
8vo. 6s.
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 104
Illustrations by H. J. Ford. Crown
8vo. 6s.
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. Edited by
Andrew Lang. With 100
Illustrations 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 66
Illustrations by H. J. Ford, Lucien
Davis, Lancelot Speed, and L.
Bogle. Crown 8vo. 6s.
—————
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
London and New York.

'IN THE BORGHESE GARDENS PRACTISED THAT
ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.'

THE RED
TRUE STORY BOOK
EDITED BY

ANDREW LANG

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY HENRY J. FORD

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1895

All rights reserved

INTRODUCTION
The Red True Story Book needs no long Introduction. The Editor, in
presenting The Blue True Story Book, apologised for offering tales so much
less thrilling and romantic than the legends of the Fairies, but he added that
even real facts were, sometimes, curious and interesting. Next year he
promises something quite as true as History, and quite as entertaining as
Fairies!
For this book, Mr. Rider Haggard has kindly prepared a narrative of
'Wilson's Last Fight,' by aid of conversations with Mr. Burnham, the gallant
American scout. But Mr. Haggard found, while writing his chapter, that Mr.
Burnham had already told the story in an 'Interview' published by the
Westminster Gazette. The courtesy of the proprietor of that journal, and of
Mr. Burnham, has permitted Mr. Haggard to incorporate the already printed
narrative with his own matter.
'The Life and Death of Joan the Maid' is by the Editor, who has used M.
Quicherat's Procès (five volumes, published for the Historical Society of
France), with M. Quicherat's other researches. He has also used M. Wallon's
Biography, the works of Father Ayroles, S.J., the Jeanne d'Arc à Domremy
of M. Siméon Luce, the works of M. Sepet, of Michelet, of Henri Martin,
and, generally, all printed documents to which he has had access. Of
unprinted contemporary matter perhaps none is known to exist, except the
Venetian Correspondence, now being prepared for publication by Father
Ayroles.
'How the Bass was held for King James' is by the Editor, mainly from
Blackadder's Life.
'The Crowning of Ines de Castro' is by Mrs. Lang, from Schäfer.
'Orthon,' from Froissart, 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'Monsieur de Bayard's Duel'
(Brantôme), are by the same lady; also 'Gaston de Foix,' from Froissart, and
'The White Man,' from Mile. Aïssé's Letters.

Mrs. McCunn has told the story of the Prince's Scottish Campaign, from
the contemporary histories of the Rising of 1745, contemporary tracts, The
Lyon in Mourning, Chambers, Scott, Maxwell of Kirkconnel, and other
sources.
The short Sagas are translated from the Icelandic by the Rev. W. C.
Green, translator of Egil Skalagrim's Saga.
Mr. S. R. Crockett, Author of The Raiders, told the tales of 'The Bull of
Earlstoun' and 'Grisell Baillie.'
Miss May Kendall and Mrs. Bovill are responsible for the seafarings and
shipwrecks; the Australian adventures are by Mrs. Bovill.
Miss Minnie Wright compiled 'The Conquest of Peru,' from Prescott's
celebrated History.
Miss Agnes Repplier, that famed essayist of America, wrote the tale of
Molly Pitcher.
'The Adventures of General Marbot' are from the translation of his
Autobiography by Mr. Butler.
With this information the Editor leaves the book to children, assuring
them that the stories are true, except perhaps that queer tale of 'Orthon'; and
some of the Sagas also may have been a little altered from the real facts
before the Icelanders became familiar with writing.

CONTENTS
PAGE
Wilson's Last Fight 1
The Life and Death of Joan the Maid 19
How the Bass was held for King James 92
The Crowning of Ines de Castro 99
The Story of Orthon 105
How Gustavus Vasa won his Kingdom 114
Monsieur de Bayard's Duel 122
Story of Gudbrand of the Dales 125
Sir Richard Grenville 132
The Story of Molly Pitcher 137
The Voyages, Dangerous Adventures, and Imminent
Escapes of Captain Richard Falconer 141
Marbot's March 150
Eylau. The Mare Lisette 162
How Marbot crossed the Danube 175
The piteous Death of Gaston, Son of the Count of Foix 186
Rolf Stake 191
The Wreck of the 'Wager' 195
Peter Williamson 213
A Wonderful Voyage 226
The Pitcairn Islanders 238
A Relation of three years' Suffering of Robert Everard
upon the Island of Assada, near Madagascar, in
a Voyage to India, in the year 1686 247
The Fight at Svolder Island 252
The Death of Hacon the Good 261
Prince Charlie's War 265
The Burke and Wills Exploring Expedition 324
The Story of Emund 346

The Man in White 354
The Adventures of 'the Bull of Earlstoun' 358
The Story of Grisell Baillie's Sheep's Head 366
The Conquest of Peru 371

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PLATES

'In the Borghese gardens practised that royal game of golf' Frontispiece
To face
Just as his arm was poised I fired
p. 10
Joan in church " 24
Joan rides to Chinon " 38
Joan tells the King his secret " 42
The English Archers betrayed by the Stag " 64
The Coronation of Charles VII " 68
'Instantly a gust of wind blew her off the rock into the sea' " 92
'One man . . . stalked about the deck and flourished a cutlass
"
. . . shouting that he was "king of the country"' 196
The Indian threatens Peter Williamson " 214
'Another party of Indians arrived, bringing twenty scalps and
"
three prisoners' 218
The savages attack the boat " 230
'The madman dwelt alone' " 242
King Olaf leaps overboard " 256
'In the Borghese gardens practised that royal game of golf " 266
'I will, though not another man in the Highlands should draw
"
a sword' 272
'He galloped up the streets of Edinburgh shouting, "Victory!
"
Victory!"' 294
Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo Huaco, the Children of the
Sun, come from Lake Titicaca to govern and civilise "
the tribes of Peru 374
In one cave the soldiers found vases of pure gold, etc. " 412

WOODCUTS IN TEXT

PAGE
One of them lifted his assegai 17
'The Fairy Tree' 20
Joan hears the Voice 28
Robert thinks Joan crazed 34
'Sir, this is ill done of you' 37
'In a better language than yours,' said Joan 46
'Lead him to the Cross!' cried she 50
'Then spurred she her horse . . . and put out the flame' 53
Joan is wounded by the arrow 57
'Now arose a dispute among the captains' 61
One Englishman at least died well 63
Joan challenges the English to sally forth 73
'Go she would not till she had taken that town' 79
Joan Captured 83
Joan at Beaurevoir 85
'The burned Joan the Maid' 89
The Bass attacked by the frigates 97
Ines pleads for her life 101
'I will send you a champion whom you will fear more than you fear me' 107
Orthon's last appearance 112
Gustavus leaves school for good! 115
'Lazy loon! Have you no work to do?' 119
'Surrender, Don Alonzo, or you are a dead man!' 123
'In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream' 127
The destruction of the idol 130
'Still he cried to his men, "Fight on, fight on!"' 134
Molly takes her husband's place 139
'As we approached we saw the pirate sinking' 143
Falconer knocks down a bird 145
Falconer returns to his companions 148
'Then, drawing their swords, they dashed at the rest' 152

Marbot's fight with the Carabineers in the alley 157
Lisette catches the thief in the stable 164
'I regarded myself as a horseman who is trying to win a steeplechase' 166
Lisette carries off the Russian officer 169
'Guided by the transport man he reached me and found me living' 172
'"I will go, sir," I cried' 177
'We had to saw the rope' 182
'The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand' 188
Gaston in prison 189
'But now here sits in the high seat a thin stake' 192
'He fleeth not the flame
193
Who leapeth o'er the same'
The Captain shoots Mr. Cozens 202
Mr. Hamilton's fight with the sea-lion 205
The Cacique fires off the gun 208
Byron rides past the turnpikes 211
The captain guarded by the mutineers 228
The Pitcairn islanders on board the English frigate 239
Old John Adams teaches the children 245
Death of the supercargo 248
'None will now deny that "Long Snake" sails by' 255
Hacon casts his shield away 263
'Go, sir, to your general; tell him what you have seen . . .' 276
Escape of the Duke of Perth 281
'In many a panelled parlour' 284
'Och no! she be relieved' 287
Mrs. Murray of Broughton distributes cockades to the crowd 289
James More wounded at Prestonpans 293
Crossing Shap Fell 301
'Many had their broadswords and dirks sharpened' 304
'The Prince caught him by the hair' 307
The poor boy fell, mortally wounded 311
The 'Rout of Moy' 315
The end of Culloden 322

'The advance party of eight started on October 29' 327
Golah is abandoned 332
'King, they are gone!' 337
Death of Burke 342
Bessé introduced to the Man in White 355
'Saw reflected in the mirror the white figure' 356
'Sometimes he would find a party searching for him quite close at
360
hand'
Alexander Gordon wood-chopping in the disguise of a labourer 362
Grisell brings the sheep's head to her father in the vault 367
A Peruvian postman 381
Almagro wounded in the eye 387
Many of the Spaniards were killed by the snakes and alligators 389
Amazement of the Indians at seeing a cavalier fall from his horse 391
Pizarro sees llamas for the first time 393
The cavalier displays his horsemanship before Atahuallpa 401
The friar urges Pizarro to attack the Peruvians 404
The Spaniards destroy the idol at Pachacamac 407

WILSON'S LAST FIGHT
'They were men whose fathers were men'

T O make it clear how Major Wilson and his companions came to die
on the banks of the Shangani on December 4, 1893, it will be
necessary, very briefly, to sketch the events which led to the war between
the English settlers in Mashonaland in South Africa and the Matabele tribe,
an offshoot of the Zulu race.
In October 1889, at the instance of Mr. Cecil Rhodes and others
interested, the Chartered Company of British South Africa was
incorporated, with the sanction of Her Majesty's Government.
In 1890 Mashonaland was occupied, a vast and fertile territory
nominally under the rule of Lobengula, king of the Matabele, which had
been ceded by him to the representatives of the Company in return for
certain valuable considerations. It is, however, an easier task for savage
kings to sign concessions than to ensure that such concessions will be
respected by their subjects, especially when those 'Subjects' are warriors by
nature, tradition, and practice, as in the present case, and organised into
regiments, kept from year to year in perfect efficiency and readiness for
attack. Whatever may have been Lobengula's private wishes and opinions,
it soon became evident that the gathering of the white men upon their
borders, and in a country which they claimed by right of conquest if they
did not occupy it, was most distasteful to the more warlike sections of the
Matabele.
Mashonaland takes its name from the Mashona tribes who inhabit it, a
peaceful and, speaking by comparison, an industrious race, whom, ever
since they first settled in the neighbourhood, it had been the custom of the
subjects of Lobengula and of his predecessor, Mosilikatze, 'the lion,' to
attack with every cruelty conceivable, raiding their cattle, slaughtering their
men, and sweeping their maidens and young children into captivity.
Terrified, half exterminated indeed, as they were by these constant and

unprovoked onslaughts, the Mashonas welcomed with delight the
occupation of their country by white men, and thankfully placed themselves
under the protection of the Chartered Company.
The Matabele regiments, however, took a different view of the question,
for now their favourite sport was gone: they could no longer practise rapine
and murder, at least in this direction, whenever the spirit moved them.
Presently the force of habit overcame their fear of the white men and their
respect for treaties, and towards the end of 1891 the chief Lomaghondi,
who lived under the protection of the Company, was killed by them.
Thereon Dr. Jameson, the Administrator of Mashonaland, remonstrated with
Lobengula, who expressed regret, saying that the incident had happened by
mistake.
This repudiation notwithstanding, an impi, or armed body of savages,
again crossed the border in 1892, and raided in the Victoria district.
Encouraged by the success of these proceedings, in July 1893 Lobengula
sent a picked company to harry in the neighbourhood of Victoria itself,
writing to Dr. Jameson that he made no excuse for so doing, claiming as he
did the right to raid when, where, and whom he chose. The 'indunas,' or
captains, in command of this force were instructed not to kill white men,
but to fall particularly upon those tribes who were in their employ. On July
9, 1893, and the following days came the climax, for then the impi began to
slaughter every Mashona whom they could find. Many of these
unfortunates were butchered in the presence of their masters, who were
bidden to 'stand upon one side as the time of the white men had not yet
come.'
Seeing that it was necessary to take action, Dr. Jameson summoned the
head indunas of the impi, and ordered them to cross the border within an
hour or to suffer the consequences of their disobedience. The majority
obeyed, and those who defied him were attacked by Captain Lendy and a
small force while in the act of raiding a kraal, some of them being killed
and the rest driven away.
From this moment war became inevitable, for the question lay between
the breaking of the power of Lobengula and the evacuation of
Mashonaland. Into the details of that war it is not proposed to enter; they

are outside the scope of this narrative. It is enough to say that it was one of
the most brilliant and successful ever carried out by Englishmen. The odds
against the little force of a thousand or twelve hundred white men who
invaded Matabeleland were almost overwhelming, and when it is
remembered that the Imperial troops did not succeed in their contest against
Cetywayo, the Zulu king, until nearly as many soldiers were massed in the
country as there were able-bodied Zulus left to oppose them, the brilliancy
of the achievement of these colonists led by a civilian, Dr. Jameson, can be
estimated. The Matabele were beaten in two pitched battles: that of the
Shangani on October 25, and that of the Imbembezi on November 1. They
fought bravely, even with desperation, but their valour was broken by the
skill and the cool courage of the white man. Those terrible engines of war,
the Maxim guns and the Hotchkiss shells, contributed largely to our success
on these occasions. The Matabele, brave as they were, could not face the
incessant fire of the Maxims, and as to the Hotchkiss they developed a
curious superstition. Seeing that men fell dead in all directions after the
explosion of a shell, they came to believe that as it burst out of each missile
numbers of tiny and invisible imps ran forth carrying death and destruction
to the white men's foes, and thus it happened that to their minds moral
terrors were added to the physical dangers of warfare. So strong was this
belief among them, indeed, that whenever a shell struck they would turn
and fire at it in the hope that thus they might destroy the 'live devils' who
dwelt within it.
After these battles Lobengula, having first set fire to it, fled from his
chief place, Buluwayo, which was occupied by the white men within a
month of the commencement of the campaign.
In reply to a letter sent to him by Dr. Jameson, demanding his surrender
and guaranteeing his safety, Lobengula wrote that he 'would come in.'
The promised period of two days' grace having gone by, however, and
there being no sign of his appearance, a force was despatched from
Buluwayo to follow and capture him. This force, which was under the
leadership of Major Patrick W. Forbes, consisted of ninety men of the
Salisbury Column, with Captains Heany and Spreckley and a mule Maxim
gun under Lieutenant Biscoe, R.N.; sixty men of the Victoria Column
commanded by Major Wilson, with a horse Maxim under Captain Lendy;

sixty men of the Tuli Column, and ninety men of the Bechuanaland Border
Police, commanded by Captain Raaf, C.M.G., accompanied by two horse
Maxims and a mule seven-pounder, commanded by Captain Tancred.
The column, which started on or about November 14, took with it food
for three days only, carried by natives, and a hundred rounds of ammunition
per man. After several days' journeying northward the patrol reached the
Bubye River, where dissensions arose between Captain Raaf and Major
Forbes, the former being of opinion, rightly enough as the issue showed,
that the mission was too dangerous to be pursued by a small body of men
without supplies of food, and having no reserve of ammunition and no
means of carrying the wounded. The upshot was that Major Forbes decided
to return, but was prevented from doing so by a letter received from Dr.
Jameson, stating that he was sending forward a reinforcement of
dismounted men under Captain Napier with food, ammunition, and wagons,
also sixteen mounted men under Captain Borrow. The force then proceeded
to a deserted Mission Station known as Shiloh. On November 25 the
column, three hundred strong and carrying with it three-quarter rations for
twelve days, took up the King's wagon spoor about one mile from Shiloh,
and followed it through much discomfort, caused by the constant rain and
the lack of roads, till, on December S, a point was reached on the Shangani
River, N.N.W. of Shiloh and distant from it about eighty miles.
On November 29, however, Major Forbes, finding that he could make
small progress with the wagons, sent them away, and proceeded with the
best mounted men and two Maxims only, so that the actual force which
reached the Shangani on the 3rd consisted of about one hundred and sixty
men and a couple of machine guns.
At this time the information in possession of the leaders of the column
was to the effect that the King was just in front of them across the river,
accompanied only by a few of his followers. Under these circumstances
Major Forbes instructed Major Wilson and eighteen men to go forward and
reconnoitre along Lobengula's spoor; the understanding seeming to have
been that the party was to return by sundown, but that if it did not return it
was, if necessary, to be supported by the whole column. With this patrol
went Mr. Burnham, the American scout, one of the three surviving white

men who were eye-witnesses of that eventful night's work, which ended so
tragically at dawn.
What followed is best told as he narrated it by word of mouth to the
compiler of this true story, and to a reporter of the 'Westminster Gazette,'
the editor of which paper has courteously given permission for the
reproduction of the interview. Indeed, it would be difficult to tell it so well
in words other than Mr. Burnham's own.

'In the afternoon of December 8,' says Mr. Burnham, 'I was scouting
ahead of the column with Colenbrander, when in a strip of bush we lit on
two Matabele boys driving some cattle, one of whom we caught and
brought in. He was a plucky boy, and when threatened he just looked us
sullenly in the face. He turned out to be a sort of grandson or grand-nephew
of Lobengula himself. He said the King's camp was just ahead, and the
King himself near, with very few men, and these sick, and that he wanted to
give himself up. He represented that the King had been back to this place
that very day to get help because his wagons were stuck in a bog. The
column pushed on through the strip of bush, and there, near by, was the
King's camp—quite deserted. We searched the huts, and in one lay a Maholi

slave-boy, fast asleep. (The Maholis are the slaves of the Matabele.) We
pulled him out, and were questioning him, when the other boy, the sulky
Matabele, caught his eye, and gave him a ferocious look, shouting across to
him to take care what he told.
'The slave-boy agreed with the others that the King had only left this
camp the day before; but as it was getting dark, Major Forbes decided to
reconnoitre before going on with the column. I learnt of the decision to send
forward Major Wilson and fifteen men on the best horses when I got my
orders to accompany them, and, along with Bayne, to do their scouting. My
horse was exhausted with the work he had done already; I told Major
Forbes, and he at once gave me his. It was a young horse, rather skittish, but
strong and fairly fresh by comparison.
'Ingram, my fellow-scout, remained with the column, and so got some
hours' rest; thanks to which he was able not only to do his part of tracking
for the twenty men afterwards sent on to us through the bush at night, but
also, when he and I got through after the smash, to do the long and
dangerous ride down country to Buluwayo with the despatches—a ride on
which he was accompanied by Lynch.
'So we set off along the wagon track, while the main body of the column
went into laager.
'Close to the river the track turned and led down stream along the west
bank. Two miles down was a drift' (they call a fordable dip a drift in South
Africa), 'and here the track crossed the Shangani. We splashed through, and
the first thing we scouts knew on the other side was that we were riding into
the middle of a lot of Matabele among some scherms, or temporary shelters.
There were men, and some women and children. The men were armed. We
put a bold face on it, and gave out the usual announcement that we did not
want to kill anybody, but must have the King. The natives seemed surprised
and undecided; presently, as Major Wilson and the rest of the patrol joined
us, one of them volunteered to come along with us and guide us to the King.
He was only just ahead, the man said. How many men were with him? we
asked. The man put up his little finger—dividing it up, so. Five fingers
mean an impi; part of the little finger, like that, should mean fifty to one

hundred men. Wilson said to me, "Go on ahead, taking that man beside your
saddle; cover him, fire if necessary, but don't you let him slip."
'So we started off again at a trot, for the light was failing, the man
running beside my horse, and I keeping a sharp eye on him. The track led
through some thick bush. We passed several scherms. Five miles from the
river we came to a long narrow vlei [a vlei is a shallow valley, generally
with water in it], which lay across our path. It was now getting quite dark.
Coming out of the bush on the near edge of the vlei, before going down into
it, I saw fires lit, and scherms and figures showing dark against the fires
right along the opposite edge of the vlei. We skirted the vlei to our left, got
round the end of it, and at once rode through a lot of scherms containing
hundreds of people. As we went, Captain Napier shouted the message about
the King wherever there was a big group of people. We passed scherm after
scherm, and still more Matabele, more fires, and on we rode. Instead of the
natives having been scattering from the King, they had been gathering. But
it was too late to turn. We were hard upon our prize, and it was understood
among the Wilson patrol that they were going to bring the King in if man
could do it. The natives were astonished: they thought the whole column
was on them: men jumped up, and ran hither and thither, rifle in hand. We
went on without stopping, and as we passed more and more men came
running after us. Some of them were crowding on the rearmost men, so
Wilson told off three fellows to "keep those niggers back." They turned, and
kept the people in check. At last, nearly at the other end of the vlei, having
passed five sets of scherms, we came upon what seemed to be the King's
wagons, standing in a kind of enclosure, with a saddled white horse tethered
by it. Just before this, in the crowd and hurry, my man slipped away, and I
had to report to Wilson that I had lost him. Of course it would not have
done to fire. One shot would have been the match in the powder magazine.
We had ridden into the middle of the Matabele nation.
'At this enclosure we halted and sang out again, making a special appeal
to the King and those about him. No answer came. All was silence. A few
drops of rain fell. Then it lightened, and by the flashes we could just see
men getting ready to fire on us, and Napier shouted to Wilson, "Major, they
are about to attack." I at the same-time saw them closing in on us rapidly
from the right. The next thing to this fifth scherm was some thick bush; the
order was given to get into that, and in a moment we were out of sight

there. One minute after hearing us shout, the natives with the wagons must
have been unable to see a sign of us. Just then it came on to rain heavily;
the sky, already cloudy, got black as ink; the night fell so dark that you
could not see your hand before you.
'We could not stay the night where we were, for we were so close that
they would hear our horses' bits. So it was decided to work down into the
vlei, creep along close to the other edge of it to the end we first came round,
farthest from the King's camp, and there spend the night. This, like all the
other moves, was taken after consultation with the officers, several of
whom were experienced Kaffir campaigners. It was rough going; we were
unable to see our way, now splashing through the little dongas that ran
down into the belly of the vlei, now working round them, through bush and
soft bottoms. At the far end, in a clump of thick bush, we dismounted, and
Wilson sent off Captain Napier, with a man of his called Robinson, and the
Victoria scout, Bayne, to go back along the wagon-track to the column,
report how things stood, and bring the column on, with the Maxims, as
sharp as possible. Wilson told Captain Napier to tell Forbes if the bush
bothered the Maxim carriages to abandon them and put the guns on horses,
but to bring the Maxims without fail. We all understood—and we thought
the message was this—that if we were caught there at dawn without the
Maxims we were done for. On the other hand was the chance of capturing
the King and ending the campaign at a stroke.
'The spot we had selected to stop in until the arrival of Forbes was a
clump of heavy bush not far from the King's spoor—and yet so far from the
Kaffir camps that they could not hear us if we kept quiet. We dismounted,
and on counting it was found that three of the men were missing. They were
Hofmeyer, Bradburn and Colquhoun. Somewhere in winding through the
bush from the King's wagons to our present position these men were lost.
Not a difficult thing, for we only spoke in whispers, and, save for the
occasional click of a horse's hoof, we could pass within ten feet of each
other and not be aware of it.
'Wilson came to me and said, "Burnham, can you follow back along the
vlei where we've just come?" I doubted it very much as it was black and
raining; I had no coat, having been sent after the patrol immediately I came
in from firing the King's huts, and although it was December, or

midsummer south of the line, the rain chilled my fingers. Wilson said,
"Come, I must have those men back." I told him I should need some one to
lead my horse so as to feel the tracks made in the ground by our horses. He
replied, "I will go with you. I want to see how you American fellows work."
'Wilson was no bad hand at tracking himself, and I was put on my mettle
at once. We began, and I was flurried at first, and did not seem to get on to
it somehow; but in a few minutes I picked up the spoor and hung to it.
'So we started off together, Wilson and I, in the dark. It was hard work,
for one could see nothing; one had to feel for the traces with one's fingers.
Creeping along, at last we stood close to the wagons, where the patrol had
first retreated into the bush.
'"If we only had the force here now," said Wilson, "we would soon
finish."
'But there was still no sign of the three men, so there was nothing for it
but to shout. Retreating into the vlei in front of the King's camp, we stood
calling and cooeying for them, long and low at first, then louder. Of course
there was a great stir along the lines of the native scherms, for they did not
know what to make of it. We heard afterwards that the natives were greatly
alarmed as the white men seemed to be everywhere at once, and the indunas
went about quieting the men, and saying "Do you think the white men are
on you, children? Don't you know a wolf's howl when you hear it?"
'After calling for a bit, we heard an answering call away down the vlei,
and the darkness favouring us, the lost men soon came up and we arrived at
the clump of bushes where the patrol was stationed. We all lay down in the
mud to rest, for we were tired out. It had left off raining, but it was a
miserable night, and the hungry horses had been under saddle, some of
them twenty hours, and were quite done.
'So we waited for the column.
'During the night we could hear natives moving across into the bush
which lay between us and the river. We heard the branches as they pushed
through. After a while Wilson asked me if I could go a little way around our
position and find out what the Kaffirs were doing. I always think he heard
something, but he did not say so. I slipped out and on our right heard the

swirl of boughs and the splash of feet. Circling round for a little time I came
on more Kaffirs. I got so close to them I could touch them as they passed,
but it was impossible to say how many there were, it was so dark. This I
reported to Wilson. Raising his head on his hand he asked me a few
questions, and made the remark that if the column failed to come up before
daylight, "we are in a hard hole," and told me to go out on the King's spoor
and watch for Forbes, so that by no possibility should he pass us in the
darkness. It was now, I should judge, 1 a.m. on the 4th of December.
'I went, and for a long,
long time I heard only the
dropping of the rain from
the leaves and now and then
a dog barking in the
scherms, but at last, just as
it got grey in the east, I
heard a noise, and placing
my ear close to the ground,
made it out to be the tramp
of horses. I ran back to
Wilson and said "The
column is here."
'We all led our horses out
to the King's spoor. I saw
the form of a man tracking.
It was Ingram. I gave him a
low whistle; he came up,
and behind him rode—not
the column, not the
Maxims, but just twenty
men under Captain Borrow.
'JUST AS HIS ARM WAS POISED I FIRED' It was a terrible moment
—"If we were caught there
at dawn"—and already it
was getting lighter every minute.

'One of us asked "Where is the column?" to which the reply was, "You
see all there are of us." We answered, "Then you are only so many more
men to die."
'Wilson went aside with Borrow, and there was earnest talk for a few
moments. Presently all the officers' horses' heads were together; and
Captain Judd said in my hearing, "Well, this is the end." And Kurten said
quite quietly, "We shall never get out of this."
'Then Wilson put it to the officers whether we should try and break
through the impis which were now forming up between us and the river, or
whether we would go for the King and sell our lives in trying to get hold of
him. The final decision was for this latter.
'So we set off and walked along the vlei back to the King's wagons. It
was quite light now and they saw us from the scherms all the way, but they
just looked at us and we at them, and so we went along. We walked because
the horses hadn't a canter in them, and there was no hurry anyway.
'At the wagons we halted and shouted out again about not wanting to kill
anyone. There was a pause, and then came shouts and a volley. Afterwards
it was said that somebody answered, "If you don't want to kill, we do." My
horse jumped away to the right at the volley, and took me almost into the
arms of some natives who came running from that side. A big induna blazed
at me, missed me, and then fumbled at his belt for another cartridge. It was
not a proper bandolier he had on, and I saw him trying to pluck out the
cartridge instead of easing it up from below with his finger. As I got my
horse steady and threw my rifle down to cover him, he suddenly let the
cartridge be and lifted an assegai. Waiting to make sure of my aim, just as
his arm was poised I fired and hit him in the chest; he dropped. All
happened in a moment. Then we retreated. Seeing two horses down, Wilson
shouted to somebody to cut off the saddle pockets which carried extra
ammunition. Ingram picked up one of the dismounted men behind him,
Captain Fitzgerald the other. The most ammunition anyone had, by the way,
was a hundred and ten rounds. There was some very stiff fighting for a few
minutes, the natives having the best of the position; indeed they might have
wiped us out but for their stupid habit of firing on the run, as they charged.
Wilson ordered us to retire down the vlei; some hundred yards further on

we came to an ant-heap and took our second position on that, and held it for
some time. Wilson jumped on the top of the ant-heap and shouted—"Every
man pick his nigger." There was no random firing, I would be covering a
man when he dropped to somebody's rifle, and I had to choose another.
'Now we had the best of the position. The Matabele came on furiously
down the open. Soon we were firing at two hundred yards and less; and the
turned-up shields began to lie pretty thick over the ground. It got too hot for
them; they broke and took cover in the bush. We fired about twenty rounds
per man at this ant-heap. Then the position was flanked by heavy
reinforcements from among the timbers; several more horses were knocked
out and we had to quit. We retreated in close order into the bush on the
opposite side of the vlei—the other side from the scherms. We went slowly
on account of the disabled men and horses.
'There was a lull, and Wilson rode up to me and asked if I thought I
could rush through to the main column. A scout on a good horse might
succeed, of course, where the patrol as a whole would not stand a chance. It
was a forlorn hope, but I thought it was only a question of here or there, and
I said I'd try, asking for a man to be sent with me. A man called Gooding
said he was willing to come, and I picked Ingram also because we had been
through many adventures together, and I thought we might as well see this
last one through together.
'So we started, and we had not gone five hundred yards when we came
upon the horn of an impi closing in from the river. We saw the leading men,
and they saw us and fired. As they did so I swerved my horse sharp to the
left, and shouting to the others, "Now for it!" we thrust the horses through
the bush at their best pace. A bullet whizzed past my eye, and leaves, cut by
the firing, pattered down on us; but as usual the natives fired too high.
'So we rode along, seeing men, and being fired at continually, but
outstripping the enemy. The peculiar chant of an advancing impi, like a
long, monotonous baying or growling, was loud in our ears, together with
the noise they make drumming on their hide shields with the assegai—you
must hear an army making those sounds to realise them. As soon as we got
where the bush was thinner, we shook off the niggers who were pressing us,
and, coming to a bit of hard ground, we turned on our tracks and hid in

some thick bush. We did this more than once and stood quiet, listening to
the noise they made beating about for us on all sides. Of course we knew
that scores of them must have run gradually back upon the river to cut us
off, so we doubled and waited, getting so near again to the patrol that once
during the firing which we heard thickening back there, the spent bullets
pattered around us. Those waiting moments were bad. We heard firing soon
from the other side of the river too, and didn't know but that the column was
being wiped out as well as the patrol.
'At last, after no end of doubling and hiding and riding in a triple loop,
and making use of every device known to a scout for destroying a spoor—it
took us about three hours and a half to cover as many miles—we reached
the river, and found it a yellow flood two hundred yards broad. In the way
African rivers have, the stream, four feet across last night, had risen from
the rain. We did not think our horses could swim it, utterly tired as they now
were; but we were just playing the game through, so we decided to try. With
their heads and ours barely above the water, swimming and drifting, we got
across and crawled out on the other side. Then for the first time, I
remember, the idea struck me that we might come through it after all, and
with that the desire of life came passionately back upon me.
We topped the bank, and there, five hundred yards in front to the left,
stood several hundred Matabele! They stared at us in utter surprise,
wondering, I suppose, if we were the advance guard of some entirely new
reinforcement. In desperation we walked our horses quietly along in front
of them, paying no attention to them. We had gone some distance like this,
and nobody followed behind, till at last one man took a shot at us; and with
that a lot more of them began to blaze away. Almost at the same moment
Ingram caught sight of horses only four or five hundred yards distant; so the
column still existed—and there it was. We took the last gallop out of our
horses then, and—well, in a few minutes I was falling out of the saddle, and
saying to Forbes: "It's all over; we are the last of that party!" Forbes only
said, "Well, tell nobody else till we are through with our own fight," and
next minute we were just firing away along with the others, helping to beat
off the attack on the column.'
Here Mr. Burnham's narrative ends.

What happened to Wilson and his gallant companions, and the exact
manner of their end after Burnham and his two comrades left them, is
known only through the reports of natives who took part in the fight. This,
however, is certain: since the immortal company of Greeks died at
Thermopylæ, few, if any, such stands have been made in the face of
inevitable death. They knew what the issue must be; for them there was no
possibility of escape; the sun shone upon them for the last time, and for the
last time the air of heaven blew upon their brows. Around them, thousand
upon thousand, were massed their relentless foes, the bush echoed with
war-cries, and from behind every tree and stone a ceaseless fire was poured
upon their circle. But these four-and-thirty men never wavered, never
showed a sign of fear. Taking shelter behind the boles of trees, or the bodies
of their dead horses, they answered the fire shot for shot, coolly, with
perfect aim, without haste or hurry.
The bush around told this tale of them in after days, for the bark of every
tree was scored with bullets, showing that wherever an enemy had exposed
his head there a ball had been sent to seek him. Also there was another
testimony—that of the bones of the dead Matabele, the majority of whom
had clearly fallen shot through the brain. The natives themselves state that
for every white man who died upon that day, there perished at least ten of
their own people, picked off, be it remembered, singly as they chanced to
expose themselves. Nor did the enemy waste life needlessly, for their
general ordered up the King's elephant hunters, trained shots, every one of
them, to compete with the white man's fire.
For two long hours or more that fight went on. Now and again a man
was killed, and now and again a man was wounded, but the wounded still
continued to load the rifles that they could not fire, handing them to those of
their companions who were as yet unhurt. At some period during the fray,
so say the Matabele, the white men began to 'sing.' What is meant by the
singing we can never know, but probably they cheered aloud after repelling
a rash of the enemy. At length their fire grew faint and infrequent, till by
degrees it flickered away, for men were lacking to handle the rifles. One
was left, however, who stood alone and erect in the ring of the dead, no
longer attempting to defend himself, either because he was weak with

wounds, or because his ammunition was exhausted. There he stood silent
and solitary, presenting one of the most pathetic yet splendid sights told of
in the generation that he adorned. There was no more firing now, but the
natives stole out of their cover and came up to the man quietly, peering at
him half afraid. Then one of them lifted his assegai and drove it through his
breast. Still he did not fall; so the soldier drew out the spear and, retreating
a few yards, he hurled it at him, transfixing him. Now, very slowly, making
no sound, the white man sank forward upon his face, and so lay still.
There seems to be little doubt but that this man was none other than
Major Allan Wilson, the commander of the patrol. Native reports of his
stature and appearance suggest this, but there is a stronger piece of
evidence. The Matabele told Mr. Burnham who repeated it to the present
writer, that this man wore a hat of a certain shape and size, fastened up at
the side in a peculiar fashion; a hat similar to that which Mr. Burnham wore
himself. Now, these hats were of American make, and Major Wilson was
the only man in that party who possessed one of them, for Mr. Burnham
himself had looped it up for him in the American style, if indeed he had not
presented it to him.
The tragedy seemed to be finished, but it was not so, for as the natives
stood and stared at the fallen white men, from among the dead a man rose
up, to all appearance unharmed, holding in each hand a revolver, or a 'little
Maxim' as they described it. Having gained his feet he walked slowly and
apparently aimlessly away towards an ant-heap that stood at some distance.
At the sight the natives began to fire again, scores, and even hundreds, of
shots being aimed at him, but, as it chanced, none of them struck him.
Seeing that he remained untouched amidst this hail of lead, they cried out
that he was 'tagati,' or magic-guarded, but the indunas ordered them to
continue their fire. They did so, and a bullet passing through his hips, the
Englishman fell down paralysed. Then finding that he could not turn they
ran round him and stabbed him, and he died firing with either hand back
over his shoulders at the slaughterers behind him.
So perished the last of the Wilson patrol. He seems to have been
Alexander Hay Robertson—at least Mr. Burnham believes that it was he,
and for this reason. Robertson, he says, was the only man of the party who

had grey hair, and at a little distance from the other skeletons was found a
skull to which grey hair still adhered.

'One of them lifted his assegai'

It is the custom among savages of the Zulu and kindred races, for
reasons of superstition, to rip open and mutilate the bodies of enemies killed
in war, but on this occasion the Matabele general, having surveyed the dead,
issued an order: 'Let them be,' he said; 'they were men who died like men,
men whose fathers were men.'
No finer epitaph could be composed in memory of Wilson and his
comrades. In truth the fame of this death of theirs has spread far and wide
throughout the native races of Southern Africa, and Englishmen everywhere
reap the benefit of its glory. They also who lie low, they reap the benefit of
it, for their story is immortal, and it will be told hundreds of years hence
when it matters no more to them whether they died by shot and steel on the
banks of the Shangani, or elsewhere in age and sickness. At least through
the fatal storm of war they have attained to peace and honour, and there
within the circle of the ruins of Zimbabwe they sleep their sleep, envied of

some and revered by all. Surely it is no small thing to have attained to such
a death, and England may be proud of her sons who won it.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF
JOAN THE MAID
I

THE FAIRIES' TREE

F OUR hundred and seventy years ago, the children of Domremy, a
little village near the Meuse, on the borders of France and Lorraine,
used to meet and dance and sing beneath a beautiful beech-tree, 'lovely as a
lily.' They called it 'The Fairy Tree,' or 'The Good Ladies' Lodge,' meaning
the fairies by the words 'Good Ladies.' Among these children was one
named Jeanne (born 1412), the daughter of an honest farmer, Jacques d'Arc.
Jeanne sang more than she danced, and though she carried garlands like the
other boys and girls, and hung them on the boughs of the Fairies' Tree, she
liked better to take the flowers into the parish church, and lay them on the
altars of St. Margaret and St. Catherine. It was said among the villagers that
Jeanne's godmother had once seen the fairies dancing; but though some of
the older people believed in the Good Ladies, it does not seem that Jeanne
and the other children had faith in them or thought much about them. They
only went to the tree and to a neighbouring fairy well to eat cakes and laugh
and play. Yet these fairies were destined to be fatal to Jeanne d'Arc, Joan
the Maiden, and her innocent childish sports were to bring her to the stake
and the death by fire. For she was that famed Jeanne la Pucelle, the bravest,
kindest, best, and wisest of women, whose tale is the saddest, the most
wonderful, and the most glorious page in the history of the world. It is a
page which no good Englishman and no true Frenchman can read without
sorrow and bitter shame, for the English burned Joan with the help of bad
Frenchmen, and the French of her party did not pay a sou, or write a line, or
strike a stroke to save her. But the Scottish, at least, have no share in the
disgrace. The Scottish archers fought on Joan's side; the only portrait of
herself that Joan ever saw belonged to a Scottish man-at-arms; their

historians praised her as she deserved; and a Scottish priest from Fife stood
by her to the end.[1]
To understand Joan's history it is necessary to say, first, how we come to
know so much about one who died so many years ago, and, next, to learn
how her country chanced to be so wretched before Joan came to deliver it
and to give her life for France.

'The Fairy Tree'

We know so much about her, not from poets and writers of books who
lived in her day, but because she was tried by French priests (1431), and all
her answers on everything that she ever did in all her life were written down
in Latin. These answers fill most of a large volume. Then, twenty years later
(1550-1556), when the English had been driven out of France, the French
king collected learned doctors, who examined witnesses from all parts of
the country, men and women who had known Joan as a child, and in the
wars, and in prison, and they heard her case again, and destroyed the former
unjust judgment. The answers of these witnesses fill two volumes, and thus
we have all the Maid's history, written during her life, or not long after her
death, and sworn to on oath. We might expect that the evidence of her
friends, after they had time to understand her, and perhaps were tempted to
overpraise her, would show us a picture different from that given in the trial
by her mortal enemies. But though the earlier account, put forth by her foes,

reads like a description by the Scribes and Pharisees of the trial of Our
Lord, yet the character of Joan was so noble that the versions by her friends
and her enemies practically agree in her honour. Her advocates cannot make
us admire her more than we must admire her in the answers which she gave
to her accusers. The records of these two trials, then, with letters and poems
and histories written at the time, or very little later, give us all our
information about Joan of Arc.
Next, as to 'the great pitifulness that was in France' before Joan of Arc
came to deliver her country, the causes of the misery are long to tell and not
easy to remember. To put it shortly, in Joan's childhood France was under a
mad king, Charles VI., and was torn to pieces by two factions, the party of
Burgundy and the party of Armagnac. The English took advantage of these
disputes, and overran the land. France was not so much one country,
divided by parties, as a loose knot of states, small and great, with different
interests, obeying greedy and selfish chiefs rather than the king. Joan cared
only for her country, not for a part of it. She fought not for Orleans, or
Anjou, or Britanny, or Lorraine, but for France. In fact, she made France a
nation again. Before she appeared everywhere was murder, revenge,
robbery, burning of towns, slaughter of peaceful people, wretchedness, and
despair. It was to redeem France from this ruin that Joan came, just when, in
1429, the English were besieging Orleans. Had they taken the strong city of
Orleans, they could have overrun all southern and central France, and
would have driven the natural king of France, Charles the Dauphin, into
exile. From this ruin Joan saved her country; but if you wish to know more
exactly how matters stood, and who the people were with whom Joan had
to do, you must read what follows. If not, you can 'skip' to Chapter III.

II

A PAGE OF HISTORY

A S you know, Edward III. had made an unjust claim to the French
crown, and, with the Black Prince, had supported it by the victories
of Creçy and Poictiers. But Edward died, and the Black Prince died, and his
son, Richard II., was the friend of France, and married a French princess.
Richard, too, was done to death, but Henry IV., who succeeded him, had so

much work on his hands in England that he left France alone. Yet France
was wretched, because when the wise Charles V. died in 1380, he left two
children, Charles the Dauphin, and his brother, Louis of Orleans. They were
only little boys, and the Dauphin became weak-minded; moreover, they
were both in the hands of their uncles. The best of these relations, Philip,
Duke of Burgundy, died in 1404. His son, John the Fearless, Duke of
Burgundy, was the enemy of his own cousin, Louis of Orleans, brother of
the Dauphin Charles, who was now king, under the title of Charles VI. John
the Fearless had Louis of Orleans murdered, yet Paris, the capital of France,
was on the side of the murderer. He was opposed by the Count of
Armagnac. Now, the two parties of Armagnac and Burgundy divided
France; the Armagnacs professing to be on the side of Charles the Dauphin.
They robbed, burned, and murdered on all sides. Meanwhile, in England,
Henry V. had succeeded to his father, and the weakness of France gave him
a chance to assert his unjust claim to its throne. He defeated the French at
Agincourt in 1415, he carried the Duke of Orleans a prisoner to London, he
took Rouen, and overran Normandy. The French now attempted to make
peace among themselves. The Duke of Burgundy had the mad Charles VI.
in his power. The Dauphin was with the opposite faction of Armagnac. But,
if the Dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy became friends, the Armagnacs
would lose all their importance. The power would be with the Duke of
Burgundy. The Armagnacs, therefore, treacherously murdered the duke, in
the name of the Dauphin, at a meeting on the Bridge of Montereau (1419).
The son of the duke, Philip the Good, now became Duke of Burgundy, and
was determined to revenge his murdered father. He therefore made friends
with Henry V. and the English. The English being now so strong in the
Burgundian alliance, their terms were accepted in the Peace of Troyes
(1420). The Dauphin was to be shut out from succeeding to the French
crown, and was called a Pretender. Henry V. married the Dauphin's sister
Catherine, and when the mad Charles VI. died, Henry and Catherine were
to be King and Queen of England and France. Meantime, Henry V. was to
punish the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. But Henry V. died first, and, soon
after, the mad Charles died. Who, then, was to be King of France? The
Armagnacs held for the Dauphin, the rightful heir. The English, of course,
and the Burgundians, were for Henry VI., a baby of ten months old. He, like
other princes, had uncles, one of them, the Duke of Gloucester, managed
affairs in England; another, the Duke of Bedford, the Regent, was to keep

down France. The English possessed Paris and the North; the Dauphin
retained the Centre of France, and much of the South, holding his court at
Bourges. It is needless to say that the uncles of the baby Henry VI., the
Dukes of Gloucester and Bedford, were soon on bad terms, and their
disputes made matters easier for the Dauphin. He lost two great battles,
however, Crevant and Verneuil, where his Scottish allies were cut to pieces.
The hearts of good Frenchmen were with him, but he was indolent, selfish,
good-humoured, and governed by a fat, foolish favourite, La Tremouille.
The Duke of Bedford now succeeded in patching up the quarrels among the
English, and then it was determined (but not by Bedford's advice) to cross
the Loire, to invade Southern France, to crush the Dauphin, and to conquer
the whole country. But, before he could do all this, Bedford had to take the
strong city of Orleans, on the Loire. And against the walls of Orleans the
tide of English victory was broken, for there the flag of England went down
before the peasant girl who had danced below the Fairy Tree of Domremy,
before Joan the Maiden.

III

THE CHILDHOOD OF JOAN THE MAIDEN

T HE English were besieging Orleans; Joan the Maid drove them from
its walls. How did it happen that a girl of seventeen, who could
neither read nor write, became the greatest general on the side of France?
How did a woman defeat the hardy English soldiers who were used to chase
the French before them like sheep?
We must say that France could only be saved by a miracle, and by a
miracle she was saved. This is a mystery; we cannot understand it. Joan the
Maiden was not as other men and women are. But, as a little girl, she was a
child among children, though better, kinder, stronger than the rest, and, poor
herself, she was always good and helpful to those who were poorer still.
Joan's parents were not indigent; they had lands and cattle, and a little
money laid by in case of need. Her father was, at one time, doyen, or head-
man, of Domremy. Their house was hard by the church, and was in the part
of the hamlet where the people were better off, and had more freedom and

privileges than many of their
neighbours. They were devoted to the
Royal House of France, which
protected them from the tyranny of
lords and earls further east. As they
lived in a village under the patronage
of St. Remigius, they were much
interested in Reims, his town, where
the kings of France were crowned, and
were anointed with Holy Oil, which
was believed to have been brought in
a sacred bottle by an angel.
In the Middle Ages, the king was
not regarded as really king till this
holy oil had been poured on his head.
Thus we shall see, later, how anxious
Joan was that Charles VII., then the
Dauphin, should be crowned and
anointed in Reims, though it was still
in the possession of the English. It is
also necessary to remember that Joan
had once an elder sister named
JOAN IN CHURCH Catherine, whom she loved dearly.
Catherine died, and perhaps affection
for her made Joan more fond of
bringing flowers to the altar of her namesake, St. Catherine, and of praying
often to that saint.
Joan was brought up by her parents, as she told her judges, to be
industrious, to sew and spin. She did not fear to match herself at spinning
and sewing, she said, against any woman in Rouen. When very young she
sometimes went to the fields to watch the cattle, like the goose-girl in the
fairy tale. As she grew older, she worked in the house, she did not any
longer watch sheep and cattle. But the times were dangerous, and, when
there was an alarm of soldiers or robbers in the neighbourhood, she
sometimes helped to drive the flock into a fortified island, or peninsula, for
which her father was responsible, in the river near her home. She learned

her creed, she said, from her mother. Twenty years after her death, her
neighbours, who remembered her, described her as she was when a child.
Jean Morin said that she was a good industrious girl, but that she would
often be praying in church when her father and mother did not know it.
Beatrix Estellin, an old widow of eighty, said Joan was a good girl. When
Domremy was burned, Joan would go to church at Greux, 'and there was
not a better girl in the two towns.' A priest, who had known her, called her 'a
good, simple, well-behaved girl.' Jean Waterin, when he was a boy, had seen
Joan in the fields; 'and when they were all playing together, she would go
apart, and pray to God, as he thought, and he and the others used to laugh at
her. She was good and simple, and often in churches and holy places. And
when she heard the church bell ring, she would kneel down in the fields.'
She used to bribe the sexton to ring the bells (a duty which he rather
neglected) with presents of knitted wool.
All those who had seen Joan told the same tale: she was always kind,
simple, industrious, pious, and yet merry and fond of playing with the
others round the Fairy Tree. They say that the singing birds came to her, and
nestled in her breast.[2]
Thus, as far as anyone could tell, Joan was a child like other children,
but more serious and more religious. One of her friends, a girl called
Mengette, whose cottage was next to that of Joan's father, said: 'Joan was so
pious that we other children told her she was too good.'
In peaceful times Joan would have lived and married and died and been
forgotten. But the times were evil. The two parties of Burgundy and
Armagnac divided town from town and village from village. It was as in the
days of the Douglas Wars in Scotland, when the very children took sides for
Queen Mary and King James, and fought each other in the streets.
Domremy was for the Armagnacs—that is, against the English and for the
Dauphin, the son of the mad Charles VI. But at Maxey, on the Meuse, a
village near Domremy, the people were all for Burgundy and the English.
The boys of Domremy would go out and fight the Maxey boys with fists
and sticks and stones. Joan did not remember having taken part in those
battles, but she had often seen her brothers and the Domremy boys come
home all bruised and bleeding.

THE RAID OF DOMREMY

Once Joan saw more of war
than these schoolboy bickers. It
was in 1425, when she was a girl
of thirteen. There was a kind of
robber chief on the English side, a
man named Henri d'Orly, from
Savoy, who dwelt in the castle of
Doulevant. There he and his band
of armed men lived and drank and
plundered far and near. One day
there galloped into Domremy a
squadron of spearmen, who rode
through the fields driving together
the cattle of the villagers, among
them the cows of Joan's father. The
country people could make no
resistance; they were glad enough
if their houses were not burned. So
off rode Henri d'Orly's men,
Joan hears the Voice
driving the cattle with their spear-
points along the track to the castle
of Doulevant. But cows are not fast travellers, and when the robbers had
reached a little village called Dommartin le France they rested, and went to
the tavern to make merry. But by this time a lady, Madame d'Ogévillier, had
sent in all haste to the Count de Vaudemont to tell him how the villagers of
Domremy had been ruined. So he called his squire, Barthélemy de
Clefmont, and bade him summon his spears and mount and ride. It reminds
us of the old Scottish ballad, where Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead has
seen all his cattle driven out of his stalls by the English; and he runs to
Branxholme and warns the water, and they with Harden pursue the English,
defeat them, and recover Telfer's kye, with a great spoil out of England. Just
so Barthélemy de Clefmont, with seven or eight lances, galloped down the
path to Dommartin le France. There they found the cattle, and d'Orly's men
fled like cowards. So Barthélemy with his comrades was returning very
joyously, when Henri d'Orly rode up with a troop of horse and followed

hard after Barthélemy. He was wounded by a lance, but he cut his way
through d'Orly's men, and also brought the cattle back safely—a very
gallant deed of arms. We may fancy the delight of the villagers when 'the
kye cam' hame.' It may have been now that an event happened, of which
Joan does not tell us herself, but which was reported by the king's
seneschal, in June 1429, when Joan had just begun her wonderful career.
The children of the village, says the seneschal, were running races and
leaping in wild joy about the fields; possibly their gladness was caused by
the unexpected rescue of their cattle. Joan ran so much more fleetly than the
rest, and leaped so far, that the children believed she actually flew, and they
told her so! Tired and breathless, 'out of herself,' says the seneschal, she
paused, and in that moment she heard a Voice, but saw no man; the Voice
bade her go home, because her mother had need of her. And when she came
home the Voice said many things to her about the great deeds which God
bade her do for France. We shall later hear Joan's own account of how her
visions and Voices first came to her.[3]
Three years later there was an alarm, and the Domremy people fled to
Neufchâteau, Joan going with her parents. Afterwards her enemies tried to
prove that she had been a servant at an inn in Neufchâteau, had lived
roughly with grooms and soldiers, and had learned to ride. But this was
absolutely untrue. An ordinary child would have thought little of war and of
the sorrows of her country in the flowery fields of Domremy and
Vaucouleurs; but Joan always thought of the miseries of France la belle,
fair France, and prayed for her country and her king. A great road, on the
lines of an old Roman way, passed near Domremy, so Joan would hear all
the miserable news from travellers. Probably she showed what was in her
mind, for her father dreamed that she 'had gone off with soldiers,' and this
dream struck him so much, that he told his sons that he, or they, must drown
Joan if she so disgraced herself. For many girls of bad character, lazy and
rude, followed the soldiers, as they always have done, and always will.
Joan's father thought that his dream meant that Joan would be like these
women. It would be interesting to know whether he was in the habit of
dreaming true dreams. For Joan, his child, dreamed when wide awake,
dreamed dreams immortal, which brought her to her glory and her doom.

THE CALLING OF JOAN THE MAID

When Joan was between twelve and thirteen, a wonderful thing befell
her. We have already heard one account of it, written when Joan was in the
first flower of her triumph, by the seneschal of the King of France. A Voice
spoke to her and prophesied of what she was to do. But about all these
marvellous things it is more safe to attend to what Joan always said herself.
She told the same story both to friends and foes; to the learned men who, by
her king's desire, examined her at Poictiers, before she went to war (April
1429); and to her deadly foes at Rouen. No man can read her answers to
them and doubt that she spoke what she believed. And she died for this
belief. Unluckily the book that was kept of what she said at Poictiers is lost.
Before her enemies at Rouen there were many things which she did not
think it right to say. On one point, after for long refusing to speak, she told
her foes a kind of parable, which we must not take as part of her real story.
When Joan was between twelve and thirteen (1424), so she swore, 'a
Voice came to her from God for her guidance, but when first it came, she
was in great fear. And it came, that Voice, about noonday, in the summer
season, she being in her father's garden. And Joan had not fasted the day
before that, but was fasting when the Voice came.[4] And she heard the
Voice on her right side, towards the church, and rarely did she hear it but
she also saw a great light.' These are her very words. They asked her if she
heard these Voices there, in the hall of judgment, and she answered, 'If I
were in a wood, I should well hear these Voices coming to me.' The Voices
at first only told her 'to be a good girl, and go to church.' She thought it was
a holy Voice, and that it came from God; and the third time she heard it she
knew it was the voice of an angel. The Voice told her of 'the great pity there
was in France,' and that one day she must go into France and help the
country. She had visions with the Voices; visions first of St. Michael, and
then of St. Catherine and St. Margaret.[5] She hated telling her hypocritical
judges anything about these heavenly visions, but it seems that she really
believed in their appearance, believed that she had embraced the knees of
St. Margaret and St. Catherine, and she did reverence to them when they
came to her. 'I saw them with my bodily eyes, as I see you,' she said to her
judges, 'and when they departed from me I wept, and well I wished that
they had taken me with them.'
What are we to think about these visions and these Voices which were
with Joan to her death?

Some have thought that she was mad; others that she only told the story
to win a hearing and make herself important; or, again, that a trick was
played on her to win her aid. The last idea is impossible. The French Court
did not want her. The second, as everyone will admit who reads Joan's
answers, and follows her step by step from childhood to victory, to
captivity, to death, is also impossible. She was as truthful as she was brave
and wise. But was she partially insane? It is certain that mad people do hear
voices which are not real, and believe that they come to them from without.
But these mad voices say mad things. Now, Joan's Voices never said
anything but what was wise beyond her own wisdom, and right and true.
She governed almost all her actions by their advice. When she disobeyed
'her counsel,' as she called it, the result was evil, and once, as we shall see,
was ruinous. Again, Joan was not only healthy, but wonderfully strong,
ready, and nimble. In all her converse with princes and priests and warriors,
she spoke and acted like one born in their own rank. In mind, as in body,
she was a marvel, none such has ever been known. It is impossible, then, to
say that she was mad.
In the whole history of the world, as far as we know it, there is only one
example like that of Joan of Arc. Mad folk hear voices; starved nuns, living
always with their thoughts bent on heaven, women of feeble body,
accustomed to faints and to fits, have heard voices and seen visions. Some
of them have been very good women; none have been strong, good riders,
skilled in arms, able to march all day long with little food, and to draw the
arrow from their own wound and mount horse and charge again, like Joan
of Arc. Only one great man, strong, brave, wise, and healthy, has been
attended by a Voice, which taught him what to do, or rather what not to do.
That man was Socrates, the most hardy soldier, the most unwearied in the
march, and the wisest man of Greece. Socrates was put to death for this
Voice of his, on the charge of 'bringing in new gods.' Joan of Arc died for
her Voices, because her enemies argued that she was no saint, but a witch!
These two, the old philosopher and the untaught peasant girl of nineteen,
stand alone in the endless generations of men, alone in goodness, wisdom,
courage, strength, combined with a mysterious and fatal gift. More than this
it is now forbidden to us to know. But, when we remember that such a being
as Joan of Arc has only appeared once since time began, and that once just
when France seemed lost beyond all hope, we need not wonder at those

who say that France was saved by no common good fortune and happy
chance, but by the will of Heaven.[6]
In one respect, Joan's conduct after these Voices and visions began, was
perhaps, as regarded herself, unfortunate. She did not speak of them to her
parents, nor tell about them to the priest when she confessed. Her enemies
were thus able to say, later, that they could not have been holy visions or
Voices, otherwise she would not have concealed them from her father, her
mother, and the priest, to whom she was bound to tell everything, and from
whom she should have sought advice. Thus, long afterwards, St. Theresa
had visions, and, in obedience to her priest, she at first distrusted these, as
perhaps a delusion of evil, or a temptation of spiritual pride. Joan, however,
was afraid that her father would interfere with her mission, and prevent her
from going to the king. She believed that she must not be 'disobedient to the
heavenly vision.'

HOW JOAN THE MAID WENT TO VAUCOULEURS

It was in 1424 that the Voices first came to Joan the Maid. The years
went on, bringing more and more sorrow to France. In 1428 only a very few
small towns in the east still held out for the Dauphin, and these were
surrounded on every side by enemies. Meanwhile the Voices came more
frequently, urging Joan to go into France, and help her country. She asked
how she, a girl, who could not ride or use sword and lance, could be of any
help? Rather would she stay at home and spin beside her dear mother. At
the same time she was encouraged by one of the vague old prophecies
which were as common in France as in Scotland. A legend ran 'that France
was to be saved by a Maiden from the Oak Wood,' and there was an Oak
Wood, le bois chènu, near Domremy. Some such prophecy had an influence
on Joan, and probably helped people to believe in her. The Voices,
moreover, instantly and often commanded her to go to Vaucouleurs, a
neighbouring town which was loyal, and there meet Robert de Baudricourt,
who was captain of the French garrison. Now, Robert de Baudricourt was
not what is called a romantic person. Though little over thirty, he had
already married, one after the other, two rich widows. He was a gallant
soldier, but a plain practical man, very careful of his own interest, and
cunning enough to hold his own among his many enemies, English,

Burgundian, and Lorrainers. It was to him that Joan must go, a country girl
to a great noble, and tell him that she, and she alone, could save France!
Joan knew what manner of man Robert de Baudricourt was, for her father
had been obliged to visit him, and speak for the people of Domremy when
they were oppressed. She could hardly hope that he would listen to her, and
it was with a heavy heart that she found a good reason for leaving home to
visit Vaucouleurs. Joan had a cousin, a niece of her mother's, who was
married to one Durand Lassois, at Burey en Vaux, a village near
Vaucouleurs. This cousin invited Joan to visit her for a week. At the end of
that time she spoke to her cousin's husband. There was an old saying, as we
saw, that France would be rescued by a Maid, and she, as she told Lassois,
was that Maid. Lassois listened, and, whatever he may have thought of her
chances, he led her to Robert de Baudricourt.
Joan came, on May 18, 1423, in her simple red dress, and walked
straight up to the captain among his men. She knew him, she said, by what
her Voices had told her, but she may also have heard him described by her
father. She told him that the Dauphin must keep quiet, and risk no battle, for
before the middle of Lent next year (1429) God would send him succour.
She added that the kingdom belonged, not to the Dauphin, but to her
Master, who willed that the Dauphin should be crowned, and she herself
would lead him to Reims, to be anointed with the holy oil.
'And who is your Master?' said Robert.
'The King of Heaven!'
Robert, very naturally, thought that Joan was crazed, and shrugged his
shoulders. He bluntly told Lassois to box her ears, and take her back to her
father. So she had to go home; but here new troubles awaited her. The
enemy came down on Domremy and burned it; Joan and her family fled to
Neufchâteau, where they stayed for a few days. It was perhaps about this
time that a young man declared that Joan had promised to marry him, and
he actually brought her before a court of justice, to make her fulfil her
promise.
Joan was beautiful, well-shaped, dark-haired, and charming in her
manner.

We have a letter
which two young
knights, André and
Guy de Laval, wrote to
their mother in the
following year. 'The
Maid was armed from
neck to heel,' they say,
'but unhelmeted; she
carried a lance in her
hand. Afterwards,
when we lighted down
from our horses at
Selles, I went to her
lodging to see her, and
she called for wine for
me, saying she would
soon make me drink
wine in Paris' (then
Robert thinks Joan crazed held by the English),
'and, indeed, she seems
a thing wholly divine,
both to look on her and to hear her sweet voice.'
It is no wonder that the young man of Domremy wanted to marry Joan;
but she had given no promise, and he lost his foolish law-suit. She and her
parents soon went back to Domremy.[7]

HOW JOAN THE MAID WENT AGAIN TO VAUCOULEURS

In Domremy they found that the enemy had ruined everything. Their
cattle were safe, for they had been driven to Neufchâteau, but when Joan
looked from her father's garden to the church, she saw nothing but a heap of
smoking ruins. She had to go to say her prayers now at the church of Greux.
These things only made her feel more deeply the sorrows of her country.
The time was drawing near when she had prophesied that the Dauphin was
to receive help from heaven—namely, in the Lent of 1429. On that year the

season was held more than commonly sacred, for Good Friday and the
Annunciation fell on the same day. So, early in January, 1429, Joan the
Maid turned her back on Domremy, which she was never to see again. Her
cousin Lassois came and asked leave for Joan to visit him again; she said
good-bye to her father and mother, and to her friend Mengette, but to her
dearest friend Hauvette she did not even say good-bye, for she could not
bear it. She went to her cousin's house at Burey, and there she stayed for six
weeks, hearing bad news of the siege of Orleans by the English.
Meanwhile, Robert de Baudricourt, in Vaucouleurs, was not easy in his
mind, for he was likely to lose the protection of René of Anjou, the Duc de
Bar, who was on the point of joining the English. Thus Robert may have
been more inclined to listen to Joan than when he bade her cousin box her
ears and take her back to her father. A squire named Jean de Nouillompont
met Joan one day.
'Well, my lass,' said he, 'is our king to be driven from France, and are we
all to become English?'
'I have come here,' said Joan, 'to bid Robert de Baudricourt lead me to
the king, but he will not listen to me. And yet to the king I must go, even if I
walk my legs down to the knees; for none in all the world—king, nor duke,
nor the King of Scotland's daughter—can save France, but myself only.
Certes, I would rather stay and spin with my poor mother, for to fight is not
my calling; but I must go and I must fight, for so my Lord will have it.'
'And who is your Lord?' said Jean de Nouillompont.
'He is God,' said the Maiden.
'Then, so help me God, I shall take you to the king,' said Jean, putting
her hands in his. 'When do we start?'
'To-day is better than to-morrow,' said the Maid.
Joan was now staying in Vaucouleurs with Catherine le Royer. One day,
as she and Catherine were sitting at their spinning-wheels, who should
come in but Robert de Baudricourt with the curé of the town. Robert had
fancied that perhaps Joan was a witch! He told the priest to perform some
rite of the Church over her, so that if she were a witch she would be obliged
to run away. But when the words were spoken, Joan threw herself at the

knees of the priest, saying, 'Sir, this is ill done of you, for you have heard
my confession and know that I am not a witch.'
Robert was now half disposed to send her to the king and let her take her
chance. But days dragged on, and when Joan was not working she would be
on her knees in the crypt or underground chapel of the Chapel Royal in
Vaucouleurs. Twenty-seven years later a chorister boy told how he often
saw her praying there for France. Now people began to hear of Joan, and
the Duke of Lorraine asked her to visit him at Nancy, where she bade him
lead a better life. He is said to have given her a horse and some money. On
February 12 the story goes that she went to Robert de Baudricourt.
'You delay too long,' she said. 'On this very day, at Orleans, the gentle
Dauphin has lost a battle.'

'Sir, this is ill done of you'

This was, in fact, the Battle of Herrings, so called because the English
defeated and cut off a French and Scottish force which attacked them as
they were bringing herrings into camp for provisions in Lent. If this tale is

true, Joan cannot have known of the battle by any common means; but
though it is vouched for by the king's secretary, Joan has told us nothing
about it herself.[8]

JOAN RIDES TO CHINON

Now the people of Vaucouleurs bought clothes for Joan to wear on her
journey to the Dauphin. They were such clothes as men wear—doublet,
hose, surcoat, boots, and spurs—and Robert de Baudricourt gave Joan a
sword.
In the end this man's dress, which henceforth she always wore, proved
the ruin of Joan. Her enemies, the English and false French, made it one of
their chief charges against her that she dressed, as they chose to say,
immodestly. It is not very clear how she came to wear men's garments. Jean
de Nouillompont, her first friend, asked her if she would go to the king (a
ten days' journey on horseback) dressed as she was, in her red frock. She
answered 'that she would gladly have a man's dress,' which he says that he
provided. Her reason was that she would have to be living alone among
men-at-arms, and she thought that it was more modest to wear armour like
the rest. Also her favourite saint, St. Margaret, had done this once when in
danger. St. Marina had worn a monk's clothes when obliged to live in a
monastery. The same thing is told of St. Eugenia.[9] Besides, in all the
romances of chivalry, and the favourite poems of knights and ladies, we
find fair maidens fighting in arms like men, or travelling dressed as pages,

and nobody ever thought the worse of them. Therefore this foolish charge
of the English against Joan the Maid was a mere piece of cruel hypocrisy.

HOW JOAN THE MAID RODE TO CHINON

On February 23, 1429, the gate of the little castle of Vaucouleurs, 'the
Gate of France,' which is still standing, was thrown open. Seven travellers
rode out, among them two squires, Jean de Nouillompont and Bertrand de
Poulengy, with their attendants, and Joan the Maid. 'Go, and let what will
come of it come!' said Robert de Baudricourt. He did not expect much to
come of it. It was a long journey—they were eleven days on the road—and
a dangerous. But Joan laughed at danger. 'God will clear my path to the
king, for to this end I was born.' Often they rode by night, stopping at
monasteries when they could. Sometimes they slept out under the sky.
Though she was so young and so beautiful, with the happiness of her long
desire in her eyes, and the glory of her future shining on her, these two
young gentlemen never dreamed of paying their court to her and making
love, as in romances they do, for they regarded her 'as if she had been an
angel.' 'They were in awe of her,' they said, long afterwards, long after the
angels had taken Joan to be with their company in heaven. And all the
knights who had seen her said the same. Dunois and d'Aulon and the
beautiful Duc d'Alençon, 'le beau Duc' as Joan called him, they all said that
she was 'a thing enskied and sainted.' So on they rode, six men and a maid,
through a country full of English and Burgundian soldiery. There were four
rivers to cross, Marne, Aube, Seine, and Yonne, and the rivers were 'great
and mickle o' spate,' running red with the rains from bank to bank, so that
they could not ford the streams, but must go by unfriendly towns, where
alone there were bridges. Joan would have liked to stay and go to church in
every town, but this might not be. However, she heard mass thrice at the
church of her favourite saint, Catherine de Fierbois, between Loches and
Chinon, in a friendly country. And a strange thing happened later in that
church.
From Fierbois Joan made some clerk write to the king that she was
coming to help him, and that she would know him among all his men.
Probably it was here that she wrote to beg her parents' pardon, and they
forgave her, she says. Meanwhile news reached the people then besieged in

Orleans that a marvellous Maiden was riding to their rescue. On March 6
Joan arrived in Chinon, where for two or three days the king's advisers
would not let him see her. At last they yielded, and she went straight up to
him, and when he denied that he was the king, she told him that she knew
well who he was.
'There is the king,' said Charles, pointing to a richly dressed noble.
'No, fair sire. You are he!'
Still, it was not easy to believe. Joan stayed at Chinon in the house of a
noble lady. The young Duc d'Alençon was on her side from the first,
bewitched by her noble horsemanship, which she had never learned. Great
people came to see her, but, when she was alone, she wept and prayed. The
king sent messengers to inquire about her at Domremy, but time was going
on, and Orleans was not relieved.

HOW JOAN THE MAID SHOWED A SIGN TO THE KING

Joan was weary of being asked questions. One day she went to Charles
and said, 'Gentle Dauphin, why do you delay to believe me? I tell you that
God has taken pity on you and your people, at the prayer of St. Louis and
St. Charlemagne. And I will tell you, by your leave, something which will
show you that you should believe me.'
Then she told him secretly something which, as he said, none could
know but God and himself. A few months later, in July, a man about the
court wrote a letter, in which he declares that none knows what Joan told
the king, but he was plainly as glad as if something had been revealed to
him by the Holy Spirit. We have three witnesses of this, one of them is the
famous Dunois, to whom the king himself told what happened.
What did Joan say to the king, and what was the sign? About this her
enemies later examined her ten times. She told them from the very first that
she would never let them know; that, if they made her speak, what she
spoke would not be the truth. At last she told them a kind of parable about
an angel and a crown, which neither was nor was meant to be taken as true.
It was the king's secret, and Joan kept it.

We learn the secret in this
way. There was a man named
Pierre Sala in the service of
Louis XI. and Charles VIII. of
France. In his youth, Pierre
Sala used to hunt with M. de
Boisy, who, in his youth, had
been gentleman of the
bedchamber to Charles VII.,
Joan's king. To de Boisy
Charles VII. told the secret,
and de Boisy told it to Pierre
Sala. At this time of his
misfortunes (1429), when his
treasurer had only four
crowns in his coffers, Charles
went into his oratory to pray
alone, and he made his prayer
to God secretly, not aloud, but
in his mind.
Now, what Joan told the
king was the secret prayer
JOAN TELLS THE KING HIS SECRET which he had made in his own
heart when alone. And, ten
years later, when Joan was
long dead, an impostor went about saying that she was the Maid, who had
come to life again. She was brought to Charles, who said, 'Maiden, my
Maid, you are welcome back again if you can tell me the secret that is
between you and me.' But the false Maid, falling on her knees, confessed all
her treason.
This is the story of the sign given to the king, which is not the least
strange of the things done by Joan the Maid. But there is a thing stranger
yet, though not so rare.
The king to whom Joan brought this wonderful message, the king whom
she loved so loyally, and for whom she died, spoiled all her plans. He, with

his political advisers, prevented her from driving the English quite out of
France. These favourites, men like the fat La Tremouille, found their profit
in dawdling and delaying, as politicians generally do. Thus, in our own
time, they hung off and on, till our soldiers were too late to rescue Gordon
from the Arabs. Thus, in Joan's time, she had literally to goad them into
action, to drag them on by constant prayers and tears. They were lazy,
comfortable, cowardly, disbelieving; in their hearts they hated the Maid,
who put them to so much trouble. As for Charles, to whom the Maid was so
loyal, had he been a man like the Black Prince, or even like Prince Charlie,
Joan would have led him into Paris before summer was ended. 'I shall only
last one year and little more,' she often said to the king. The Duc d'Alençon
heard her,[10] and much of that precious year was wasted. Charles, to tell the
truth, never really believed in her; he never quite trusted her; he never led a
charge by her side; and, in the end, he shamefully deserted her, and left the
Maid to her doom.

HOW JOAN THE MAID WAS EXAMINED AT POICTIERS

Weeks had passed, and Joan had never yet seen a blow struck in war.
She used to exercise herself in horsemanship, and knightly sports of tilting,
and it is wonderful that a peasant girl became, at once, one of the best riders
among the chivalry of France. The young Duc d'Alençon, lately come from
captivity in England, saw how gallantly she rode, and gave her a horse. He
and his wife were her friends from the first, when the politicians and
advisers were against her. But, indeed, whatever the Maid attempted, she
did better than others, at once, without teaching or practice. It was now
determined that Joan should be taken to Poictiers, and examined before all
the learned men, bishops, doctors, and higher clergy who still were on the
side of France. There was good reason for this delay. It was plain to all,
friends and foes, that the wonderful Maid was not like other men and
women, with her Voices, her visions, her prophecies, and her powers. All
agreed that she had some strange help given to her; but who gave it? This
aid must come, people thought then, either from heaven or hell—either
from God and his saints, or from the devil and his angels. Now, if any doubt
could be thrown on the source whence Joan's aid came, the English might
argue (as of course they did), that she was a witch and a heretic. If she was
a heretic and a witch, then her king was involved in her wickedness, and so

he might be legally shut out from his kingdom. It was necessary, therefore,
that Joan should be examined by learned men. They must find out whether
she had always been good, and a true believer, and whether her Voices
always agreed in everything with the teachings of the Church. Otherwise
her angels must be devils in disguise. For these reasons Joan was carried to
Poictiers. During three long weeks the learned men asked her questions,
and, no doubt, they wearied her terribly. But they said it was wonderful how
wisely this girl, who 'did not know A from B,' replied to their puzzling
inquiries. She told the story of her visions, of the command laid upon her to
rescue Orleans. Said Guillaume Aymeri, 'You ask for men-at-arms, and you
say that God will have the English to leave France and go home. If that is
true, no men-at-arms are needed; God's pleasure can drive the English out
of the land.'

'In a better language than yours,' said Joan

'In God's name,' said the Maid, 'the men-at-arms will fight, and God will
give the victory.' Then came the learned Seguin; 'a right sour man was he,'
said those who knew him.

Seguin was a Limousin, and the Limousins spoke in a queer accent at
which the other French were always laughing.
'In what language do your Voices speak?' asked he.
'In a better language than yours,' said Joan, and the bishops smiled at the
country quip.
'We may not believe in you,' said Seguin, 'unless you show us a sign.'
'I did not come to Poictiers to work miracles,' said Joan; 'take me to
Orleans, and I shall show you the signs that I am sent to do.' And show
them she did.
Joan never pretended to work miracles. Though, in that age, people
easily believed in miracles, it is curious that none worth mentioning were
invented about Joan in her own time. She knew things in some strange way
sometimes, but the real miracle was her extraordinary wisdom, genius,
courage, and power of enduring hardship.
At last, after examining witnesses from Domremy, and the Queen of
Sicily and other great ladies to whom Joan was entrusted, the clergy found
nothing in her but 'goodness, humility, frank maidenhood, piety, honesty,
and simplicity.' As for her wearing a man's dress, the Archbishop of Embrun
said to the king, 'It is more becoming to do these things in man's gear, since
they have to be done amongst men.'
The king therefore made up his mind at last. Jean and Pierre, Joan's
brothers, were to ride with her to Orleans; her old friends, her first friends,
Jean de Nouillompont and Bertrand de Poulengy, had never left her. She
was given a squire, Jean d'Aulon, a very good man, and a page, Louis de
Coutes, and a chaplain. The king gave Joan armour and horses, and offered
her a sword. But her Voices told her that, behind the altar of St. Catherine
de Fierbois, where she heard mass on her way to Chinon, there was an old
sword, with five crosses on the blade, buried in the earth. That sword she
was to wear. A man whom Joan did not know, and had never seen, was sent
from Tours, and found the sword in the place which she described. The
sword was cleaned of rust, and the king gave her two sheaths, one of velvet,
one of cloth of gold, but Joan had a leather sheath made for use in war. She
also commanded a banner to be made, with the Lilies of France on a white

field. There was also a picture of God, holding the round world, and two
angels at the sides, with the sacred words, Jhesu Maria. On another flag
was the Annunciation, the Virgin holding a lily, and the angel coming to her.
In battle, when she led a charge, Joan always carried her standard, that she
might not be able to use her sword. She wished to kill nobody, and said 'she
loved her banner forty times more than her sword.' Joan afterwards broke
St. Catherine's sword, when slapping a girl (who richly deserved to be
slapped) with the flat of the blade. Her enemies, at her trial, wished to prove
that her flag was a kind of magical talisman, but Joan had no belief in
anything of that kind. What she believed in was God, her Voices, and her
just cause. When once it was settled that she was to lead an army to relieve
Orleans, she showed her faith by writing a letter addressed to the King of
England; Bedford, the Regent; and the English generals at Orleans. This
letter was sent from Blois, late in April. It began Jhesu Maria. Joan had no
ill-will against the English. She bade them leave France, 'and if you are
reasonable, you yet may ride in the Maid's company, where the French will
do the fairest feat of arms that ever yet was done for Christentie.' Probably
she had in her mind some Crusade. But, before France and England can
march together, 'do ye justice to the King of Heaven and the Blood Royal of
France. Yield to the Maid the keys of all the good towns which ye have
taken and assailed in France.' If they did not yield to the Maid and the king,
she will come on them to their sorrow. 'Duke of Bedford, the Maid prays
and entreats you not to work your own destruction!'

We may imagine how the English laughed and swore when they received
this letter. They threw the heralds of the Maid into prison, and threatened to

burn them as heretics. From the very first, the English promised to burn
Joan as a witch and a heretic. This fate was always before her eyes. But she
went where her Voices called her.

HOW JOAN THE MAID RODE TO RELIEVE ORLEANS

At last the men-at-arms who were to accompany Joan were ready. She
rode at their head, as André de Laval and Guy de Laval saw her, and
described her in a letter to their mother. She was armed in white armour, but
unhelmeted, a little axe in her hand, riding a great black charger, that reared
at the door of her lodging and would not let her mount.

'"Lead him to the
Cross!" cried she, for a
Cross stood on the
roadside, by the
church. There he stood
as if he had been stone,
and she mounted. Then
she turned to the
church, and said, in her
girlish voice, "You
priests and churchmen,
make prayers and
processions to God."
Then she cried,
"Forwards, Forwards!"
and on she rode, a
pretty page carrying
her banner, and with
her little axe in her
hand.' And so Joan
went to war.[11] She
led, she says, ten or 'Lead him to the Cross!' cried she
twelve thousand
soldiers.[12] Among the other generals were Xaintrailles and La Hire. Joan
made her soldiers confess themselves; as for La Hire, a brave rough soldier,
she forbade him to swear, as he used to do, but, for his weakness, she
permitted him to say, By my bâton! This army was to defend a great convoy
of provisions, of which the people of Orleans stood in sore need. Since
November they had been besieged, and now it was late April. The people in
Orleans were not yet starving, but food came in slowly, and in small
quantities. From the first the citizens had behaved well; a Scottish priest
describes their noble conduct. They had burned all the outlying suburbs,
beyond the wall, that they might not give shelter to the English. They had
plenty of cannon, which carried large rough stone balls, and usually did
little harm. But a gun was fired, it is said by a small boy, which killed

Salisbury, the English general, as he looked out of an arrow-slit in a fort
that the English had taken.
The French general-in-chief was the famous Dunois, then called the
Bastard of Orleans. On the English side was the brave Talbot, who fought
under arms for sixty years, and died fighting when he was over eighty.
There were also Suffolk, Pole, and Glasdale, whom the French called
'Classidas.' The English had not soldiers enough to surround and take so
large a town, of 30,000 people, in ordinary war. But as Dunois said, 'two
hundred English could then beat a thousand French'—that is, as the French
were before the coming of the Maid.
The position of Orleans was this; it may be most easily understood from
the map.
Looking down the river Loire, Orleans lies on your right hand. It had
strong walls in an irregular square; it had towers on the wall, and a bridge
of many arches crossing to the left side of the river. At the further end of
this bridge were a fort and rampart called Les Tourelles, and this fort had
already been taken by the English, so that no French army could cross the
bridge to help Orleans. Indeed, the bridge was broken. The rampart and the
fort of Les Tourelles were guarded by another strong work, called Les
Augustins. All round the outside of the town, on the right bank, the English
had built strong redoubts, which they called bastilles. 'Paris' was the bastille
which blocked the road from Paris, 'London' and 'Rouen' were bastilles on
the western side, but on the east, above the town, and on the Orleans bank
of the Loire, the English had only one bastille, St. Loup. Now, as Joan's
army mustered at Blois, south of Orleans, further down the river, she might
march on the left side of the river, cross it by boats above Orleans, and enter
the town where the English were weakest and had only one fort, St. Loup.
Or she might march up the right bank, and attack the English where they
were strongest, and had many bastilles. The Voices bade the Maid act on the
boldest plan, and enter Orleans where the English were strongest, on the
right bank of the river. The English would not move, said the Voices. She
was certain that they would not even sally out against her. But Dunois in
Orleans, and the generals with the Maid, thought this plan very perilous, as,
indeed, it was. They therefore deceived her, caused her to think that Orleans
was on the left bank of the Loire, and led her thither. When she arrived, she

saw that they had not played her fair, that the river lay between her and the
town, and the strongest force of the enemy.
The most astonishing thing about Joan is that, though she had never yet
seen a sword-stroke dealt in anger, she understood the great operations of
war better than seasoned generals. It was not only that she, like old Blücher,
always cried Forwards! Audacity, to fight on every chance, carries men far
in battle. Prince Charlie, who was no great general, saw that, and while his
flag went forward he never lost a fight. But Joan 'was most expert in war,'
said the Duc d'Alençon, 'both with the lance and in massing an army, and
arraying battle, and in the management of artillery. For all men marvelled
how far-sighted and prudent she was in war, as if she had been a captain of
thirty years' standing, and, above all, in the service of the artillery, for in
that she was right well skilled.'[13]
This girl of seventeen saw that, if a large convoy of provisions was to be
thrown into a besieged town, the worst way was to try to ferry the supplies
across a river under the enemy's fire. But Dunois and the other generals had
brought her to this pass, and the Maid was sore ill-pleased. Now we shall
see what happened, as it is reported in the very words of Dunois, the French
general in Orleans. Joan had been brought, as we said, to the wrong bank of
the Loire; it ran between her and the town where she would be. The wind
was blowing in her teeth; boats could not cross with the troops and
provisions. There she sat her horse and chafed till Dunois came out and
crossed the Loire to meet her. This is what he says about Joan and her
conduct.

HOW JOAN THE MAID ENTERED ORLEANS

They were on the wrong side of the Loire, opposite St. Loup, where the
English held a strong fort.[14] 'I did not think, and the other generals did not
think,' says Dunois, 'that the men-at-arms with the Maid were a strong
enough force to bring the provisions into the town. Above all, it was
difficult to get boats and ferry over the supplies, for both wind and stream
were dead against us. Then Joan spoke to me thus:
'"Are you the Bastard of Orleans?"

'"That am I, and glad of
your coming."
'"Is it you who gave
counsel that I should come
hither by that bank of the
stream, and not go straight
where Talbot and the
English are?"
'"I myself, and others
wiser than I, gave that
advice, and we think it the
better way and the surer."
'"In God's name, the
counsel of our God is wiser
and surer than yours. You
thought to deceive me, and
you have deceived
'Then spurred she her horse . . . and put out the flame'
yourselves, for I bring you a
better rescue than ever shall
come to soldier or city—that is, the help of the King of Heaven. . . ."
'Then instantly, and as it were in one moment, the wind changed that had
been dead against us, and had hindered the boats from carrying the
provisions into Orleans, and the sails filled.'
Dunois now wished Joan to cross by boat and enter the town, but her
army could not cross, and she was loth to leave them, lest they fell into sin,
for she had made them all confess at Blois. However, the army returned to
Blois, to cross by the bridge there, and come upon the Orleans bank, as Joan
had intended from the first. Then Joan crossed in the boat, holding in her
hand the lily standard. So she and La Hire and Dunois rode into Orleans,
where the people crowded round her, blessing her, and trying to kiss her
hand. Night had fallen, there were torches flaring in the wind, and, as the
people thronged about her, a torch set fire to the fringe of her banner. 'Then
spurred she her horse, and turned him gracefully and put out the flame, as if
she had long followed the wars, which the men-at-arms beheld with

wonder, and the folk of Orleans.' So they led her with great joy to the
Regnart Gate, and the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of
Orleans, and there was she gladly received, with her two brothers and her
gentlemen, her old friends, Nouillompont and Poulengy.
Next day, without leave from Joan, La Hire led a sally gainst the
English, fought bravely, but failed, and Joan wished once more to bid the
English go in peace. The English, of course, did not obey her summons, and
it is said that they answered with wicked words which made her weep. For
she wept readily, and blushed when she was moved. In her anger she went
to a rampart, and, crying aloud, bade the English begone; but they repeated
their insults, and threatened yet again to burn her. Next day (May 1),
Dunois went off to bring the troops from Blois, and Joan rode round and
inspected the English position. They made no attempt to take her. A
superstitious fear of her 'witchcraft' had already fallen on them; they had
lost heart and soon lost all. On May 4 the army returned from Blois. Joan
rode out to meet them, priests marched in procession, singing hymns, but
the English never stirred. They were expecting fresh troops under Fastolf.
'If you do not let me know when Fastolf comes,' cried the Maid merrily to
Dunois, 'I will have your head cut off.' But for some reason, probably
because they did not wish her to run risk, they did not tell Joan when the
next fight began. She had just lain down to sleep when she leaped up with a
noise, wakening her squire. 'My Voices tell me,' she said, 'that I must go
against the English, but whether to their forts or against Fastolf I know not.'
There was a cry in the street; Joan armed herself; her page came in.
'Wretched boy!' she said. 'French blood is flowing, and you never told
me!'
In a moment she was in the street, the page handed to her the lily flag
from the upper window. Followed by her squire, d'Aulon, she galloped to
the Burgundy Gate. They met wounded men. 'Never do I see French blood
but my hair stands up on my head,' said Joan. She rode out of the gate to the
English fort of St. Loup, which the Orleans men were attacking. Joan
leaped into the fosse, under fire, holding her banner, and cheering on her
men. St. Loup was taken by the French, in spite of a gallant defence, and
Joan wept for the dead English, fearing that they had died unconfessed.

Next day was Ascension Day. Joan, thinking 'the better the day the better
the deed,' was for fighting. There was no battle, but she again summoned
the English to withdraw, and again was insulted, and wept.
The French generals now conceived a plan to make a feint, or a sham
attack, on the English forts where they were strongest, on the Orleans side
of the river. The English on the left side would cross to help their
countrymen, and then the French would take the forts beyond the bridge.
Thus they would have a free path across the river, and would easily get
supplies, and weary out the English. They only told Joan of the first part of
their plan, but she saw that they were deceiving her. When the plan was
explained she agreed to it, her one wish was to strike swiftly and strongly.
However, they did not carry out the plan, they only assailed the forts on the
left bank.
The French attacked the English fort of Les Augustins, beyond the river,
but suddenly they fled to their bridge of boats; while the English sallied out,
yelling their insults at Joan. She turned, she gathered a few men, and
charged. The English ran before her like sheep; she planted her banner
again in the ditch. The French hurried back to her, a great Englishman, who
guarded the breach, was shot; two French knights leaped in, the others
followed, and the English took refuge in the redoubt of Les Tourelles, their
strong fort at the bridge-head.
The Maid returned to Orleans, and, though it was a Friday, and she
always fasted on Fridays, she was so weary that she ate some supper. A bit
of bread, her page reports, was all that she usually ate. Now the generals
sent to Joan and said that enough had been done. They had food, and could
wait for another army from the king. 'You have been with your council,' she
said, 'I have been with mine. The wisdom of God is greater than yours. Rise
early to-morrow, do better than your best, keep close by me; for to-morrow
have I much to do, and more than ever yet I did, and to-morrow shall my
blood flow from a wound above my breast.'[15]
Joan had always said at Chinon that she would be wounded at Orleans.
From a letter by a Flemish ambassador, written three weeks before the event
happened, we know that this is true.[16]

Next morning Joan's host had got a fine fish for breakfast. 'Keep it till
evening, and I will bring you a God-damn' (an Englishman) 'to eat his
share,' said the Maid, 'and I will return by the bridge;' which was broken.
The generals did not wish to attack the bridge-tower, but Joan paid them
no attention. They were glad enough to follow, lest she took the fort without
them.
About half-past six in the
morning the fight began. The
French and Scottish leaped into the
fosse, they set ladders against the
walls, they reached the battlements,
and were struck down by English
swords and axes. Cannon-balls and
great stones and arrows rained on
them. 'Fight on!' cried the Maid; 'the
place is ours.' At one o'clock she set
a ladder against the wall with her
own hands, but was deeply
wounded by an arrow, which
pierced clean through between neck
and shoulder. Joan wept, but seizing
the arrow with her own hands she
dragged it out. The men-at-arms
wished to say magic spells over the
wound to 'charm' it, but this the
Joan is wounded by the arrow
Maid forbade as witchcraft. 'Yet,'
says Dunois, 'she did not withdraw
from the battle, nor took any medicine for the wound; and the onslaught
lasted from morning till eight at night, so that there was no hope of victory.
Then I desired that the army should go back to the town, but the Maid came
to me and bade me wait a little longer. Next she mounted her horse and rode
into a vineyard, and there prayed for the space of seven minutes or eight.
Then she returned, took her banner, and stood on the brink of the fosse. The
English trembled when they saw her, but our men returned to the charge
and met with no resistance. The English fled or were slain, and Glasdale,
who had insulted the Maid, was drowned' (by the burning of the drawbridge

between the redoubt and Les Tourelles. The Maid in vain besought him,
with tears, to surrender and be ransomed), 'and we returned gladly into
Orleans.' The people of Orleans had a great share in this victory. Seeing the
English hard pressed, they laid long beams across the broken arches of the
bridge, and charged by this perilous way. The triumph was even more that
of the citizens than of the army. Homer tells us how Achilles, alone and
unarmed, stood by the fosse and shouted, and how all the Trojans fled. But
here was a greater marvel; and the sight of the wounded girl, bowed
beneath the weight of her banner, frighted stouter hearts than those of the
men of Troy.
Joan returned, as she had prophesied, by the bridge, but she did not make
her supper off the fish: she took a little bread dipped in wine and water, her
wound was dressed, and she slept. Next day the English drew up their men
in line of battle. The French went out to meet them, and would have begun
the attack. Joan said that God would not have them fight.
'If the English attack, we shall defeat them; we are to let them go in
peace if they will.'
Mass was then said before the French army.
When the rite was done, Joan asked: 'Do they face us, or have they
turned their backs?'
It was the English backs that the French saw that day: Talbot's men were
in full retreat on Meun.
From that hour May 8 is kept a holiday at Orleans in honour of Joan the
Maiden. Never was there such a deliverance. In a week the Maid had driven
a strong army, full of courage and well led, out of forts like Les Tourelles.
The Duc d'Alençon visited it, and said that with a few men-at-arms he
would have felt certain of holding it for a week against any strength
however great. But Joan not only gave the French her spirit: her
extraordinary courage in leading a new charge after so terrible a wound, 'six
inches deep,' says d'Alençon, made the English think that they were fighting
a force not of this world. And that is exactly what they were doing.

HOW JOAN THE MAID TOOK JARGEAU FROM THE ENGLISH

The Maid had shown her sign, as she promised; she had rescued Orleans.
Her next desire was to lead Charles to Reims, through a country occupied
by the English, and to have him anointed there with the holy oil. Till this
was done she could only regard him as Dauphin—king, indeed, by blood,
but not by consecration.
After all that Joan had accomplished, the king and his advisers might
have believed in her. She went to the castle of Loches, where Charles was:
he received her kindly, but still he did not seem eager to go to Reims. It was
a dangerous adventure, for which he and his favourites like La Tremouille
had no taste. It seems that more learned men were asked to give their
opinion. Was it safe and wise to obey the Maid? On May 14, only six days
after the relief of Orleans, the famous Gerson wrote down his ideas. He
believed in the Maid. The king had already trusted her without fear of being
laughed at; she and the generals did not rely on the saints alone, but on
courage, prudence, and skill. Even if, by ill fortune, she were to fail on a
later day, the fault would not be hers, but would be God's punishment of
French ingratitude. 'Let us not harm, by our unbelief or injustice, the help
which God has given us so wonderfully.' Unhappily the French, or at least
the Court, were unbelieving, ungrateful, unjust to Joan, and so she came to
die, leaving her work half done. The Archbishop of Embrun said that Joan
should always be consulted in great matters, as her wisdom was of God.
And as long as the French took this advice they did well; when they
distrusted and neglected the Maid they failed, and were defeated and
dishonoured. Councils were now held at Tours, and time was wasted as
usual. As usual, Joan was impatient. With Dunois, who tells the story, she
went to see Charles at the castle of Loches. Some nobles and clergy were
with him; Joan entered, knelt, and embraced his knees.
'Noble Dauphin,' she said, 'do not hold so many councils, and such
weary ones, but come to Reims and receive the crown.'
Harcourt asked her if her Voices, or 'counsel' (as she called it) gave this
advice.
She blushed and said: 'I know what you mean, and will tell you gladly.'
The king asked her if she wished to speak before so many people.

Yes, she would speak. When they doubted her she prayed, 'and then she
heard a Voice saying to her:
'"Fille Dé, va, va, va, je serai à ton aide, va!"'[17]
'And when she heard this Voice she was right glad, and wished that she
could always be as she was then; and as she spoke,' says Dunois, 'she
rejoiced strangely, lifting her eyes to heaven.' And still she repeated: 'I will
last for only one year, or little more; use me while you may.'
Joan stirred the politicians at last. They would go to Reims, but could
they leave behind them English garrisons in Jargeau, where Suffolk
commanded, in Meun, where Talbot was, and in other strong places?
Already, without Joan, the French had attacked Jargeau, after the rescue of
Orleans, and had failed. Joan agreed to assail Jargeau. Her army was led by
the 'fair duke,' d'Alençon. He had but lately come from prison in England,
and his young wife was afraid to let him go to war. 'Madame,' said Joan, 'I
will bring him back safe, and even better than he is now.' We shall see how
she saved his life. It was now that Guy and André de Laval saw her, and
wrote the description of her black horse and white armour. They followed
with her gladly, believing that with her glory was to be won.
Let us tell what followed in the words of the Duc d'Alençon.
'We were about six hundred lances, who wished to go against the town
of Jargeau, then held by the English. That night we slept in a wood, and
next day came Dunois and Florence d'Illiers and some other captains. When
we were all met we were about twelve hundred lances; and now arose a
dispute among the captains, some thinking that we should attack the city,
others not so, for they said that the English were very strong, and had many
men.[18] Seeing this difference, Jeanne bade us have no fear of any
numbers, nor doubt about attacking the English, because God was guiding
us. She herself would rather be herding sheep than fighting, if she were not
certain that God was with us. Thereon we rode to Jargeau, meaning to
occupy the outlying houses, and there pass the night; but the English knew
of our approach, and drove in our skirmishers. Seeing this, Jeanne took her
banner and went to the front, bidding our men be in good heart. And they
did so much that they held the suburbs of Jargeau that night. . . . Next
morning we got ready our artillery, and brought guns up against the town.

After some days a
council was held, and I,
with others, was ill
content with La Hire,
who was said to have
parleyed with Lord
Suffolk. La Hire was
sent for, and came.
Then it was decided to
storm the town, and the
heralds cried, "To the
attack!" and Jeanne
said to me, "Forward,
gentle duke." I thought
it was too early, but she
said, "Doubt not; the
hour is come when
God pleases. Ah, gentle
'Now arose a dispute among the captains' duke, are you afraid?
Know you not that I
promised your wife to bring you back safe and sound?" as indeed she had
said. As the onslaught was given, Jeanne bade me leave the place where I
stood, "or yonder gun," pointing to one on the walls, "will slay you." Then I
withdrew, and a little later de Lude was slain in that very place. And I
feared greatly, considering the prophecy of the Maid. Then we both went
together to the onslaught; and Suffolk cried for a parley, but no man marked
him, and we pressed on. Jeanne was climbing a ladder, banner in hand,
when her flag was struck by a stone, and she also was struck on her head,
but her light helmet saved her. She leaped up again, crying, "Friends,
friends, on, on! Our Lord has condemned the English. They are ours; be of
good heart." In that moment Jargeau was taken, and the English fled to the
bridges, we following, and more than eleven hundred of them were slain.'
One Englishman at least died well. He stood up on the battlements, and
dashed down the ladders till he was shot by a famous marksman of
Lorraine.

Suffolk and his brother were taken prisoners. According to one account,
written at the time, Suffolk surrendered to the Maid, as 'the most valiant
woman in the world.' And thus the Maid stormed Jargeau.

HOW THE MAID DEFEATED THE ENGLISH AT PATHAY, AND
OF THE STRANGE GUIDE

The French slew some of their prisoners at Jargeau. Once Joan saw a
man-at-arms strike down a prisoner. She leaped from her horse, and laid the
wounded Englishman's head on her breast, consoling him, and bade a priest
come and hear his confession. Cruel and cowardly deeds are done in all
wars, but when was there ever such a general as the Maid, to comfort the
dying?
From Jargeau the Maid rode back to Orleans, where the people could not
look on her enough, and made great festival. Many men came in to fight
under her flag, among them Richemont, who had been on bad terms with
Charles, the uncrowned king. Then Joan took the bridge-fort at Meun,
which the English held; next she drove the English at Beaugency into the
citadel, and out of the town.
As to what happened next, we have the story of Wavrin, who was
fighting on the English side under Fastolf.[19] The garrison of the English in
Beaugency, he says, did not know whether to hold out or to yield. Talbot
reported all this to Bedford, at Paris, and large forces were sent to relieve
Beaugency. Wavrin rode with his captain, Fastolf, to Senville, where Talbot
joined them, and a council was held. Fastolf said that the English had lost
heart, and that Beaugency should be left to its fate, while the rest held out in
strong places and waited for reinforcements. But Talbot cried that, if he had
only his own people, he would fight the French, with the help of God and
St. George. Next morning Fastolf repeated what he had said, and declared
that they would lose all King Henry had won, But Talbot was for fighting.
So they marched to a place between Meun and Beaugency, and drew up in
order of battle. The French saw them, and occupied a strong position on a
little hill. The English then got ready, and invited the French to come down
and fight on the plain. But Joan was not so chivalrous as James IV. at
Flodden.

One Englishman at least died well

THE ENGLISH ARCHERS BETRAYED BY THE STAG

'Go you to bed to-night, for it is late; to-morrow, so please God and Our
Lady, we will see you at close quarters.'

The English then rode to Meun, and cannonaded the bridge-fort, which
was held by the French. They hoped to take the bridge, cross it, march to
Beaugency, and relieve the besieged there. But that very night Beaugency
surrendered to the Maid! She then bade her army march on the English,
who were retreating to Paris as soon as they heard how Beaugency had
yielded. But how was the Maid to find the English? 'Ride forward,' she
cried, 'and you shall have a sure guide.' They had a guide, and a strange one.
The English were marching towards Paris, near Pathay, when their
éclaireurs (who beat the country on all sides) came in with the news that the
French were following. But the French knew not where the English were,
because the deserted and desolate country was overgrown with wood.
Talbot decided to do what the English did at Creçy, where they won so
glorious a victory. He lined the hedges in a narrow way with five hundred
archers of his best, and he sent a galloper to bring thither the rest of his
army. On came the French, not seeing the English in ambush. In a few
minutes they would have been shot down, and choked the pass with dying
men and horses. But now was the moment for the strange guide.
A stag was driven from cover by the French, and ran blindly among the
ambushed English bowmen. Not knowing that the French were so near, and
being archers from Robin Hood's country, who loved a deer, they raised a
shout, and probably many an arrow flew at the stag. The French éclaireurs
heard the cry, they saw the English, and hurried back with the news.
'Forward!' cried the Maid; 'if they were hung to the clouds we have
them. To-day the gentle king will gain such a victory as never yet did he
win.'[20]
The French dashed into the pass before Talbot had secured it. Fastolf
galloped up, but the English thought that he was in flight; the captain of the
advanced guard turned his horse about and made off. Talbot was taken,
Fastolf fled, 'making more sorrow than ever yet did man.' The French won a
great victory. They needed their spurs, as the Maid had told them that they
would, to follow their flying foes. The English lost some 3,000 men. In the
evening Talbot, as a prisoner, was presented to the Duc d'Alençon.
'You did not expect this in the morning?' said the duke.

'Fortune of war!' said Talbot.
So ended the day of Pathay, and the adventure of the Strange Guide.

HOW THE MAID HAD THE KING CROWNED AT REIMS

Here are the exploits which the Maid and the loyal French did in one
week. She took Jargeau on June 11; on June 15 she seized the bridge of
Meun; Beaugency yielded to her on June 17; on June 18 she defeated the
English army at Pathay. Now sieges were long affairs in those days, as they
are even to-day, when cannon are so much more powerful than they were in
Joan's time. Her success seemed a miracle to the world.
This miracle, like all miracles, was wrought by faith. Joan believed in
herself, in her country, and in God. It was not by visions and by knowing
things strangely that she conquered, but by courage, by strength (on one
occasion she never put off her armour for six days and six nights), and by
inspiring the French with the sight of her valour. Without her visions,
indeed, she would never have gone to war. She often said so. But, being at
war, her word was 'Help yourselves, and God will help you.' Who could be
lazy or a coward when a girl set such an example?
The King of France and his favourites could be indolent and cowards.
Had Charles VII. been such a man as Charles Stuart was in 1745, his foot
would have been in the stirrup, and his lance in rest. In three months the
English would have been driven into the sea. But the king loitered about the
castles of the Loire with his favourite, La Tremouille, and his adviser, the
Archbishop of Reims. They wasted the one year of Joan. There were
jealousies against the Constable de Richemont of Brittany who had come
with all his lances to follow the lily flag. If once Charles were king indeed
and the English driven out, La Tremouille would cease to be powerful. This
dastard sacrificed the Maid in the end, as he was ready to sacrifice France to
his own private advantage.
At last, with difficulty, Charles was brought to visit Reims, and consent
to be crowned like his ancestors. Seeing that he was never likely to move,
Joan left the town where he was and went off into the country. This retreat
brought Charles to his senses. The towns which he passed by yielded to

him; Joan went and
summoned each. 'Now she
was with the king in the
centre, now with the
rearguard, now with the van.'
The town of Troyes, where
there was an English
garrison, did not wish to
yield. There was a council in
the king's army: they said
they could not take the place.
'In two days it shall be
yours, by force or by good
will,' said the Maid.
'Six days will do,' said the
chancellor, 'if you are sure
you speak truth.'
Joan made ready for an
attack. She was calling
'Forward!' when the town
surrendered. Reims, after
some doubts, yielded also, THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII
on July 16, and all the
people, with shouts of 'Noel!' welcomed the king. On July 17 the king was
crowned and anointed with the Holy Oil by that very Archbishop of Reims
who always opposed Joan. The Twelve Peers of France were not all present
—some were on the English side—but Joan stood by Charles, her banner in
her hand. 'It bore the brunt, and deserved to share the renown,' she said later
to her accusers.
When the ceremony was ended, and the Dauphin Charles was a crowned
and anointed king, the Maid knelt weeping at his feet.
'Gentle king,' she said, 'now is accomplished the will of God, who
desired that you should come to Reims to be consecrated, and to prove that
you are the true king and the kingdom is yours.'

Then all the knights wept for joy.
The king bade Joan choose her reward. Already horses, rich armour,
jewelled daggers, had been given to her. These, adding to the beauty and
glory of her aspect, had made men follow her more gladly, and for that she
valued them. She, too, made gifts to noble ladies, and gave much to the
poor. She only wanted money to wage the war with, not for herself. Her
family was made noble; on their shield, between two lilies, a sword upholds
the crown. Her father was at Reims, and saw her in her glory. What reward,
then, was Joan to choose? She chose nothing for herself, but that her native
village of Domremy should be free from taxes. This news her father carried
home from the splendid scene at Reims.
Would that we could leave the Maiden here, with Orleans saved, and her
king crowned! Would that she, who wept when her saints left her in her
visions, and who longed to follow them, could have been carried by them to
their Paradise!
But Joan had another task; she was to be foiled by the cowardice of her
king; she was to be captured, possibly by treachery; she was to be tried with
the most cruel injustice; she was to die by fire; and was to set, through
months of agony, such an example of wisdom, courage, and loyal honour as
never was shown by man.
Did Joan look forward to her end, did she know that her days were
numbered? On the journey to Reims she met some Domremy people at
Chalons, and told them that she 'feared nothing but treachery.' Perhaps she
already suspected the political enemies, the Archbishop of Reims and La
Tremouille, who were to spoil her mission.
As they went from Reims after the coronation, Dunois and the
archbishop were riding by her rein. The people cheered and cried Noel.
'They are a good people,' said Joan. 'Never saw I any more joyous at the
coming of their king. Ah, would that I might be so happy when I end my
days as to be buried here!'
Said the archbishop:
'Oh, Jeanne, in what place do you hope to die?'

Then she said:
'Where it pleases God; for I know not that hour, nor that place, more
than ye do. But would to God, my maker, that now I might depart, and lay
down my arms, and help my father and mother, and keep their sheep with
my brothers and my sister, who would rejoice to see me!'[21]
Some writers have reported Joan's words as if she meant that she wished
the king to let her go home and leave the wars. In their opinion Joan was
only acting under heavenly direction till the consecration of Charles.
Afterwards, like Hal of the Wynd, she was 'fighting for her own hand,' they
think, and therefore she did not succeed. But from the first Joan threatened
to drive the English quite out of France, and she also hoped to bring the
Duc d'Orléans home from captivity in England. If her Voices had told her
not to go on after the coronation, she would probably have said so at her
trial, when she mentioned one or two acts of disobedience to her Voices.
Again, had she been anxious to go home, Charles VII. and his advisers
would have been only too glad to let her go. They did not wish her to lead
them into dangerous places, and they hated obeying her commands.
Some French authors have, very naturally, wished to believe that the
Maid could make no error, and could not fail; they therefore draw a line
between what she did up to the day of Reims, and what she did afterwards.
They hold that she was divinely led till the coronation, and not later. But it
is difficult to agree with them here. As we saw, Gerson told the French that
by injustice and ingratitude they might hinder the success of the Maid. His
advice was a prophecy.

IV

HOW THE MAID RODE TO PARIS

W HAT was to be done after the crowning of the king? Bedford, the
regent for the child Henry VI., expected to see Joan under the walls
of Paris. He was waiting for the troops which the Cardinal of Winchester
had collected in England as a crusading army against the Hussite heretics, a
kind of Protestants who were giving trouble. Bedford induced Winchester to
bring his men to France, but they had not arrived. The Duke of Burgundy,

the head of the great French party which opposed Charles, had been invited
by the Maid to Reims. Again she wrote to him: 'Make a firm, good peace
with the King of France,' she said; 'forgive each other with kind hearts'—for
the Duke's father had been murdered by the friends of Charles. 'I pray and
implore you, with joined hands, fight not against France. Great pity it would
be of the great battle and bloodshed if your men come against us.'
The Duke of Burgundy, far from listening to Joan's prayer, left Paris and
went to raise men for the English. Meanwhile Charles was going from town
to town, and all received him gladly. But Joan soon began to see that,
instead of marching west from Reims to Paris, the army was being led
south-west towards the Loire. There the king would be safe among his dear
castles, where he could live indoors, 'in wretched little rooms,' and take his
ease. Thus Bedford was able to throw 5,000 men of Winchester's into Paris,
and even dared to come out and hunt for the French king. The French
should have struck at Paris at once as Joan desired. The delays were
excused, because the Duke of Burgundy had promised to surrender Paris in
a fortnight. But this he did merely to gain time. Joan knew this, and said
there would be no peace but at the lance-point.
Here we get the best account of what happened from Perceval de Cagny,
a knight in the household of the Duc d'Alençon. He wrote his book in 1436,
only five years after Joan was burned, and he spoke of what he knew well,
as a follower of Joan's friend, 'the fair duke.' The French and English armies
kept watching each other, and there were skirmishes near Senlis. On August
15 the Maid and d'Alençon hoped for a battle. But the English had fortified
their position in the night with ditches, palisades, and a 'laager' of wagons.
Come out they would not, so Joan rode up to their fortification, standard in
hand, struck the palisade, and challenged them to sally forth. She even
offered to let them march out and draw themselves up in line of battle. La
Tremouille thought this a fine opportunity of distinguishing himself. He
rode into the skirmish, his horse fell with him, but, by evil luck, he was
rescued. We do not hear that La Tremouille risked himself again.[22] The
Maid stayed on the field all night, and next day made a retreat, hoping to
draw the English out of their fort. But they were too wary, and went back to
Paris.

More towns came in to Charles.
Beauvais yielded, and the Bishop of
Beauvais, Pierre Cauchon, had to fly to
the English. He revenged himself by
managing Joan's trial and having her
burned. Compiègne, an important place
north of Paris, yielded, and was handed
to Guillaume de Flavy as governor. In
rescuing this fatal place later, Joan was
taken prisoner. Now the fortnight was
over, after which the Duke of Burgundy
was to surrender Paris. But he did
nothing of the kind, and there were more
'long weary councils,' and a truce was
arranged with Burgundy till Christmas.
But the Maid was weary of words. She
called the Duc d'Alençon and said: 'My
fair duke, array your men, for, by my
staff, I would fain see Paris more closely
Joan challenges the English to sally forth
than I have seen it yet.'
On August 23 the Maid and d'Alençon left the king at Compiègne and
rode to St. Denis, where were the tombs of the kings of France. 'And when
the king heard that they were at St. Denis, he came, very sore against his
will, as far as Senlis, and it seems that his advisers were contrary to the will
of the Maid, of the Duc d'Alençon, and of their company.'
The great captains, Dunois, Xaintrailles, d'Alençon, were soldiers, and
the king's advisers and favourites were clergymen, like the Archbishop of
Reims, or indolent men of peace, like La Tremouille. They declared, after
the Maid was captured, that she 'took too much on herself,' and they were
glad of her fall. But she had shown that nobody but herself and her soldiers
and captains were of any use to France.
The king was afraid to go near Paris, but Bedford was afraid to stay in
the town. He went to Rouen, the strongest English hold in Normandy,
leaving the Burgundian army and 2,000 English in Paris.

Every day the Maid and d'Alençon rode from St. Denis and insulted the
gates of Paris, and observed the best places for an attack in force. And still
Charles dallied and delayed, still the main army did not come up.
Meanwhile Paris was strengthened by the English and Burgundians. The
people of the city were told that Charles intended to plunder the place and
utterly destroy it, 'which is difficult to believe,' says the Clerk of Parliament,
who was in the city at that time.[23] It was 'difficult to believe,' but the Paris
people believed it, and, far from rising for their king and country, they were
rather in arms against the Maid. They had no wish to fall in a general
massacre, as the English and Burgundians falsely told them would be their
fate.
Thus the delay of the king gave the English time to make Paris almost
impregnable, and to frighten the people, who, had Charles marched straight
from Reims, would have yielded as Reims did.
D'Alençon kept going to Senlis urging Charles to come up with the main
army. He went on September 1—the king promised to start next day.
D'Alençon returned to the Maid, the king still loitered. At last d'Alençon
brought him to St. Denis on September 7, and there was a skirmish that day.

HOW THE MAID WAS WOUNDED IN ATTACKING PARIS, AND
HOW THE KING WOULD NOT LET THE ASSAULT BEGIN
AGAIN

In all descriptions of battles different accounts are given, each man
telling what he himself saw, or what he remembers. As to the assault on
Paris on September 8, the Maid herself said a few words at her trial. Her
Voices had neither commanded her to attack nor to abstain from attacking.
Her opinion was that the captains and leaders on her side only meant to
skirmish in force, and to do deeds of chivalry. But her own intention was to
press onwards, and, by her example, to make the army follow her. It was
thus that she took Les Tourelles at Orleans. This account scarcely agrees
with what we read in the book of Perceval de Cagny, who was with his lord,
the Duc d'Alençon. He says that about eight on the morning of September 8,
the day of Our Lady, the army set forth; some were to storm the town;
another division was to remain under cover and protect the former if a sally

was made by the English. The Maid, the Marshal de Rais, and De Gaucourt
led the attack on the Porte St. Honoré.[24] Standard in hand, the Maid leaped
into the fosse near the pig market. 'The assault was long and fierce, and it
was marvel to hear the noise of cannons and culverins from the walls, and
to see the clouds of arrows. Few of those in the fosse with the Maid were
struck, though many others on horse and foot were wounded with arrows
and stone cannon-balls, but by God's grace and the Maid's good fortune,
there was none of them but could return to camp unhelped. The assault
lasted from noon till dusk, say eight in the evening. After sunset the Maid
was struck by a crossbow bolt in the thigh; and, after she was hurt, she cried
but the louder that all should attack, and that the place was taken. But as
night had now fallen, and she was wounded, and the men-at-arms were
weary with the long attack, De Gaucourt and others came and found her,
and, against her will, brought her forth from the fosse. And so ended that
onslaught. But right sad she was to leave, and said, "By my bâton, the place
would have been taken." They put her on horseback, and led her to her
quarters, and all the rest of the king's company who that day had come from
St. Denis.'
So Cagny tells the story. He was, we may believe, with d'Alençon and
the party covering the attack. Jean Chartier, who was living at the time,
adds that the Maid did not know that the inner moats were full of water.
When she reached the water, she had faggots and other things thrown in to
fill up a passage. At nightfall she would not retreat, and at last d'Alençon
came and forced her to return. The Clerk of Parliament, who, of course, was
within the walls, says that the attack lasted till ten or eleven o'clock at night,
and that, in Paris, there was a cry that all was lost.
Joan behaved as gallantly as she did at Les Tourelles. Though wounded
she was still pressing on, still encouraging her men, but she was not
followed. She was not only always eager to attack, but she never lost heart,
she never lost grip. An army of men as brave as Joan would have been
invincible.
'Next day,' says Cagny, 'in spite of her wound, she was first in the field.
She went to d'Alençon and bade him sound the trumpets for the charge.
D'Alençon and the other captains were of the same mind as the Maid, and
Montmorency with sixty gentlemen and many lances came in, though he

had been on the English side before. So they began to march on Paris, but
the king sent messengers, the Duc de Bar, and the Comte de Clermont, and
compelled the Maid and the captains to return to St. Denis. Right sorry were
they, yet they must obey the king. They hoped to take Paris from the other
side, by a bridge which the Duc d'Alençon had made across the Seine. But
the king knew the duke's and the Maid's design, and caused the bridge to be
broken down, and a council was held, and the king desired to depart and go
to the Loire, to the great grief of the Maid. When she saw that they would
go, she dedicated her armour, and hung it up before the statue of Our Lady
at St. Denis, and so right sadly went away in company with the king. And
thus were broken the will of the Maid and the army of the king.'
The politicians had triumphed. They had thwarted the Maid, they had
made her promise to take Paris of no avail. They had destroyed the
confidence of men in the banner that had never gone back. Now they might
take their ease, now they might loiter in the gardens of the Loire. The Maid
had failed, by their design, and by their cowardice. The treachery that she,
who feared nothing else, had long dreaded, was accomplished now. 'The
will of the Maid and the army of the king were broken.'[25]

HOW THE MAID AND HER FAIR DUKE WERE SEPARATED
FROM EACH OTHER

The king now went from one pleasant tower on the Loire to another,
taking the Maid with him. Meanwhile, the English took and plundered some
of the cities which had yielded to Charles, and they carried off the Maid's
armour from the chapel in Saint Denis, where she had dedicated it, 'because
Saint Denis! is the cry of France.' Her Voices had bidden her stay at Saint
Denis, but this she was not permitted to do, and now she must hear daily
how the loyal towns that she had won were plundered by the English. The
French garrisons also began to rob, as they had done before she came.
There was 'great pity in France' again, and all her work seemed wasted. The
Duc d'Alençon went to his own place of Beaumont, but he returned, and
offered to lead an army against the English in Normandy, if the Maid might
march with him. Then he would have had followers in plenty, for the people
had not wholly lost faith. 'But La Tremouille, and Gaucourt, and the
Archbishop of Reims, who managed the king and the war, would not

consent, nor suffer the Maid and the duke to be together, nor ever again
might they meet.' So says Cagny, and he adds that the Maid loved the fair
duke above other men, 'and did for him what she would do for no other.'
She had saved his life at Jargeau, but where was the duke when Joan was a
prisoner? We do not know, but we may believe that he, at least, would have
helped her if he could. They were separated by the jealousy of cowards,
who feared that the duke might win too much renown and become too
powerful.

HOW MARVELLOUSLY THE MAID TOOK SAINT-PIERRE-LE-
MOUSTIER

Even the banks of Loire, where the king loved to be, were not free from
the English. They held La Charité and Saint-Pierre-le-Moustier. Joan
wanted to return to Paris, but the council sent her to take La Charité and
Saint-Pierre-le-Moustier. This town she attacked first. Her squire, a
gentleman named d'Aulon, was with her, and described what he saw. 'When
they had besieged the place for some time, an assault was commanded, but,
for the great strength of the forts and the numbers of the enemy, the French
were forced to give way. At that hour, I who speak was wounded by an
arrow in the heel, and could not stand or walk without crutches. But I saw
the Maid holding her ground with a handful of men, and, fearing ill might
come of it, I mounted a horse and rode to her, asking what she was doing
there alone, and why she did not retreat like the others. She took the salade
from her head, and answered that she was not alone, but had in her
company fifty thousand of her people; and that go she would not till she had
taken that town.
'But, whatever she said, I saw that she had with her but four men or five,
as others also saw, wherefore I bade her retreat. Then she commanded me to
have faggots brought, and planks to bridge fosses. And, as she spoke to me,
she cried in a loud voice, "All of you, bring faggots to fill the fosse." And
this was done, whereat I greatly marvelled, and instantly that town was
taken by assault with no great resistance. And all that the Maid did seemed
to me rather deeds divine than natural, and it was impossible that so young
a maid should do such deeds without the will and guidance of Our Lord.'

'Go she would not till she had taken that town'

This was the last great feat of arms wrought by the Maid. As at Les
Tourelles she won by sheer dint of faith and courage, and so might she have
done at Paris, but for the king. At this town the soldiers wished to steal the
sacred things in the church, and the goods laid up there. 'But the Maid right
manfully forbade and hindered them, nor ever would she permit any to
plunder.' So says Reginald Thierry, who was with her at this siege. Once a
Scottish man-at-arms let her know that her dinner was made of a stolen calf,
and she was very angry, wishing to strike that Scot. He came from a land
where 'lifting cattle' was thought rather a creditable action.

HOW THE MAID WAITED WEARILY AT COURT

From her latest siege the Maid rode to attack La Charité. But, though the
towns helped her as well as they might with money and food, her force was
too small, and was too ill provided with everything, for the king did not
send supplies. She raised the siege and departed in great displeasure. The
king was not unkind, he ennobled her and her family, and permitted the
dignity to descend through daughters as well as sons; no one else was ever
so honoured. Her brothers called themselves Du Lys, from the lilies of their
crest, but Joan kept her name and her old banner. She was trailed after the

Court from place to place; for three weeks she stayed with a lady who
describes her as very devout and constantly in church. People said to Joan
that it was easy for her to be brave, as she knew she would not be slain, but
she answered that she had no more assurance of safety than any one of
them. Thinking her already a saint, people brought her things to touch.
'Touch them yourselves,' she said; 'your touch is as good as mine.'
She wore a little cheap ring, which her father and mother had given her,
inscribed jhesu maria, and she believed that with this ring she had touched
the body of St. Catherine. But she was humble, and thought herself no saint,
though surely there never was a better. She gave great alms, saying that she
was sent to help the poor and needy. Such was the Maid in peace.

HOW THE MAID MET AN IMPOSTOR

There was a certain woman named Catherine de la Rochelle, who gave
out that she had visions. A beautiful lady, dressed in cloth of gold, came to
her by night, and told her who had hidden treasures. These she offered to
discover that there might be money for the wars, which Joan needed sorely.
A certain preacher, named Brother Richard, wished to make use of this
pretender, but Joan said that she must first herself see the fair lady in cloth
of gold. So she sat up with Catherine till midnight, and then fell asleep,
when the lady appeared, so Catherine said. Joan slept next day, and watched
all the following night. Of course the fair lady never came. Joan bade
Catherine go back to her family; she needed money for the war, but not
money got by false pretences. So she told the king that the whole story was
mere folly. This woman afterwards lied against the Maid when she was a
prisoner.

HOW THE MAID'S VOICES PROPHESIED OF HER TAKING

Winter melted into spring; the truce with Burgundy was prolonged, but
the Burgundians fought under English colours. The king did nothing, but in
Normandy La Hire rode in arms to the gates of Rouen. Paris became
doubtfully loyal to the English. The Maid could be idle no longer. Without a
word to the king she rode to Lagny, 'for there they had fought bravely

against the English.' These men were Scots, under Sir Hugh Kennedy. In
mid-April she was at Melun. There 'she heard her Voices almost every day,
and many a time they told her that she would presently be taken prisoner.'
Her year was over, and as the Voices prophesied her wound at Orleans, now
they prophesied her captivity. She prayed that she might die as soon as she
was taken, without the long sorrow of imprisonment. Then her Voices told
her to bear graciously whatever befell her, for so it must be. But they told
her not the hour of her captivity. 'If she had known the hour she would not
then have gone to war. And often she prayed them to tell her of that hour,
but they did not answer.'
These words are Joan's. She spoke them to her judges at Rouen.
Among all her brave deeds this was the bravest. Whatever the source of
her Voices was, she believed in what they said. She rode to fight with far
worse than death under shield before her eyes, knowing certainly that her
English foes would take her, they who had often threatened to burn her.

HOW THE MAID TOOK FRANQUET D'ARRAS

There was in these parts a robber chief on the Burgundian side named
Franquet d'Arras. The Maid had been sent, as she said, to help the poor who
were oppressed by these brigands. Hearing that Franquet, with three or four
hundred men-at-arms, was near Lagny-sur-Marne, the Maid rode out to
seek him with four hundred French and Scots. The fight is described in one
way by Monstrelet, in another by Cagny and Joan herself. Monstrelet, being
a Burgundian writer, says that Franquet made a gallant resistance till he was
overwhelmed by numbers, as the Maid called out the garrison of Lagny.
Cagny says that Franquet's force was greater than that of the Maid who took
him. However this may be, Franquet was a knight, and so should have been
kept prisoner till he paid his ransom. Monstrelet tells us that Joan had his
head cut off. She herself told her judges that Franquet confessed to being a
traitor, robber, and murderer; that the magistrates of Senlis and Lagny
claimed him as a criminal; that she tried to exchange him for a prisoner of
her own party, but that her man died, that Franquet had a fair trial, and that
then she allowed justice to take its course. She was asked if she paid money
to the captor of Franquet.

'I am not treasurer of France, to pay such moneys,' she answered
haughtily.
Probably Franquet deserved to die, but a trial by his enemies was not
likely to be a fair trial.
At Lagny the Maid left a gentler memory. She was very fond of children,
and had a girl's love of babies. A boy of three days old was dying or seemed
dead, and the girls of Lagny carried it to the statue of Our Lady in their
church, and there prayed over it. For three days, ever since its birth, the
baby had lain in a trance without sign of life, so that they dared not christen
it. 'It was black as my doublet,' said Joan at her trial, where she wore
mourning. Joan knelt with the other girls and prayed; colour came back into
the child's face, it gasped thrice, was baptised, then died, and was buried in
holy ground. So Joan said at her trial. She claimed no share in this good
fortune, and never pretended that she worked miracles.

HOW THE MAID FOUGHT HER LAST FIGHT

The name of Joan was now such a terror to the English that men deserted
rather than face her in arms. At this time the truce with Burgundy ended,
and the duke openly set out to besiege the strong town of Compiègne, held
by de Flavy for France. Joan hurried to Compiègne, whence she made two
expeditions which were defeated by treachery. Perhaps she thought of this,
perhaps of the future, when in the church of Compiègne she declared one
day to a crowd of children whom she loved that she knew she was sold and
betrayed. Old men who had heard her told this tale long afterwards.
Burgundy had invested Compiègne, when Joan, with four hundred men,
rode into the town secretly at dawn. That day Joan led a sally against the
Burgundians. Her Voices told her nothing, good or bad, she says. The
Burgundians were encamped at Margny and at Clairoix, the English at
Venette, villages on a plain near the walls. Joan crossed the bridge on a grey
charger, in a surcoat of crimson silk, rode through the redoubt beyond the
bridge, and attacked the Burgundians. Flavy in the town was to prevent the
English from attacking her in the rear. He had boats on the river to secure
Joan's retreat if necessary.

Joan captured

Joan swept through Margny, driving the Burgundians before her; the
garrison of Clairoix came to their help; the battle was doubtful. Meanwhile
the English came up; they could not have reached the Burgundians, to aid
them, but some of the Maid's men, seeing the English standards, fled. The
English followed them under the walls of Compiègne; the gate of the
redoubt was closed to prevent the English from entering with the runaways.
Like Hector under Troy, the Maid was shut out from the town which she
came to save.
Joan was with her own foremost line when the rear fled. They told her of
her danger, she heeded not. For the last time rang out in that girlish voice:
'Allez avant! Forward, they are ours!'
Her men seized her bridle and turned her horse's head about. The
English held the entrance from the causeway; Joan and a few men (her
brother was one of them) were driven into a corner of the outer wall. A rush
was made at Joan. 'Yield I yield! give your faith to me!' each man cried.

'I have given my faith to Another,' she said, 'and I will keep my oath.'
Her enemies confess that on this day Joan did great feats of arms,
covering the rear of her force when they had to fly.
Some French historians hold that the gates were closed by treason that
the Maid might be taken. We may hope that this was not so; the commander
of Compiègne held his town successfully for the king, and was rescued by
Joan's friend, the brave Pothon de Xaintrailles.

HOW THE MAID LEAPED FROM THE TOWER OF BEAUREVOIR

The sad story that is still to tell shall be shortly told. There is no word
nor deed of the Maid's, in captivity as in victory, that is not to her immortal
honour. But the sight of the wickedness of men, their cowardice, cruelty,
greed, ingratitude, is not a thing to linger over.
The Maid, as a prisoner of the Bastard of Wandomme, himself a man of
Jean de Luxembourg, was led to Margny, where the Burgundian and
English captains rejoiced over her. They had her at last, the girl who had
driven them from fort and field. Luxembourg claimed her and carried her to
Beaulieu. Not a French lance was laid in rest to rescue her; not a sou did the
king send to ransom her. Where were Dunois and d'Alençon, Xaintrailles
and La Hire? The bold Buccleugh, who carried Kinmont Willie out of
Carlisle Castle, would not have left the Maid unrescued at Beaulieu. 'What
is there that a man does not dare?' he said to the angry Queen Elizabeth. But
Dunois, d'Alençon, Xaintrailles, La Hire, dared all things. Something which
we do not know of must have held these heroes back, and, being ignorant, it
does not become us to blame them.
Joan was the very spirit of chivalry, but in that age of chivalry she was
shamefully deserted. As a prisoner of war she should properly have been
held to ransom. But, within two days of her capture, the Vicar-General of
the Inquisition in France claimed her as a heretic and a witch. The English
knights let the priests and the University of Paris judge and burn the girl
whom they seldom dared to face in war. The English were glad enough to
use French priests and doctors who would sell themselves to the task of
condemning and burning their maiden enemy. She was the enemy of the

English, and they did actually believe in witchcraft. The English were
hideously cruel and superstitious: we may leave the French to judge Jean de
Luxembourg, who sold the girl to England; Charles, who moved not a
finger to help her; Bishop Cauchon and the University of Paris, who judged
her lawlessly and condemned her to the stake; and the Archbishop of
Reims, who said that she had deserved her fall. There is dishonour in
plenty; let these false Frenchmen of her time divide their shares among
themselves.
From Beaulieu, where she lay from May to August, Luxembourg carried
his precious prize to Beaurevoir, near Cambrai, further from the French
armies. He need not have been alarmed, not a French sword was drawn to
help the Maid. At Beaurevoir, Joan was kindly treated by the ladies of the
Castle. These ladies alone upheld the honour of the great name of France.
They knelt and wept before Jean de Luxembourg, imploring him not to sell
Joan to Burgundy, who sold her again to England. May their names ever be
honoured! One of the gentlemen of the place, on the other hand, was rude to
Joan, as he confessed thirty years later.
Joan was now kept in a high tower at Beaurevoir, and was allowed to
walk on the leads. She knew she was sold to England, she had heard that the
people of Compiègne were to be massacred. She would rather die than fall
into English hands, 'rather give her soul to God, than her body to the
English.' But she hoped to escape and relieve Compiègne. She, therefore,
prayed for counsel to her Saints; might she leap from the top of the tower?
Would they not bear her up in their hands? St. Catherine bade her not to
leap; God would help her and the people of Compiègne.
Then, for the first time as far as we know, the Maid wilfully disobeyed
her Voices. She leaped from the tower. They found her, not wounded, not a
limb was broken, but stunned. She knew not what had happened; they told
her she had leaped down. For three days she could not eat, 'yet was she
comforted by St. Catherine, who bade her confess and seek pardon of God,
and told her that, without fail, they of Compiègne should be relieved before
Martinmas.' This prophecy was fulfilled. Joan was more troubled about
Compiègne, than about her own coming doom. She was already sold to the
English, like a sheep to the slaughter; they bought their French bishop

Cauchon, he summoned his shavelings, the
doctors of the University and of the Inquisition.
The chivalry of England locked up the Maid in
an iron cage at Rouen. The rest was easy to men
of whom all, or almost all, were the slaves of
superstition, fear, and greed. They were men like
ourselves, and no worse, if perhaps no better, but
their especial sins and temptations were those to
which few of us are inclined. We, like Charles,
are very capable of deserting, or at least of
delaying to rescue, our bravest and best, like
Gordon in Khartoum. But, as we are not afraid of
witches, we do not cage and burn girls of
nineteen. If we were as ignorant as our ancestors
on this point, no doubt we should be as cowardly
and cruel.

Joan at Beaurevoir

V

HOW THE MAID WAS TRIED AND CONDEMNED, AND HOW
BRAVELY SHE DIED

A BOUT the trial and the death of the Maid, I have not the heart to
write a long story. Some points are to be remembered. The person
who conducted the trial, itself illegal, was her deadly enemy, the false
Frenchman, the Bishop of Beauvais, Cauchon, whom she and her men had
turned out of his bishoprick. It is most unjust and unheard of, that any one
should be tried by a judge who is his private enemy. Next, Joan was kept in
strong irons day and night, and she, the most modest of maidens, was
always guarded by five brutal English soldiers of the lowest rank. Again,
she was not allowed to receive the Holy Communion as she desired with
tears. Thus weakened by long captivity and ill usage, she, an untaught girl,
was questioned repeatedly for three months, by the most cunning and

learned doctors in law of the Paris University. Often many spoke at once, to
perplex her mind. But Joan always showed a wisdom which confounded
them, and which is at least as extraordinary as her skill in war. She would
never swear an oath to answer all their questions. About herself, and all
matters bearing on her own conduct, she would answer. About the king and
the secrets of the king, she would not answer. If they forced her to reply
about these things, she frankly said, she would not tell them the truth. The
whole object of the trial was to prove that she dealt with powers of evil, and
that her king had been crowned and aided by the devil. Her examiners,
therefore, attacked her day by day, in public and in her dungeon, with
questions about these visions which she held sacred, and could only speak
of with a blush among her friends. Had she answered (as a lawyer said at
the time), 'it seemed to me I saw a saint,' no man could have condemned her.
Probably she did not know this, for she was not allowed to have an
advocate of her own party, and she, a lonely girl, was opposed to the
keenest and most learned lawyers of France. But she maintained that she
certainly did see, hear, and touch her Saints, and that they came to her by
the will of God. This was called blasphemy and witchcraft. And now came
in the fatal Fairies! She was accused of dealing with devils under the Tree
of Domremy.
Most was made of her refusal to wear woman's dress. For this she seems
to have had two reasons; first, that to give up her old dress would have been
to acknowledge that her mission was ended; next, for reasons of modesty,
she being alone in prison among ruffianly men. She would wear woman's
dress if they would let her take the Holy Communion, but this they refused.
To these points she was constant, she would not deny her visions; she
would not say one word against her king, 'the noblest Christian in the world'
she called him, who had deserted her. She would not wear woman's dress in
prison. We must remember that, as she was being tried by churchmen, she
should have been, as she often prayed to be, in a prison of the church,
attended by women. They set a spy on her, a caitiff priest named
L'Oyseleur, who pretended to be her friend, and who betrayed her. The
English soldiers were allowed to bully, threaten, and frighten away every
one who gave her any advice. They took her to the torture-chamber, and
threatened her with torture, but from this even these priests shrunk, except a
few more cruel and cowardly than the rest. Finally, they put her up in

public, opposite a pile of wood ready for burning, and then set a priest to
preach at her. All through her trial, her Voices bade her 'answer boldly,' in
three months she would give her last answer, in three months 'she would be
free with great victory, and come into the Kingdom of Paradise.' In three
months from the first day of her trial she went free through the gate of fire.
Boldly she answered, and wisely. She would submit the truth of her visions
to the Church, that is, to God, and the Pope. But she would not submit them
to 'the Church,' if that meant the clergy round her. At last, in fear of the fire,
and the stake before her, and on promise of being taken to a kindlier prison
among women, and released from chains, she promised to 'abjure,' to
renounce her visions, and submit to the Church, that is to Cauchon, and her
other priestly enemies. Some little note on paper she now signed with a
cross, and repeated 'with a smile,' poor child, a short form of words. By
some trick this signature was changed for a long document, in which she
was made to confess all her visions false. It is certain that she did not
understand her words in this sense.
Cauchon had triumphed. The blame of heresy and witchcraft was cast on
Joan, and on her king as an accomplice. But the English were not satisfied;
they made an uproar, they threatened Cauchon, for Joan's life was to be
spared. She was to be in prison all her days, on bread and water, but, while
she lived, they dared scarcely stir against the French. They were soon
satisfied.
Joan's prison was not changed. There soon came news that she had put
on man's dress again. The judges went to her. She told them (they say), that
she put on this dress of her own free will. In confession, later, she told her
priest that she had been refused any other dress, and had been brutally
treated both by the soldiers and by an English lord. In self-defence, she
dressed in the only attire within her reach. In any case, the promises made
to her had been broken. The judge asked her if her Voices had been with her
again?

'They burned Joan the Maid'

'Yes.'
'What did they say?'
'God told me by the voices of St. Catherine and St. Margaret of the great
sorrow of my treason, when I abjured to save my life; that I was damning
myself for my life's sake.'
'Do you believe the Voices come from St. Margaret and St. Catherine?'
'Yes, and that they are from God.'
She added that she had never meant to deny this, had not understood that
she had denied it.
All was over now; she was a 'relapsed heretic.'
The judges said that they visited Joan again on the morning of her death,
and that she withdrew her belief in her Voices; or, at least, left it to the
Church to decide whether they were good or bad, while she still maintained
that they were real. She had expected release, and, for the first time, had
been disappointed. At the stake she understood her Voices: they had foretold

her martyrdom, 'great victory' over herself, and her entry into rest. But the
document of the judges is not signed by the clerks, as all such documents
must be. One of them, Manchon, who had not been present, was asked to
sign it; he refused. Another, Taquel, is said to have been present, but he did
not sign. The story is, therefore, worth nothing.
Enough. They burned Joan the Maid. She did not suffer long. Her eyes
were fixed on a cross which a priest, Martin L'Advenu, held up before her.
She maintained, he says, to her dying moment, the truth of her Voices. With
a great cry of Jesus! she gave up her breath, and her pure soul was with
God.
Even the English wept, even a secretary of the English king said that
they had burned a Saint. One of the three great crimes of the world's history
had been committed, and, of the three, this was the most cowardly and
cruel. It profited the English not at all. 'Though they ceased not to be brave,'
says Patrick Abercromby, a Scot,[26] 'yet they were almost on all occasions
defeated, and within the short space of twenty-two years, lost not only all
the conquests made by them in little less than a hundred, but also the
inheritances which they had enjoyed for above three centuries bypast. It is
not my part to follow them, as the French and my countrymen did, from
town to town, and from province to province; I take much more pleasure in
relating the glories than the disgraces of England.'
This disgrace the English must, and do, most sorrowfully confess, and,
that it may never be forgotten while the civilised world stands, there lives,
among the plays of Shakspeare, whether he wrote or did not write it, that
first part of 'Henry VI.,' which may pair with the yet more abominable poem
of the Frenchman, Voltaire.
Twenty years after her death, as we saw, Charles VII., in his own
interest, induced the Pope and the Inquisition, to try the case of Joan over
again. It was as certain that the clergy would find her innocent, now, as that
they would find her guilty before. But, happily, they collected the evidence
of most of the living people who had known her. Thus we have heard from
the Domremy peasants how good she was as a child, from Dunois,
d'Alençon, d'Aulon, how she was beautiful, courteous, and brave, from
Isambart and L'Advenu, how nobly she died, and how she never made one

complaint, but forgave all her enemies freely. All these old Latin documents
were collected, edited, and printed, in 1849, by Monsieur Jules Quicherat, a
long and noble labour. After the publication of this book, there has been,
and can be, no doubt about the perfect goodness of Joan of Arc. The English
long believed silly stories against her, as a bad woman, stories which were
not even mentioned by her judges. The very French, at different times, have
mocked at her memory, in ignorance and disbelief. They said she was a tool
of politicians, who, on the other hand, never wanted her, or that she was
crazy. Men mixed up with her glorious history the adventures of the false
Maid, who pretended to be Joan come again, and people doubted as to
whether she really died at Rouen. In modern times, some wiseacres have
called the strongest and healthiest of women 'hysterical,' which is their way
of accounting for her Voices. But now, thanks mainly to Monsieur
Quicherat, and other learned Frenchmen, the world, if it chooses, may know
Joan as she was; the stainless Maid, the bravest, gentlest, kindest, and
wisest woman who ever lived. Her country people, in her lifetime, called
her 'the greatest of Saints, after the Blessed Virgin,' and, at least, she is the
greatest concerning whose deeds and noble sufferings history preserves a
record. And her Voices we leave to Him who alone knows all truth.

HOW THE BASS WAS HELD FOR KING JAMES

T HE Bass Rock is a
steep black mass of
stone, standing about two
miles out to sea, off the
coast of Berwickshire. The
sheer cliffs, straight as a
wall, are some four hundred
feet in height. At the top
there is a sloping grassy
shelf, on which a few sheep
are kept, but the chief
inhabitants of the rock are
innumerable hosts of sea-
birds. Far up the rock, two
hundred years ago, was a
fortress, with twenty
cannons and a small
garrison. As a boat can only
touch at the little island in
very fine weather, the
fortress was considered by
the Government of Charles
II. an excellent prison for
Covenanters. There was a 'INSTANTLY A GUST OF WIND BLEW HER OFF THE
house for the governor, and ROCK INTO THE SEA'
a chapel where powder was
kept, but where no clergyman officiated. As the covenanting prisoners were
nearly all ministers, and a few of them prophets, it was thought, no doubt,
that they could attend to their own devotions for themselves. They passed a
good deal of their time in singing psalms. One prisoner looked into the cell
of another late at night, and saw a shining white figure with him, which was
taken for an angel by the spectator. Another prisoner, a celebrated preacher,

named Peden, once told a merry girl that a 'sudden surprising judgment was
waiting for her,' and instantly a gust of wind blew her off the rock into the
sea. The Covenanters, one of whom had shot at the Archbishop of St.
Andrews, and hit the Bishop of Orkney, were very harshly treated. 'They
were obliged to drink the twopenny ale of the governor's brewing, scarcely
worth a half-penny the pint,' an inconvenience which they probably shared
with the garrison. They were sometimes actually compelled to make their
own beds, a cruel hardship, when their servants had been dismissed,
probably for plotting their escape. They had few pleasures except writing
accounts of their sufferings, and books on religion; or studying Greek and
Hebrew.
When King James II. was driven from his throne, in 1688, by the Prince
of Orange, these sufferers found release, they being on the Orange side. But
the castle of the Bass did not yield to William till 1690; it was held for King
James by Charles Maitland till his ammunition and stores were exhausted.
The Whigs, who were now in power, used the Bass for a prison, as their
enemies had done, and four Cavalier prisoners were shut up in the cold,
smoky, unwholesome jail, just as the Covenanters had been before. These
men, Middleton, Halyburton, Roy, and Dunbar, all of them young, had been
in arms for King James, and were taken when his Majesty's forces were
surprised and defeated by Livingstone at Cromdale Haugh. Middleton was a
lieutenant; his friends were junior in rank, and were only ensigns.
These four lads did not devote their leisure to the composition of
religious treatises, nor to the learning of Latin and Greek. On the other hand
they reckoned it more worthy of their profession to turn the Whig garrison
out of the Bass, and to hold it for King James. For three years they held it
against all comers, and the Royal flag, driven out of England and Scotland,
still floated over this little rock in the North Sea.
This is how the Four took the Bass. They observed that when coals were
landed all the garrison except three or four soldiers went down to the rocky
platform where there was a crane for raising goods. When they went, they
locked three of the four gates on the narrow rocky staircase behind them.
On June 15, 1691, the soldiers went on this duty, leaving, to guard the
Cavaliers, La Fosse, the sergeant, Swan, the gunner, and one soldier. These

men were overpowered, or won over, by Middleton, Roy, Dunbar, and
Halyburton, who then trained a gun on the garrison below, and asked them
whether they would retire peacefully, or fight? They preferred to sail away
in the coal vessel, and very foolish they must have felt, when they carried to
the Whigs in Edinburgh the news that four men had turned them out of an
impregnable castle, and held it for King James.
Next night young Crawford of Ardmillan, with his servant and two Irish
sailors, seized a long-boat on the beach, sailed over, and joined the brave
little garrison of the Bass. Crawford had been lurking in disguise for some
time, and the two Irishmen had escaped from prison in Edinburgh, and were
not particularly well disposed to the government of William.
When the news reached King James, in France, he sent a ship, laden
with provisions and stores of all kinds, and two boats, one of them carrying
two light guns. The Whigs established a force on the shore opposite, and
their boats cruised about to intercept supplies, but in this they failed, the
Cavaliers being too quick and artful to be caught easily.
On August 15, however, the enemy seized the large boat at night. Now
Ardmillan and Middleton were absent in search of supplies, and, being
without their leader, Roy and Dunbar thought of surrendering. But just as
they were about signing articles of surrender, Middleton returned with a
large boat and plenty of provisions, and he ran his boat under the guns of
his fort, whence he laughed at the enemies of his king. Dunbar, however,
who was on shore engaged in the business of the surrender, was held as a
prisoner. The Whigs were not much nearer taking the Bass. On September 3
they sent a sergeant and a drummer to offer a free pardon to the Cavaliers.
They were allowed to land on the rock, but Middleton merely laughed at the
promise of a free pardon, and he kept the sergeant and drummer, whom he
afterwards released. A Danish ship, sailing between the Bass and shore, had
a gun fired across her bows, and was made prize of; they took out
everything that they needed, and then let her go.
The Cavaliers lived a gay life: they had sheep on the Bass, plenty of
water, meat, biscuits, beer and wine. Cruising in their boats they captured
several ships, supplied themselves with what they wanted, and held the

ships themselves to ransom. When food ran short they made raids on the
shore, lifted cattle, and, generally, made war support war.
The government of the Prince of Orange was driven beyond its patience,
and vowed that the Bass should be taken, if it cost all the revenue of the
country. But Middleton had plenty of powder, he had carefully collected
more than five hundred balls fired at his fort by the English, and he calmly
awaited the arrival of hostile men-of-war. The 'Sheerness' (Captain Roope)
and the 'London Merchant' (Captain Orton) were sent with orders to
bombard the Bass and destroy the fort. After two days of heavy firing, these
vessels had lost a number of men, their rigging was cut to pieces, and the
ships were so damaged that they were glad to slink off to harbour.
A close watch was now set, the 'Lion' (Captain Burd), a dogger of six
guns, and a long-boat cruised constantly in the neighbourhood. Captain
Burd is described as 'a facetious and intelligent man,' and a brave officer,
but his intelligence and courage were no match for Middleton. In August
1693 a French frigate of twelve guns sailed under the Bass and landed
supplies. But the Cavaliers were so few that they had to borrow ten French
sailors to help in the landing of the provisions. At this moment the 'Lion'
bore down on the French vessel, which was obliged to cut her cables to
avoid being run down. The garrison of the Bass was thus left with ten more
mouths to feed, and with only the small supplies that had been landed. They
were soon reduced to two ounces of raw rusk dough for each man, every
day. Halyburton was caught and condemned to be hanged, and a Mr.
Trotter, who had helped the Cavaliers, was actually hanged on shore, within
sight of the Bass. Middleton fired a shot and scattered the crowd, but that
did not save poor Trotter.

The Bass attacked by the frigates

Middleton had now only a few pounds of meal left. He therefore sent in
a flag of truce, and announced that he would surrender, but upon his own
terms. Very good terms they were. Envoys were dispatched by the Whigs:
Middleton gave them an excellent luncheon out of provisions kept for the
purpose, and choice French wines. He had also set coats and caps on the
muzzles of guns, above, on the rocks, so that the Whig envoys believed he
had plenty of men, and no scarcity of provisions. Their lordships returned,
and told the Privy Council that the Bass was in every respect well
provisioned and well manned. Middleton's terms were, therefore, gladly
accepted.
He got a full pardon for every one then in the garrison, and for every one
who had ever been in it (including Halyburton, now under sentence, of
death), 'and none hereafter shall call them to account.' They were to depart
with all the honours of war, with swords and baggage, in their own boat.
They were to be at liberty to come or go, whenever they pleased, till May
15, 1694; and a ship, properly supplied, was to be ready to carry them to
France, if they preferred to join Dundee's gallant officers in the French
service. Finally, all their expenses were to be paid! The 'aliment' formerly
granted to them, and unpaid when they seized the Bass, was to be handed
over to them. On these terms Middleton took leave of the fortress which he
could not have held for a week longer. There have been greater deeds of
arms, but there never was one so boyish, so gallant, and so gay.

THE CROWNING OF INES DE CASTRO

A BOUT the year 1340, when Edward III. was King of England, a
young Spanish lady set out from Castile on the long journey to the
Court of Portugal. She was the only daughter of John Manuel, Duke of
Villena, a very rich and powerful noble, much dreaded by the King of
Castile for his boldness and restlessness. Not many years before he had
suddenly left his post as Warden of the French Marches, to fight against the
Moors in the province of Murcia, and though the King was very angry at his
conduct, he did not dare to punish him, for fear that in some way he himself
would suffer. Villena's daughter Constance had passed much of her time at
the Castilian Court, where she lived in the state that was expected of a great
lady of those days, but when the treaty was made which decided that she
was to marry Dom Pedro, Crown Prince of Portugal, her household was
increased, and special attendants appointed to do honour to her rank.
Now among the ladies chosen to form part of Constance's court, was a
distant cousin of her own, the beautiful and charming Ines de Castro. Like
Henry II. at the sight of Fair Rosamond, the young Dom Pedro, who was
not more than twenty years of age, fell passionately in love with her. He did
all in his power to hide his feelings from his bride, the Infanta Constance,
but did not succeed, and in a few years she died, it was said of grief at her
husband's coldness, after giving birth to the Infant, Dom Fernando (1345).
After her death, Dom Pedro's father King Alfonso was anxious that he
should marry again, but he refused all the brides proposed for him, and
people whispered among themselves that he was already secretly wedded to
Ines de Castro. Time went on, and they had four children, but Ines preferred
to live quietly in a convent in the country, and never took her place as Dom
Pedro's wife. Still, however secluded she might be, large numbers of her
fellow Castilians, weary of the yoke of their own King, Pedro the Cruel,
flocked into Portugal, and looked to her for protection, which Dom Pedro
for her sake always gave them, and chief among these foreign favourites
were Ines' two brothers, Fernando and Alvaro Perez de Castro. This state of
things was very bitter to the old Portuguese courtiers, who complained to
the King that in future the country would only be governed by Spaniards.

These rumours grew so loud that in time they even reached the ears of the
Queen, and she, with the Archbishop of Braga, gave Dom Pedro solemn
warning that some plot was assuredly forming which would end in his ruin.
But Dom Pedro, naturally fearless, had faith in his father's goodwill towards
him, and looked on these kindly warnings as mere empty threats, so
proceeded gaily on his path. Thus in silence was prepared the bloody deed.
When the courtiers thought all was ready they went in a deputation to
Alfonso IV., and pointed out what might be expected in the future if Ines de
Castro was allowed to remain the fountainhead for honours and
employments to all her countrymen who were attracted to Portugal by the
hopes of better pay. They enlarged on the fact that the national laws and
customs would be changed, and Portugal become a mere province of Spain;
worse than all, that the life of the Infant Dom Fernando was endangered, as
upon the death of the King, the Castros would naturally desire to secure the
succession to the children of Ines. If Ines were only out of the way, Dom
Pedro would forget her, and consent to make a suitable marriage. So things
went on, working together for the end of Ines.
At last the King set forth, surrounded by many of his great nobles and
high officials, for Coimbra, a small town in which was situated the Convent
of Santa Clara, where Ines de Castro quietly dwelt, with her three surviving
children. On seeing the sudden arrival of Alfonso with this great company
of armed knights, the soul of Ines shrank with a horrible fear. She could not
fly, as every avenue was closed, and Dom Pedro was away on the chase, as
the nobles very well knew. Pale as an image of death, Ines clasped her
children in her arms, and flung herself at the feet of the King. 'My lord,' she
cried, 'have I given you cause to wish my death? Your son is the Prince; I
can refuse him nothing. Have pity on me, wife as I am. Kill me not without
reason. And if you have no compassion left for me, find a place in your
heart for your grandchildren, who are of your own blood.'
The innocence and beauty of the unfortunate woman, who indeed had
harmed no one, moved the King, and he withdrew to think better what
should be done. But the envy and hatred of the courtiers would not suffer
Ines to triumph, and again they brought forward their evil counsels.
'Do what you will,' at length said the King. And they did it.

A nameless pain filled the soul
of Dom Pedro when on his return
he stood before the bloody corpse
of Ines, whom he had loved so well.
But soon another feeling took
possession of him, which shut out
everything else—the desire to
revenge himself on her murderers.
Hastily calling together the brothers
of Ines and some followers who
were attached to his person, he took
counsel with them, and then
collecting all the men-at-arms
within his reach, he fell upon the
neighbouring provinces and
executed a fearful vengeance, both
with fire and sword, upon the
Ines pleads for her life
innocent inhabitants. How long this
rage for devastation might have
lasted cannot be told, but Dom Pedro was at length brought to a better mind
by Gonçalo Pereira, Archbishop of Braga, who, by the help of the Queen,
succeeded in establishing peace between father and son.
So a parchment deed was drawn up between the King and the Infant, in
which Dom Pedro undertook to pardon all who had been engaged in the
murder of Ines, and Alfonso promised to forgive those who had taken his
son's side, and borne arms against himself. And for his part Dom Pedro
vowed to perform the duties of a faithful vassal, and to banish from his
presence all turbulent and restless spirits. So peace was made.
Two years had hardly passed after this event before King Alfonso lay on
his death-bed in Lisbon, and then, thinking over what would happen when
he was dead, the feeling gradually came over him that in spite of Dom
Pedro's solemn oath the murderers of Ines would not be safe from his
revenge. Therefore he sent for the three knights, Diogo Lopez Pacheco,
Alvaro Gonçalves, and Pedro Coelho, who had counselled him to do the
dreadful deed and had themselves struck the blow, and bade them leave
their property and all they had, and fly while there was yet time to foreign

lands for refuge. The knights saw the wisdom of the advice, and sought
shelter in Castile. Then Alfonso prepared himself to die, the murder of Ines
lying heavy on his soul in his last days (1357).
King Pedro was thirty-seven years old when he ascended the throne, and
his first care was to secure peace to his kingdom. To this end he sent several
embassies to the King of Castile, who made a compact with Alfonso 'to be
the friend of his friends, and the enemy of his enemies.' The results of this
treaty may be easily guessed at. The King of Portugal engaged to send back
to Castile all who had fled to his dominions from the tyranny of Pedro the
Cruel, the ally of the Black Prince, and was to receive in return the
murderers of Ines, two of whom he put to a horrible death. The third,
Pacheco, was more fortunate. A beggar to whom he had been accustomed to
give alms discovered his danger, and hastened to warn the knight, who was
away from the city on a hunting expedition. By his advice Pacheco changed
clothes with the beggar, and made his way through Aragon to the borders of
France, where he took refuge with Henry of Trastamara, half-brother of the
King of Castile. Here he remained, a poor knight without friends or
property, till the year 1367, when on his death-bed the King of Portugal
suddenly remembered that when dying the other two knights had sworn that
Pacheco was guiltless of the murder of Ines, and ordered his son to recall
him from exile and to restore all his possessions. Which Dom Fernando
joyfully did.
That, however, happened several years after the time we are speaking of,
when Dom Pedro had only just ascended the throne. Having satisfied his
feelings of revenge against the murderers of Ines, a nobler desire filled his
heart. He resolved that she who had been so ill-spoken of during her life,
and had died such a shameful death, should be acknowledged openly as his
wife and queen before his Court and his people. So he assembled all the
great nobles and officers, and, laying his hand on the sacred books, swore
solemnly that seven years before he had taken Ines de Castro to wife, and
had lived with her in happiness till her death, but that through dread of his
father the marriage had been kept secret; and he commanded the Lord High
Chamberlain to prepare a deed recording his oath. And in case there should
still be some who did not believe, three days later the Bishop of Guarda and
the Keeper of the King's Wardrobe bore witness before the great lords
gathered together in Coimbra that they themselves had been present at the

secret marriage, which had taken place at Braganza, in the royal apartments,
according to the rites of the Church.
This solemn function being over, the last act in the history of Ines was
begun. By command of the King her body was taken from the convent of
Santa Clara, where it had lain in peace for many years, and was clad in
royal garments: a crown was placed on her head and a sceptre in her hand,
and she was seated on a throne for the subjects, who during her life had
despised her, to kneel and kiss the hem of her robe. One by one the knights
and the nobles and the great officers of the Crown did homage to the dead
woman, and when all had bowed before what was left of the beautiful Ines
they placed her in a splendid coffin, which was borne by knights over the
seven leagues that lay between Coimbra and Alcobaça, the royal burying-
place of the Portuguese. In this magnificent cloister a tomb had been
prepared carved in white marble, and at the head stood a statue of Ines in
the pride of her beauty, crowned a queen. Bishops and soldiers, nobles and
peasants, lined the road to watch the coffin pass, and thousands with lighted
torches followed the dead woman to her resting place, till the whole long
road from Coimbra to Alcobaça was lit up with brightness. So, solemnly,
Ines de Castro was laid in her grave, and the honours which had been
denied her in life were heaped around her tomb.[27]

THE STORY OF ORTHON
[There may be some who doubt whether the following story
is in all respects perfectly true. It is taken, however, from a
history book, the 'Chronicle of Jean Froissart,' who wrote about
the wars of the Black Prince.]

G REAT marvel it is to think and consider of a thing that I will tell you,
and that was told to me in the house of the Comte de Foix at Orthez,
by him who gave me to know concerning the battle of Juberot. And I will
tell you of this matter, what it was, for since the Squire told me this tale,
whereof you shall presently have knowledge, certes I have thought over it a
hundred times, and shall think as long as I live.
'Certain it is,' quoth the Squire, 'that the day after the fight at Juberot the
Comte de Foix knew of it, whereat men marvelled much how this might be.
And all day, on the Sunday and the Monday and the Tuesday following, he
made in his castle of Orthez such dull and simple cheer that none could
drag a word out of him. All these three days he would not leave his
chamber, nor speak to knight or squire, howsoever near him they might be.
And when it came to Tuesday at evening, he called his brother, Sir Ernault
Guillaume, and said to him in a low voice:
'"Our men have fought, whereat I am grieved; for that has befallen them
of their journey which I told them before they set out."
'Sir Ernault, who is a right wise knight and of good counsel, knowing
well the manner and ways of his brother the Count, held his peace for a
little while. Then the Count, willing to show his heart, and weary of his
long sadness, spoke again, and louder than before, saying:
'"By God, Sir Ernault, it is as I tell you, and shortly we shall have news;
for never did the land of Béarn lose so much in one day—no, not these
hundred years—as it has lost this time in Portugal."

'Many knights and squires standing round who heard the Count noted
these words, and in ten days learned the truth from them who had been in
the fight, and who brought tidings, first to the Court, and afterwards to all
who would hear them, of what befell at Juberot. Thereby was the Count's
grief renewed, and that of all in the country who had lost brothers and
fathers, sons and friends, in the fray.'
'Marry!' said I to the Squire, who was telling me his tale, 'and how could
the Count know or guess what befell? Gladly would I learn this.'
'By my faith,' said the Squire, 'he knew it well, as appeared.'
'Is he a prophet, or has he messengers who ride at night with the wind?
Some art he must have.'
Then the Squire began to laugh.
'Truly he must learn by some way of necromancy; we know not here
truly how he does it, save by phantasies.'
'Ah, good sir, of these fancies prithee tell me, and I will be grateful. If it
is a matter to keep silent, silent will I keep it, and never, while I am in this
country, will I open my mouth thereon.'
'I pray you do not, for I would not that any should know I had spoken.
Yet others talk of it quietly when they are among their friends.'
Thereon he drew me apart into a corner of the castle chapel, and then
began his tale, and spoke thus:
'It may be twenty years since there reigned here a baron named
Raymond, lord of Corasse, a town and castle seven leagues from Orthez.
Now, the lord of Corasse, at the time of which I speak, held a plea at
Avignon before the Pope against a clerk of Catalonia who laid claim to the
tithes of his town, the said clerk belonging to a powerful order, and
claiming the right of the tithes of Corasse, which, indeed, amounted to a
yearly sum of one hundred florins. This right he set forth and proved before
all men, for in his judgment, given in the Consistory General, Pope Urban
V. declared that the clerk had won his case, and that the Chevalier had no
ground for his claim. The sentence once delivered, letters were given to the

clerk enabling him to take possession, and he rode so hard that in a very
short time he reached Béarn, and by virtue of the papal bull appropriated
the tithes. The Sieur de Corasse was right wroth with the clerk and his
doings, and came to him and said:
'"Master Martin, or Master Pierre, or
whatever your name may be, do you
think that I am going to give up my
rights just because of those letters of
yours? I scarce fancy you are bold
enough to lay hands on property of
mine, for you will risk your life in the
doing. Go elsewhere to seek a benefice,
for of my rights you shall have none,
and this I tell you, once and for all."
'The mind of the clerk misgave him,
for he knew that the Chevalier cared not
for men's lives, and he dared not
persevere. So he dropped his claims, and
betook himself to his own country or to
Avignon. And when the moment had
come that he was to depart, he entered
into the presence of the Sieur de
Corasse, and said: 'I will send you a champion whom you will
fear more than you fear me'
'"Sir, it is by force and not by right
that you lay hands on the property of the
Church, of which you make such ill-use. In this land you are stronger than I,
but know that as soon as I may I will send you a champion whom you will
fear more than you fear me."
'The Sieur de Corasse, who did not heed his words, replied:
'"Go, do as you will; I fear you as little alive as dead. For all your talk, I
will never give up my rights."
'Thus parted the clerk and the Sieur de Corasse, and the clerk returned to
his own country, but whether that was Avignon or Catalonia I know not. But

he did not forget what he had told the Sieur de Corasse when he bade him
farewell; for three months after, when he expected it least, there came to the
castle of Corasse, while the Chevalier was quietly sleeping, certain invisible
messengers, who began to throw about all that was in the castle, till it
seemed as if, truly, nothing would be left standing. The Chevalier heard it
all, but he said nought, for he would not be thought a coward, and indeed he
had courage enough for any adventure that might befall.
'These sounds of falling weights continued for a long space, then ceased
suddenly.
'When the morning came, the servants all assembled, and their lord
having arisen from bed they came to him and said, "Sir, have you also heard
that which we have heard this night?" And the Sieur de Corasse hid it in his
heart and answered, "No; what have you heard?" And they told him how
that all the furniture was thrown down, and all the kitchen pots had been
broken. But he began to laugh, and said it was a dream, and that the wind
had caused it. "Ah no," sighed his wife; "I also have heard."
'When the next night arrived, the noise-makers arrived too, and made
more disturbance than before, and gave great knocks at the doors, and
likewise at the windows of the Sieur de Corasse. And the Chevalier leaped
out of his bed and demanded, "Who is it that rocks my bed at this hour of
the night?".
'And answer was made him, "That which I am, I am."
'Then asked the Chevalier, "By whom are you sent here?"
'"By the clerk of Catalonia, to whom you have done great wrong, for you
have taken from him his rights and his heritage. Hence you will never be
suffered to dwell in peace till you have given him what is his due, and he is
content."
'"And you, who are so faithful a messenger," inquired the Chevalier,
"what is your name?"
'"They call me Orthon."

'"Orthon," said the knight, "the service of a clerk is worth nothing, and if
you trust him, he will work you ill. Leave me in peace, I pray you, and take
service with me, and I shall be grateful."
'Now, the knight was pleasing to Orthon, so he answered, "Is this truly
your will?"
'"Yes," replied the Sieur de Corasse. "Do no ill unto those that dwell
here, and I will cherish you, and we shall be as one."
'"No," spoke Orthon. "I have no power save to wake you and others, and
to disturb you when you fain would sleep."
'"Do as I say," said the Chevalier; "we shall agree well, if only you will
abandon this wicked clerk. With him there is nothing but pain, and if you
serve me——"
'"Since it is your will," replied Orthon, "it is mine also."
'The Sieur de Corasse pleased Orthon so much that he came often to see
him in his sleep, and pulled away his pillow or gave great knocks against
the window of the room where he lay. And when the Chevalier was
awakened he would exclaim, "Let me sleep, I pray you, Orthon!"
'"Not so," said Orthon; "I have news to give you."
"And what news will you give me? Whence come you?"
'Then said Orthon, "I come from England, or Germany, or Hungary, or
some other country, which I left, yesterday, and such-and-such things have
happened."
'Thus it was that the Sieur de Corasse knew so much when he went into
the world; and this trick he kept up for five or six years. But in the end he
could not keep silence, and made it known to the Comte de Foix in the way
I shall tell you.
'The first year, whenever the Sieur de Corasse came into the presence of
the Count at Ortais or elsewhere, he would say to him: "Monseigneur, such-
and-such a thing has happened in England, or in Scotland, or in Germany,
or in Flanders, or in Brabant, or in some other country," and the Comte de

Foix marvelled greatly at these things. But one day he pressed the Sieur de
Corasse so hard that the knight told him how it was he knew all that passed
in the world and who told him. When the Comte de Foix knew the truth of
the matter, his heart leapt with joy, and he said: "Sieur de Corasse, bind him
to you in love. I would I had such a messenger. He costs you nothing, and
knows all that passes throughout the world."
'"Monseigneur," said the Chevalier, "thus will I do."
'Thus the Sieur de Corasse was served by Orthon, and that for long. I
know not if Orthon had more than one master, but certain it is that every
week he came, twice or thrice during the night, to tell to the Sieur de
Corasse the news of all the countries that he had visited, which the Sieur
wrote at once to the Comte de Foix, who was of all men most joyed in news
from other lands. One day when the Sieur de Corasse was with the Comte
de Foix, the talk fell upon Orthon, and suddenly the Count inquired, "Sieur
de Corasse, have you never seen your messenger?"
'He answered, "No, by my faith, Monseigneur, and I have never even
asked to."
'"Well," he replied, "it is very strange. If he had been as friendly to me as
he is to you, I should long ago have begged him to show me who and what
he is. And I pray that you will do all you can, so that I may know of what
fashion he may be. You tell me that his speech is Gascon, such as yours or
mine."
'"By my faith," said the Sieur de Corasse, "it is only the truth. His
Gascon is as good as the best; and, since you advise it, I will spare myself
no trouble to see what he is like."
'Two or three nights after came Orthon, and finding the Sieur de Corasse
sleeping soundly, he pulled the pillow, so as to wake him. So the Sieur de
Corasse awoke with a start and inquired, "Who is there?"
'He answered, "I am Orthon."
'"And whence do you come?"
'"From Prague in Bohemia. The Emperor of Rome is dead."

'"And when did he die?"
'"The day before yesterday."
'"And how far is it from Prague to this?"
'"How far?" he answered. "Why, it is sixty days' journey."
'"And you have come so quickly?"
'"But, by my faith, I travel more quickly than the wind."
'"And have you wings?"
'"By my faith, no."
'"How, then, do you fly so fast?"
'Said Orthon, "That does not concern you."
'"No," he replied; "but I would gladly see of what form you are."
'Said Orthon, "My form does not concern you. Content you with what I
tell you and that my news is true."
'"Now, as I live," cried the Sieur de Corasse, "I should love you better if
I had but seen you."
'Said Orthon, "Since you have such burning desire to see me, the first
thing you behold to-morrow morning on getting out of bed will be I."
'"It is enough," answered the Sieur de Corasse. "Go. I take leave of you
for this night."
'When the day dawned, the Sieur de Corasse arose from his bed, but his
wife was filled with such dread of meeting Orthon that she feigned to be ill,
and protested she would lie abed all day; for she said, "Suppose I were to
see him?"
'"Now," cried the Sieur de Corasse, "see what I do," and he jumped from
his bed and sat upon the edge, and looked about for Orthon; but he saw
nothing. Then he threw back the windows so that he could note more

clearly all that was in the room, but again he saw nought of which he could
say, "That is Orthon."
'The day passed and night came. Hardly had the Sieur de Corasse
climbed up into his bed than Orthon arrived, and began to talk to him, as his
custom was.
'"Go to, go to," said the Sieur de Corasse; "you are but a bungler. You
promised to show yourself to me yesterday, and you never appeared."
'"Never appeared," said he. "But I did, by my faith."
'"You did not."
'"And did you see nothing," said Orthon, "when you leapt from your
bed?"
'The Sieur de Corasse thought for a little; then he answered. "Yes," he
replied; "as I was sitting on my bed and thinking of you, I noticed two long
straws on the floor twisting about and playing together."
'"That was I," said Orthon. "That was the form I had taken upon me."
'Said the Sieur de Corasse: "That is not enough. You must take another
form, so that I may see you and know you."
'"You ask so much that I shall become weary of you and you will lose
me," replied Orthon.
'"You will never become weary of me and I shall never lose you,"
answered the Sieur de Corasse; "if only I see you once, I shall be content."
'"So be it," said Orthon; "to-morrow you shall see me, and take notice
that the first thing you see as you leave your room will be I."
'"It is enough," spoke the Sieur de Corasse; "and now go, for I fain
would sleep."
'So Orthon went; and when it was the third hour next morning[28] the
Sieur de Corasse rose and dressed as was his custom, and, leaving his
chamber, came out into a gallery that looked into the central court of the
castle. He glanced down, and the first thing he saw was a sow, larger than

any he had ever beheld, but so
thin that it seemed nothing but
skin and bone. The Sieur de
Corasse was troubled at the
sight of the pig, and said to his
servants: "Set on the dogs, and
let them chase out that sow."
'The varlets departed and
loosened the dogs, and urged
them to attack the sow, which
uttered a great cry and looked at
the Sieur de Corasse, who stood
leaning against one of the posts
of his chamber. They saw her
no more, for she vanished, and
no man could tell whither she
had gone.
'Then the Sieur de Corasse
entered into his room,
pondering deeply, for he
remembered the words of
Orthon and said to himself: "I
Orthon's last appearance
fear me that I have seen my
messenger. I repent me that I
have set my dogs upon him, and the more that perhaps he will never visit
me again, for he has told me, not once but many times, that if I angered him
he would depart from me."
'And in this he said well; for Orthon came no more to the castle of
Corasse, and in less than a year its lord himself was dead.'

HOW GUSTAVUS VASA WON HIS KINGDOM

N EARLY four hundred years ago, on May 12, 1496, Gustavus Vasa
was born in an old house in Sweden. His father was a noble of a
well-known Swedish family, and his mother could claim as her sister one of
the bravest and most unfortunate women of her time. Now, it was the
custom in those days that both boys and girls should be sent when very
young to the house of some great lord to be taught their duties as pages or
ladies-in-waiting, and to be trained in all sorts of accomplishments. So
when Gustavus Vasa had reached the age of six or seven, he was taken
away from all his brothers and sisters and placed in the household of his
uncle by marriage, whose name was Sten Sture. At that time Sweden had
had no king of her own for a hundred years, when the kingdom had become
united with Norway and Denmark in the reign of Queen Margaret by a
treaty that is known in history as the Union of Calmar (1397). As long as
Queen Margaret lived the three kingdoms were well-governed and happy;
but her successors were by no means as wise as she, and at the period we
are writing of the Danish stewards of King Hans and his son, Christian II.,
oppressed and ill-treated the Swedes in every possible way, and Sten Sture,
regent though he was, had no power to protect them. From time to time the
Danish kings came over to Sweden to look after their own interests, and on
one of these visits King Hans saw little Gustavus Vasa at the house of Sten
Sture in Stockholm. He is said to have taken notice of the boy, and to have
exclaimed grimly that Gustavus would be a great man if he lived; and the
Regent, thinking that the less attention the King paid to his unwilling
subjects the safer their heads would be, at once sent the boy back to his
father.
For some years Gustavus lived at home and had a merry time, learning
to shoot by hitting a mark with his arrows before he was allowed any
breakfast, and roaming all over the woods in his little coat of scarlet cloth.
At thirteen he was sent for a time to school at Upsala, where he learned
music as well as other things, and even taught himself to make musical
instruments. One day, however, the Danish schoolmaster spoke scornfully
of the Swedes, and Gustavus, dashing the sword which he carried through

the book before him, vowed
vengeance on all Danes, and walked
out of the school for good.
As far as we know, Gustavus
probably remained with his father
for the next few years, and we next
hear of him in 1514 at the Court of
Sten Sture the younger. Already he
had obtained a reputation among his
friends both for boldness and
caution, and though so young had
learned experience by carefully
watching all that was going on
around him. His enemies, too, even
the wicked Archbishop Trolle of
Upsala, had begun to fear him
without knowing exactly why, and
he had already made a name for
himself by his courage at the Gustavus leaves school for good!
Swedish victory of Bränkyrka, when
the standard was borne by Gustavus through the thickest of the fight. This
battle dashed to the ground the King's hopes of getting Sten Sture, the
Regent, into his power by fair means, so he tried treachery to persuade the
Swede to enter his ship. But the men of Stockholm saw through his wiles
and declined this proposal, and the King was driven to offer the Swedes a
meeting in a church, on condition that Gustavus Vasa and five other
distinguished nobles should be sent first on board as hostages. This was
agreed to; but no sooner had the young men put off in their boat than a large
Danish vessel cut off their retreat, and they were at once carried off to
Denmark as prisoners.
For one moment it seemed likely that Gustavus would be hanged, and
Sweden remain in slavery for many years longer, and indeed, if his life was
spared, it was only because Christian thought it might be to his own
advantage. Still, spared it was, and the young man was delivered to the care
of a distant relation in Jutland, who was to forfeit 400l. in case of his

escape. Here things were made as pleasant to him as possible, and he was
allowed to hunt and shoot, though always attended by keepers.
One day, after he had behaved with such prudence that his keepers had
almost given up watching him, he managed, while strolling in the great
park, to give them the slip, and to hide himself where there was no chance
of anyone finding him. He contrived somehow to get hold of a pilgrim's
dress; then that of a cattle-driver, and in this disguise he made his way to
the free city of Lübeck, and threw himself on the mercy of the burgomaster
or mayor. By this time his enemies were on his track, and his noble gaoler,
Sir Eric Bauer, claimed him as an escaped prisoner. But the people of
Lübeck, who at that moment had a trade quarrel with Denmark, declared
that the fugitive was not a prisoner who had broken his parole, but a hostage
who had been carried off by treachery, and refused to give him up, though
perhaps their own interest had more to do with their steadfastness than right
and justice. As it was, Gustavus was held fast in Lübeck for eight months
before they would let him go, and it was not until May 1520 that he crossed
the Baltic in a little fishing-smack, and sailed for Stockholm, then besieged
by Danish ships and defended by the widow of the Regent. But finding the
town closely invested, he made for Calmar, and after a short stay in the
castle he found his way into the heart of the country, learning sadly at every
step how the worst enemies of Sweden were the Swedes themselves, who
betrayed each other to their Danish foes for jealousy and gold. Like Prince
Charlie, however, he was soon to find faithful hearts among his
countrymen, and for every traitor there were at least a hundred who were
true. While hiding on his father's property, he sent some of his tenants to
Stockholm, to find out the state of affairs there. The news they brought was
terrible. A fearful massacre, known in history as the Blood Bath, had taken
place by order of the King. Citizens, bishops, nobles, and even servants had
been executed in the public market, and the King's thirst for blood was not
satisfied until some hundreds of Swedes had laid down their lives. Among
those who fell on the first day was the father of Gustavus Vasa, who is said
to have indignantly rejected the pardon offered him by the King for his
fidelity to his country. 'No,' he exclaimed; 'let me die with all these honest
men.' So he died, and his son-in-law after him, and his wife, her mother,
sister, and three daughters were thrown into prison, where some of them

were starved to death. To crown all, a price was set on the head of
Gustavus.
On hearing this last news Gustavus resolved to take refuge in the
province of Dalecarlia, and to trust to the loyalty of the peasants. By this
time it was the end of November (1520), and the snow lay thick upon the
ground; but this was rather in his favour, as his enemies would be less likely
to pursue him. So he cut his hair short and put on the dress of a peasant,
which in those days consisted of a short, thick jacket, breeches with huge
buttons, and a low soft hat. Then he bought an axe and plunged into the
forest. Here he soon made a friend for life in a very tall, strong woodcutter,
known to his neighbours by the name of the 'Bear-slayer.' This woodcutter
was employed by a rich man, Petersen by name, who had a large property
near by, and had been at school with Gustavus Vasa at Upsala. But hearing
that Danish spies were lurking around, Gustavus would not confide even in
him, but patiently did what work was given him like a common servant. An
accident betrayed him. A maid-servant happened one day to see the golden
collar that Gustavus wore next his skin, and told her master. Petersen then
recognised his old schoolfellow; but knowing that he would lose his own
head if he gave him shelter, he advised the young noble to leave his hiding-
place, and take shelter with another old friend, Arendt, who had once served
under him. Here he was received with open arms; but this hospitality only
concealed treachery, for his old comrade had formed a close friendship with
the Danish stewards who ruled the land, and only wanted an opportunity to
deliver Gustavus up to them. However, he was careful not to let his guest
see anything of his plan, and even pretended to share his schemes for
ridding the country of the enemy. So he hid Gustavus in an attic, where he
assured him he would be perfectly safe, and left him, saying he would go
round to all the neighbouring estates to enlist soldiers for their cause. But of
course he was only going to give information about Gustavus, and to gain
the reward.
Now, it was only an accident that prevented his treachery being
successful. The first man he applied to, though a friend to the Danes,
scorned to take a mean advantage of anyone, and told the traitor to go
elsewhere.

Furiously angry, but greedy and determined as ever, the traitor set forth
for the house of the Danish steward who lived nearest, well knowing that
from him he would receive nothing but gratitude.
But the traitor's wife happened to be standing at her own door as her
husband drove by, and guessed what had occurred and where he was going.
She was an honest woman, who despised all that was base and underhand,
so she stole out to one of her servants whom she could trust, and ordered
him to make ready a sledge, for he would have to go on a journey. Then, in
order that no one should know of Gustavus's escape until it was too late to
overtake him, she let him down out of the window into the sledge, which
drove off at once, across a frozen lake and past the copper-mines of Fahlun,
to a little village at the far end, where Gustavus left his deliverer, giving
him a beautiful silver dagger as a parting gift.

Sheltered by one person after
another, and escaping many
dangers on the way, Gustavus
found himself at last in the
cottage of one of the royal
foresters, where he received a
hospitable welcome from the
man and his wife. But unknown
to himself, Danish spies had been
for some time on his track, and
no sooner had Gustavus sat down
to warm his tired limbs before the
fire where the forester's wife was
baking bread, than they entered
and inquired if Gustavus Vasa
had been seen to pass that way.
Another moment and they might
have become curious about the
stranger sitting at the hearth,
'Lazy loon! Have you no work to do?'
when the woman hastily turned
round, and struck him on the
shoulder with the huge spoon she held in her hand. 'Lazy loon!' she cried.
'Have you no work to do? Off with you at once and see to your threshing.'
The Danes only saw before them a common Swedish servant bullied by his
mistress, and it never entered their heads to ask any questions; so once
again Gustavus was saved.
Next day the forester hid him under a load of hay, and prepared to drive
him through the forest to the houses of some friends—foresters like himself
—who lived in a distant village. But Gustavus was not to reach even this
place without undergoing a danger different from those he had met with
before; for while they were jogging peacefully along the road they came
across one of the numerous parties of Danes who were for ever scouring the
country, and on seeing the cart a man stepped up, and thrust through the hay
with his spear. Gustavus, though wounded, managed not to cry out, but
reached, faint with loss of blood, his next resting-place.

After spending several days hidden among the boughs of a fir-tree, till
the Danes began to think that their information must be false and Gustavus
be looked for elsewhere, the fugitive was guided by one peasant after
another through the forests till he found himself at the head of a large lake,
and in the centre of many thickly-peopled villages. Here he assembled the
dwellers in the country round, and spoke to them in the churchyard, telling
of the wrongs that Sweden had suffered and of her children that had been
slain. The peasants were moved by his words, but they did not wish to
plunge into a war till they were sure of being successful, so they told
Gustavus that they must find out something more before they took arms;
meantime he was driven to seek a fresh hiding-place.
Gustavus was terribly dejected at the downfall of his hopes, for he had
thought, with the help of the peasants, to raise at once the standard of
rebellion; still he saw that flight was the only chance just now, and Norway
seemed his best refuge. However, some fresh acts of tyranny on the part of
their Danish masters did what Gustavus's own words had failed to do, and
suddenly the peasants took their resolve and sent for Gustavus to be their
leader.
The messengers found him at the foot of the Dovre-Fjeld Mountains
between Norway and Sweden, and he joyfully returned with them, rousing
the people as he went, till at last he had got together a force that far
outnumbered the army which was sent to meet it.
Gustavus was not present at the first battle, which was fought on the
banks of the Dale River, for he was travelling about preaching a rising
among the Swedes of the distant provinces, but he arrived just after, to find
that the peasants had gained an overwhelming victory. The fruits of this first
victory were far-reaching. It gave the people confidence, thousands flocked
to serve under Gustavus's banner, and within a few months the whole
country, excepting Stockholm and Calmar, was in his hands. Then the
nobles, in gratitude to their deliverer, sought to proclaim him king, but this
he refused as long as a single Swedish castle remained beneath the Danish
yoke, so for two more years he ruled Sweden under the title of Lord
Protector. Then in 1523, when Stockholm and Calmar at last surrendered,
Gustavus Vasa was crowned king.[29]

MONSIEUR DE BAYARD'S DUEL

N OW, when Monsieur de Bayard was fighting in the kingdom of
Naples, he made prisoner a valiant Spanish captain, Don Alonzo de
Soto-Mayor by name, who, not liking his situation, complained of the
treatment he received, which he said was unworthy of his dignity as a
knight. This was, however, quite absurd, and against all reason, for, as all
the world knows, there never was a man more courteous than Monsieur de
Bayard. At length, Monsieur de Bayard, wearied with the continued
grumblings of the Spaniard, sent him a challenge. This was at once
accepted, whether the duel should be fought on foot or on horseback, for
Don Alonzo refused to withdraw anything that he had said of the French
knight.
When the day arrived, Monsieur de la Palisse, accompanied by two
hundred gentlemen, appeared on the ground, escorting their champion
Monsieur de Bayard, mounted on a beautiful horse, and dressed all in white,
as a mark of humility, the old chronicler tells us. But Don Alonzo, to whom
belonged the choice of arms, declared that he preferred to fight on foot,
because (he pretended) he was not so skilful a horseman as Monsieur de
Bayard, but really because he knew that his adversary had that day an attack
of malarial fever, and he hoped to find him weakened, and so to get the
better of him. Monsieur de la Palisse and Bayard's other supporters advised
him, from the fact of his fever, to excuse himself, and to insist on fighting
on horseback; but Monsieur de Bayard, who had never trembled before any
man, would make no difficulties, and agreed to everything, which
astonished Don Alonzo greatly, as he had expected a refusal. An enclosure
was formed by a few large stones piled roughly one on another. Monsieur
de Bayard placed himself at one end of the ground, accompanied by several
brave captains, who all began to offer up prayers for their champion. Don
Alonzo and his friends took up a position at the other end, and sent Bayard
the weapons that they had chosen—namely, a short sword and a poignard,
with a gorget and coat of mail. Monsieur de Bayard did not trouble himself
enough about the matter to raise any objection. For second he had an old
brother-at-arms, Bel-Arbre by name, and for keeper of the ground Monsieur

de la Palisse, who was very well skilled in all these things. The Spaniard
also chose a second and a keeper of the ground. So when the combatants
had taken their places, they both sank on their knees and prayed to God; but
Monsieur de Bayard fell on his face and kissed the earth, then, rising, made
the sign of the cross, and went straight for his enemy, as calmly, says the old
chronicler, as if he were in a palace, and leading out a lady to the dance.
Don Alonzo on his
side came forward to
meet him, and asked,
'Señor Bayardo, what
do you want of me?'
He answered, 'To
defend my honour,' and
without more words
drew near; and each
thrust hard with the
sword, Don Alonzo
getting a slight wound
on his face. After that,
they thrust at each
other many times more,
without touching.
Monsieur de Bayard
'Surrender, Don Alonzo, or you are a dead man!' soon discovered the
ruse of his adversary,
who no sooner delivered his thrusts than he at once covered his face so that
no hurt could be done him; and he bethought himself of a way to meet it.
So, the moment Don Alonzo raised his arm to give a thrust, Monsieur de
Bayard also raised his; but he kept his sword in the air, without striking a
blow, and when his enemy's weapon had passed harmlessly by him, he
could strike where he chose, and gave such a fearful blow at the throat that,
in spite of the thickness of the gorget, the sword entered to the depth of four
whole fingers, and he could not pull it out. Don Alonzo, feeling that he had
got his death-blow, dropped his sword and grasped Monsieur de Bayard
round the body, and thus wrestling they both fell to the ground. But
Monsieur de Bayard, quick to see and to do, seized his sword, and, holding

it to the nostrils of his enemy, he cried, 'Surrender, Don Alonzo, or you are a
dead man;' but he got no answer, for Don Alonzo was dead already. Then
his second, Don Diego de Guignonnes, came forward and said, 'Señor
Bayardo, you have conquered him,' which everyone could see for himself.
But Monsieur de Bayard was much grieved, for, says the chronicler, he
would have given a hundred thousand crowns, if he had had them, to have
made Don Alonzo surrender. Still, he was grateful to God for having given
him the victory, and gave thanks, and, kneeling down, kissed the earth three
times. And after the body of Don Alonzo was carried from the ground, he
said to the second, 'Don Diego, my lord, have I done enough?' And Don
Diego answered sadly, 'Enough and too much, Señor Bayardo, for the
honour of Spain.' 'You know,' said Monsieur de Bayard, 'that as the victor
the body is mine to do as I will, but I yield it to you; and truly, I would that,
my honour satisfied, it had fallen out otherwise.' So the Spaniards bore
away their champion with sobs and tears, and the French led off the
conqueror with shouts of joy, and the noise of trumpets and clarions, to the
tent of Monsieur de la Palisse, after which Monsieur de Bayard went
straight to the church to give thanks in that he had gained the victory. Thus
it happened to the greater renown of Monsieur de Bayard, who was
esteemed not only by the French, his countrymen, but by the Spaniards of
the kingdom of Naples, to be a peerless knight, who had no equal look
where you may.[30]

STORY OF GUDBRAND OF THE DALES[31]

T HERE was a man named Gudbrand of the Dales, who was as good as
king over the Dales though he had but the title of duke. He had one
son, of whom this story makes mention. Now when Gudbrand heard that
King Olaf was come to Loa and was compelling men to receive
Christianity, he cut the war-arrow and summoned all the dalesmen to meet
him at the village called Houndthorpe. Thither came they all in countless
numbers, for the lake Lögr lies near, and they could come by water as well
as by land.
There Gudbrand held an assembly with them, and said: 'There is a man
come to Loa named Olaf; he would fain offer us a faith other than we had
before, and break all our gods in sunder. And he says that he has a God far
greater and mightier. A wonder it is that the earth does not burst in sunder
beneath him who dares to say such things; a wonder that our gods let him
any longer walk thereon. And I expect that if we carry Thor out of our
temple, wherein he stands and hath alway helped us, and he see Olaf and
his men, then will Olaf's God and Olaf himself and all his men melt away
and come to nought.'
At this they all at once shouted loud, and said that Olaf should never
escape alive if he came to meet them. 'Never will he dare to go further south
by the Dales,' said they. Then they appointed seven hundred men to go and
reconnoitre northwards to Breida. This force was commanded by
Gudbrand's son, then eighteen years old, and many other men of renown
with him; and they came to the village called Hof and were there for three
nights, where they were joined by much people who had fled from Lesja
Loa and Vagi, not being willing to submit to Christianity.
But King Olaf and Bishop Sigurd, after appointing teachers of religion at
Loa and Vagi, crossed over the channel between Vagi and the land and came
to Sil, and were there for the night; and they heard the tidings that a large
force was before them. And the people of the country who were at Breida
heard of the King's movements, and prepared for battle against him. But

when the King rose in the morn, then he clad him for war, and marched
south by Silfield, nor stayed till he came to Breida, where he saw a large
army arrayed for battle.
Then the King set his men in array and rode himself before them, and,
addressing the country-folk, bade them embrace Christianity.
They answered: 'Thou wilt have other work to do to-day than to mock
us.'
And they shouted a war-shout and smote their shields with their
weapons. Then the King's men ran forward and hurled their spears; but the
country-folk turned and fled, few of them standing their ground. Gudbrand's
son was there taken prisoner; but King Olaf gave him quarter and kept him
near himself. Three nights the King was there. Then spake he with
Gudbrand's son, saying: 'Go thou back now to thy father and tell him that I
shall come there soon.'
Whereupon he went back home and told his father the ill tidings, how
they had met the King and fought with him; 'but our people all fled at the
very first,' said he, 'and I was taken prisoner. The King gave me quarter, and
bade me go and tell thee that he would come here soon. Now have we left
no more than two hundred men out of that force with which we met him,
and I advise thee, father, not to fight with that man.'
'One may hear,' said Gudbrand, 'that all vigour is beaten out of thee. Ill
luck went with thee, and long will thy journey be spoken of. Thou believest
at once those mad fancies which that man brings who hath wrought foul
shame on thee and thine.'
In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream. A man came to him,
a shining one, from whom went forth great terror. And thus he spake: 'Thy
son went not on a path of victory against King Olaf; and far worse wilt thou
fare if thou resolvest to do battle with the King, for thou wilt fall, thyself
and all thy people, and thee and thine will wolves tug and ravens rend.'
Much afraid was Gudbrand at this terror, and told it to Thord Fat-
paunch, a chief man of the Dales.
He answered: 'Just the same vision appeared to me.'

And on the morrow they bade the trumpet-blast summon an assembly,
and said that they thought it good counsel to hold a conference with that
man who came from the north with new doctrine, and to learn what proofs
he could bring.
After this Gudbrand said to his son: 'Thou shalt go to the King who
spared thy life, and twelve men shall go with thee.' And so it was done.
And they came to the
King and told him their
errand—that the country-
folk would fain hold a
conference with him, and
would have a truce between
them. The King liked that
well, and they settled it so by
a treaty between them till the
appointed meeting should
be; and this done they went
back and told Gudbrand and
Thord of the truce. The King
then went to the village
called Lidsstadir, and stayed
there five nights. Then he
went to meet the country-
folk, and held a conference
with them; but the day was
very wet.
As soon as the conference
was met, the King stood up
'In the following night Gudbrand dreamed a dream' and said that the dwellers in
Lesja Loa and Vagi had
accepted Christianity and
broken down their heathen house of worship, and now believed in the true
God who made heaven and earth and knew all things. Then the King sat
down; but Gudbrand answered:

'We know not of whom thou speakest. Thou callest him God whom
neither thou seest nor anyone else. But we have that god who may be seen
every day, though he is not out to-day because the weather is wet: and
terrible will he seem to you, and great fear will, I expect, strike your hearts
if he come into our assembly. But since thou sayest that your God is so
powerful, then let Him cause that to-morrow the weather be cloudy but
without rain, and meet we here again.'
Thereafter the King went home to his lodging, and with him Gudbrand's
son as a hostage, while the King gave them another man in exchange. In the
evening the King asked Gudbrand's son how their god was made. He said
that he was fashioned to represent Thor: he had a hammer in his hand, and
was tall of stature, hollow within, and there was a pedestal under him on
which he stood when out-of-doors; nor was there lack of gold and silver
upon him. Four loaves of bread were brought to him every day, and flesh-
meat therewith. After this talk they went to bed. But the King was awake all
night and at his prayers.
With dawn of day the King went to mass, then to meat, then to the
assembly. And the weather was just what Gudbrand had bargained for. Then
stood up the bishop in his gown, with mitre on head and crozier in hand;
and he spoke of the faith before the country-folk, and told of the many
miracles which God had wrought, and brought his speech to an eloquent
conclusion.
Then answered Thord Fat-paunch: 'Plenty of words has that horned one
who holds a staff in his hand crooked at the top like a wether's horn. But
seeing that you, my good fellows, claim that your God works so many
miracles, bespeak of Him for to-morrow that He let it be bright sunshine;
and meet we then, and do one of the twain, either agree on this matter or do
battle.'
And with that they broke up the assembly for the time.
There was a man with King Olaf named Kolbein Strong; he was from
the Firths by kin. He had ever this gear, that he was girded with a sword,
and had a large cudgel or club in his hand. The King bade Kolbein be close
to him on the morrow. And then he said to his men:

'Go ye to-night where the country-folk's ships are, and bore holes in
them all, and drive away from their farm-buildings their yoke-horses.' And
they did so.
But the King spent the night in prayer, praying God that He would solve
this difficulty of His goodness and mercy. And when service times were
over (and that was towards daybreak) then went he to the assembly. When
he came there but few of the country-folk had come. But soon they saw a
great multitude coming to the assembly; and they bare among them a huge
image of a man, all glittering with gold and silver; which when those who
were already at the assembly saw, they all leapt up and bowed before this
monster. Then was it set up in the middle of the place of assembly: on the
one side sat the folk of the country, on the other the King and his men.
Then up stood Gudbrand of the Dales and spake: 'Where is now thy God,
O King? Methinks now He boweth His beard full low; and, as I think, less
is now thy bragging and that of the horned one whom ye call bishop, and
who sits beside thee yea, less than it was yesterday. For now is come our
god who rules all, and he looks at you with keen glance, and I see that ye
are now full of fear and hardly dare to lift your eyes. Lay down now your
superstition and believe in our god, who holds all your counsel in his hand.'
And so his words were ended.
The King spake with Kolbein Strong, so that the country-folk knew it
not: 'If it so chance while I am speaking that they look away from their god,
then strike him the strongest blow thou canst with thy club.'
Then the King stood up and spake: 'Plenty of words hast thou spoken to
us this morning. Thou thinkest it strange that thou canst not see our God;
but we expect that He will soon come to us. Thou goest about to terrify us
with thy god, who is blind and deaf and can neither help himself nor others,
and can in no way leave his place unless he be carried; and I expect now
that evil is close upon him. Nay, look now and see toward the east, there
goeth now our God with great light.'
Just then up sprang the sun, and toward the sun looked the country-folk
all. But in that moment Kolbein dealt such a blow on their god that he burst
all asunder, and thereout leapt rats as big as cats, and vipers and snakes.

The destruction of the idol

But the country-folk fled in terror, some to their ships, which when they
launched, the water poured in and filled them, nor could they so get away,
and some who ran for their horses found them not. Then the King had them
called back and said he would fain speak with them; whereupon the
country-folk turned back and assembled.
Then the King stood up and spake.
'I know not,' said he, 'what means this tumult and rushing about that ye
make. But now may well be seen what power your god has, whom ye load
with gold and silver, meat and food, and now ye see what creatures have
enjoyed all this—rats and snakes, vipers and toads. And worse are they who
believe in such things, and will not quit their folly. Take ye your gold and
jewels that are here now on the field and carry them home to your wives,
and never put them again on stocks or stones. But now there are two
choices for us: that you accept Christianity or do battle with me to-day. And
may those win victory to whom it is willed by the God in whom we
believe.'

Then stood up Gudbrand of the Dales and spake: 'Much scathe have we
gotten now in our god; but, as he cannot help himself, we will now believe
in the God in whom thou believest.' And so they all accepted Christianity.
Then did the bishop baptize Gudbrand and his son. King Olaf and
Bishop Sigurd left religious teachers there, and they parted friends who
before were foes. And Gudbrand had a church built there in the Dales.

SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE

S IR RICHARD GRENVILLE, of Bideford, in Devon, was one of the
most noted admirals in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Although he had
large estates, and was very rich, he liked better to go abroad to the new
countries just then discovered, or to fight for his country, than to stay at
home.
From his wonderful courage and determination never to fly from an
enemy, however great the odds might be against him, he had the good
fortune to win glory in the most glorious sea-fight that has ever been
fought.
In 1591 he was vice-admiral of a small fleet consisting of six line of
battle ships, six victuallers, and two or three pinnaces, under the command
of Lord Thomas Howard. In the month of August in that year, they lay at
anchor off the island of Flores, where they had put in for a fresh supply of
water, and to take in ballast, as well as to refresh the crew, for many of them
were sick.
Half of the crew of Grenville's ship were disabled and were on shore,
when news was brought that a Spanish Armada, consisting of fifty-three
ships, was near at hand.
When the admiral heard it, knowing himself to be at a disadvantage, he
instantly signalled to the rest of the fleet to cut or weigh their anchors and to
follow him out to sea.
All the commanders obeyed his summons but Sir Richard Grenville,
whose duty as vice-admiral was to follow at the rear of the fleet; he also
waited until his men who were on shore could rejoin him.
Meanwhile he had everything set in readiness to fight, and all the sick
were carried to the lower hold.
The rest of the English ships were far away, hull down on the horizon,
and the Spaniards, who had come up under cover of the island, were already

bearing down in two divisions on his weatherbow before the 'Revenge' was
ready to sail. Then the master and others, seeing the hopelessness of their
case, begged Sir Richard to trust to the good sailing of his ship, 'to cut his
maine saile and cast about, and to follow the admiral.'
But Sir Richard flew into a terrible passion, and swore he would hang
any man who should then show himself to be a coward. 'That he would
rather choose to dye than to dishonour himselfe, his countrie, and her
maiestie's shippe.'
He boldly told his men that he feared no enemy, that he would yet pass
through the squadron and force them to give him way.
Then were the hundred men on the 'Revenge' who were able to fight and
to work the ship, fired with the spirit of their commander, and they sailed
out to meet the foe with a cheer.
All went well for a little time, and the 'Revenge' poured a broadside into
those ships of the enemy that she passed. But presently a great ship named
'San Felipe' loomed over her path and took the wind out of her sails, so that
she could no longer answer to her helm.
While she lay thus helplessly, all her sails of a sudden slack and
sweeping the yards, she fired her lower tier, charged with crossbar shot, into
the 'San Felipe.' Then the unwieldy galleon of a thousand and five hundred
tons, which bristled with cannon from stem to stern, had good reason to
repent her of her temerity, and 'shifted herselfe with all dilligence from her
sides, utterly misliking her entertainment.' It is said she foundered shortly
afterwards.
Meanwhile four more Spanish vessels had come up alongside the
'Revenge,' and lay two on her larboard and two on her starboard. Then a
hand to hand fight began in terrible earnest. As those soldiers in the ships
alongside were repulsed or thrown back into the sea, yet were their places
filled with more men from the galleons around, who brought fresh
ammunition and arms. The Spanish ships were filled with soldiers, in some
were two hundred besides mariners, in some five hundred, in others eight
hundred.

'And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears when
he leaps from the water to the land.'
Grenville was severely hurt at the beginning of the fight, but he paid no
heed to his wound, and stayed on the upper decks to cheer and encourage
his men. Two of the Spanish ships were sunk by his side, yet two more
came in their places, and ever and ever more as their need might be.
Darkness fell upon the scene, and through the silence the musketry fire
crackled unceasingly, and the heavy artillery boomed from time to time
across the sea. About an hour before midnight Grenville was shot in the
body, and while his wound was being dressed, the surgeon who attended
him was killed, and at the same time Grenville was shot again in the head.
Still he cried to his men, 'Fight on, fight on!'

'Still he cried to his men, "Fight on, fight on!"'

Before dawn the Spaniards, weary of the fight that had raged for fifteen
hours, that had cost them fifteen ships and fifteen hundred men, had drawn
off to a little distance, and lay around her in a ring.

Daylight discovered the little 'Revenge' a mere water-logged hulk, with
rigging and tackle shot away, her masts overboard, her upper works riddled,
her pikes broken, all her powder spent, and forty of her best men slain.
The glow that heralded sunrise shot over the sky and stained the placid
waters beneath to crimson. In this sea of blood the wreck lay, her decks
ruddy with the stain of blood sacrificed for honour.
She lay alone at the mercy of the waves, and unable to move save by
their rise and fall, alone with her wounded and dying and her dead to whom
could come no help.
Then Sir Richard Grenville called for the master gunner, whom he knew
to be both brave and trusty, and told him to sink the ship, so that the
Spaniards might have no glory in their conquest. He besought his sailors to
trust themselves to the mercy of God, and not to the mercy of men, telling
them that for the honour of their country the greater glory would be theirs if
they would consent to die with him.
The gunner and many others cried, 'Ay, ay, sir,' and consented to the
sinking of the ship.
But the captain and master would not agree to it: they told Sir Richard
that the Spanish admiral would be glad to listen to a composition, as
themselves were willing to do. Moreover there were still some men left who
were not mortally wounded, and who might yet live to do their country
good service. They told him too that the Spaniard could never glory in
having taken the ship, for she had six feet of water in the hold already, as
well as three leaks from shot under water, that could not be stopped to resist
a heavy sea.
But Sir Richard would not listen to any of their reasoning. Meanwhile
the master had gone to the general of the Armada, Don Alfonso Baffan,
who, knowing Grenville's determination to fight to the last, was afraid to
send any of his men on board the 'Revenge' again, lest they should be blown
up or sink on board of her.
The general yielded that 'all their lives should be saved, the companie
sent for England, and the better sorte to pay such reasonable ransome as

their estate would beare, and in the meane season to be free from galley or
imprisonment.'
After the men had heard what the captain said they became unwilling to
die, and with these honourable terms for surrender they drew back from Sir
Richard and the master gunner. 'The maister gunner, finding himselfe
prevented and maistered by the greater number, would have slaine himselfe
with a sword had he not beene by force withhold and locked into his
cabben.'
Then the Spanish general sent to the 'Revenge' to bring Sir Richard to his
own ship; for he greatly admired his wonderful courage.
Sir Richard told him they might do what they chose with his body, for he
did not care for it; and as he was being carried from his ship in a fainting
state, he asked those of his men near him to pray for him.
He only lived for three days after this, but was treated with the greatest
courtesy and kindness by the Spaniards. He did not speak again until he was
dying, when he said:
'Here am I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for that I
have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do, that hath fought for his
country, Queen, religion, and honour. Whereby my soul most joyfully
departeth out of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting
fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath done his dutie as he was bound
to do.'

THE STORY OF MOLLY PITCHER

I T is a strange and interesting thing to see how history repeats itself in a
series of noble and picturesque incidents which are so much alike that
they might be easily mistaken for one another. Perhaps in the years to come
they will be mistaken for one another, and then those learned scholars who
love to deny all the things that are worth believing will say, as they say now
of William Tell and the apple: 'Whenever an event is represented as
happening in different countries and among different nations, we may be
sure that it never happened at all.' Yet to Spain belongs Augustina, the Maid
of Saragossa; to England, brave Mary Ambree; and to America, Molly
Pitcher, the stout-hearted heroine of Monmouth; and these three women
won for themselves honour and renown by the same valorous exploits.
Augustina is the most to be envied, for her praises have been sung by a
great poet; Mary Ambree has a noble ballad to perpetuate her fame; Molly
Pitcher is still without the tribute of a verse to remind her countrymen
occasionally of her splendid courage in the field.
The Spanish girl was of humble birth, young, poor, and very handsome.
When Saragossa was besieged by the French during the Peninsular War, she
carried food every afternoon to the soldiers who were defending the
batteries. One day the attack was so fierce, and the fire so deadly, that by
the gate of Portillo not a single man was left alive to repulse the terrible
enemy. When Augustina reached the spot with her basket of coarse and
scanty provisions, she saw the last gunner fall bleeding on the walls. Not for
an instant did she hesitate; but springing over a pile of dead bodies, she
snatched the match from his stiffening fingers and fired the gun herself.
Then calling on her countrymen to rally their broken ranks, she led them
back so unflinchingly to the charge that the French were driven from the
gate they had so nearly captured, and the honour of Spain was saved. When
the siege was lifted and the city free a pension was settled on Augustina,
together with the daily pay of an artilleryman, and she was permitted to
wear upon her sleeve an embroidered shield bearing the arms of Saragossa.
Lord Byron, in his poem 'Childe Harold,' has described her beauty her
heroism, and the desperate courage with which she defended the breach:

'Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope
is lost!
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foiled by a woman's hand before a battered
wall?'
For the story of Mary Ambree we must leave the chroniclers—who to
their own loss and shame never mention her at all—and take refuge with the
poets. From them we learn all we need to know, and it is quickly told. Her
lover was slain treacherously in the war between Spain and Holland, the
English being then allies of the Dutch; and, vowing to avenge his death, she
put on his armour and marched to the siege of Ghent, where she fought with
reckless courage on its walls. Fortune favours the brave, and wherever the
maiden turned her arms the enemy was repulsed, until at last the gallant
Spanish soldiers vied with the English in admiration of this valorous foe:
'If England doth yield such brave lassies as
thee.
Full well may she conquer, faire Mary
Ambree.'
Even the Great Prince of Parma desired to see this dauntless young girl,
and finding her as chaste as she was courageous and beautiful, he permitted
her to sail for home without any molestation from his army.
'Then to her own country she back did
returne,
Still holding the foes of faire England in
scorne;
Therefore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary
Ambree.'
And now for Molly Pitcher, who, unsung and almost unremembered,
should nevertheless share in the honours heaped so liberally upon the
Spanish and English heroines. 'A red-haired, freckled-faced young
Irishwoman,' without beauty and without distinction, she was the newly-
wedded wife of an artilleryman in Washington's little army. On June 28,

1778, was fought the
battle of Monmouth,
famous for the
admirable tactics by
which Washington
regained the
advantages lost through
the negligence of
General Charles Lee,
and also for the
splendid charge and
gallant death of
Captain Moneton, an
officer of the English
grenadiers. It was a
Sunday morning, close
and sultry. As the day
advanced, the soldiers
on both sides suffered Molly takes her husband's place
terribly from that
fierce, unrelenting heat
in which America rivals India. The thermometer stood at 96 in the shade.
Men fell dead in their ranks without a wound, smitten by sunstroke, and the
sight of them filled their comrades with dismay. Molly Pitcher, regardless of
everything save the anguish of the sweltering, thirsty troops, carried buckets
of water from a neighbouring spring, and passed them along the line. Back
and forward she trudged, this strong, brave, patient young woman, while the
sweat poured down her freckled face, and her bare arms blistered in the sun.
She was a long time in reaching her husband—so many soldiers begged for
drink as she toiled by—but at last she saw him, parched, grimy, spent with
heat, and she quickened her lagging steps. Then suddenly a ball whizzed
past, and he fell dead by the side of his gun before ever the coveted water
had touched his blackened lips. Molly dropped her bucket, and for one
dazed moment stood staring at the bleeding corpse. Only for a moment, for,
amid the turmoil of battle, she heard the order given to drag her husband's
cannon from the field. The words roused her to life and purpose. She seized
the rammer from the trodden grass, and hurried to the gunner's post. There

was nothing strange in the work to her. She was too well versed in the ways
of war for either ignorance or alarm. Strong, skilful, and fearless, she stood
by the weapon and directed its deadly fire until the fall of Moneton turned
the tide of victory. The British troops under Clinton were beaten back after
a desperate struggle, the Americans took possession of the field, and the
battle of Monmouth was won.
On the following day, poor Molly, no longer a furious Amazon, but a
sad-faced widow, with swollen eyes, and a scanty bit of crape pinned on her
broad young bosom, was presented to Washington, and received a sergeant's
commission with half-pay for life. It is said that the French officers, then
fighting for the freedom of the colonies, that is, against the English, were so
delighted with her courage that they added to this reward a cocked hat full
of gold pieces, and christened her 'La Capitaine.' What befell her in after-
years has never been told. She lived and died obscurely, and her name has
well-nigh been forgotten in the land she served. But the memory of brave
deeds can never wholly perish, and Molly Pitcher has won for herself a
little niche in the temple of Fame, where her companions are fair Mary
Ambree and the dauntless Maid of Saragossa.

THE VOYAGES, DANGEROUS ADVENTURES,
AND IMMINENT ESCAPES OF CAPTAIN
RICHARD FALCONER[32]

I WAS born at a town called Bruton, in Somersetshire, and my parents
were well-to-do people. My mother died when I was very young; my
father, who had been a great traveller in his days, often told me of his
adventures, which gave me a strong desire for a roving life. I used to beg
my father to let me go to sea with some captain of his acquaintance; but he
only warned me solemnly against the dangers to which sailors were
exposed, and told me I should soon wish to be at home again.
But at last, through my father's misfortunes, my wish was gratified, for
he was robbed of a large sum of money, and found himself unable to
provide for me as he wished. Disaster followed disaster till he was
compelled to recommend to me the very life he had warned me against. I
left him for Bristol, carrying with me a letter he had written to a captain
there, begging him to give me all the help in his power, and never saw him
again. But Captain Pultney, his friend, welcomed me like a son, and before
long got me a berth on the 'Albion' frigate, in which I set sail for Jamaica on
May 2, 1699.
When we were in the Bay of Biscay a terrible storm came on; the
billows ran mountains high, and our vessel was the sport of the waves. A
ship that had overtaken and followed us the day before seemed to be in yet
worse distress, and signalled to us for aid; but we could not get very near
them without danger to ourselves. We sent out our long-boat, with two of
our men; but the rope that held her to the ship broke with the violence of the
waves, and she was carried away, nor did we ever hear what became of our
unhappy comrades. Very soon, in spite of the labour of the crew, the vessel
we were trying to help went down, and out of fifty-four men, only four
were saved who had the good fortune to catch the ropes we threw out to
them. When they told us their story, however, we could not help wondering
at the escape we had had, for the lost ship belonged to a pirate, who had

only been waiting till the storm was over to attack us, and the men we had
saved had, according to their own account, been compelled against their
will to serve the pirates.
Very soon the storm abated, and we continued our voyage. It was not
long before we had another adventure with pirates, and the next time they
caught us at midnight, and, hailing us, commanded us to come on board
their ship with our captain. We answered that we had no boat, and asked
them to wait till the morning. At this, the pirate captain threatened to sink
us, and therewith fired a gun at our vessel.
But we, being on our guard, had already mustered our guns and our
forces, thirty-eight men, counting the passengers, who were as ready to
fight as any of us. So we sent them back a broadside, which surprised them
and did them some damage. Then we tacked about, and with six of our guns
raked the enemy fore and aft; but we were answered very quickly with a
broadside that killed two of our men and wounded a third. Presently they
boarded us with about fourscore men, and we found all our resistance idle,
for they drove us into the forecastle, where we managed to barricade
ourselves, and threatened to turn our own guns against us if we did not
surrender immediately. But our captain being resolute, ordered us to fire on
them with our small-arms. Now close to our steerage was a large cistern
lined with tin, where several cartridges of powder happened to be; and,
happily for us, in the tumult of the firing this powder took fire, and blew
part of the quarter-deck and at least thirty of the enemy into the air. On this
we sallied out, and drove the rest into their own vessel again with our
cutlasses, killing several. But, alas! with the explosion and the breach of the
quarter-deck our powder-room was quite blocked up, and we had to go on
fighting with what powder we had by us. Fight we did, nevertheless, for at
least four hours, when dawn broke, and to our great joy we saw another
ship not far away, and distinguished English colours. At this sight we gave a
great shout and fired our small-arms again; but our enemies very quickly
cut away their grappling irons, and did their best to make off. Their rigging,
however, was so shattered that they could not hoist sail, and in the
meantime up came the English ship, and without so much as hailing the
pirate, poured a broadside into her. Then followed a desperate fight. As for
us, we steered off, to clear away the lumber from our powder-room, as we
had nothing left to charge our guns with. In half-an-hour we had loaded

again, and returned to the fight; but as we approached we saw the pirate
sinking. The English ship had torn a hole in her between wind and water, so
that she sank in an instant, and only eight men were saved. They told us that
their captain was a pirate from Guadaloupe, and when they sank they had
not more than twenty men left out of a hundred and fifty. On board our ship
seven sailors and two passengers were killed, while the Guernsey frigate
that rescued us had lost sixteen men and three wounded.
I need now relate no
more of our adventures
on the voyage till I
come to a very sad one
which befell me in
October. We were
sailing towards
Jamaica, and one day I
went into the boat
astern which had been
hoisted overboard in
the morning to look
after a wreck we had
seen on the water. I
'As we approached we saw the pirate sinking'
pulled a book out of
my pocket and sat
reading in the boat; but
before I was aware, a storm began to rise, so that I could not get up the ship
side as usual, but called for the ladder of ropes in order to get back that way.
Now, whether the ladder was not properly fastened above, or whether, being
seldom used, it broke through rottenness, I cannot tell, but down I fell into
the sea, and though, as I heard afterwards, the ship tacked about to take me
up, I lost sight of it in the dusk of the evening and the gathering storm.
Now my condition was terrible. I was forced to drive with the wind and
current, and after having kept myself above water for about four hours, as
near as I could guess in my fright, I felt my feet touch ground every now
and then, and at last a great wave flung me upon the sand. It was quite dark,
and I knew not what to do; but I got up and walked as well as my tired
limbs would carry me. For I could discover no trace of firm land, and

supposed I was on some sandbank which the sea would overflow at high
tide. But by-and-by I had to sit down out of sheer exhaustion, though I only
looked for death. All my sins came before me, and I prayed earnestly, and at
last recovered calm and courage.
In spite of all my efforts to keep awake, I fell fast asleep before dawn
came.
In the morning I was amazed to find myself among four or five very low
sandy islands, all separated half-a-mile or more, as I guessed, by the sea.
With that I became more cheerful, and walked about to see if I could find
anything eatable. To my grief I found nothing but a few eggs, that I was
obliged to eat raw, and this almost made me wish that the sea had engulfed
me rather than thrown me on this desert island, which seemed to me
inhabited only by rats and several kinds of birds.
A few bushes grew upon it, and under these I had to shelter at night, but
though I searched through the island, I could not find a drop of fresh water.
Nor could I have continued to live, having only the eggs I found, if I had
not succeeded in knocking down some birds with a stick, which made me a
grand banquet. This gave me heart to try to make a fire after the fashion of
the blacks by rubbing two sticks together, and I managed to do this after a
while, and cooked my birds on the fire I had lit.
That night came a great storm, with the reddest lightning I had ever seen,
and rain that drenched me through. But in the morning I had the joy of
finding several pools of rain-water; and this put it into my mind to make a
kind of well, that I might keep a supply of water by me.
With my hands and a stick I dug a hollow place, large enough to hold a
hogshead of water, and when it was dug I paved it with stones, and, getting
in, stamped them down hard, and beat the sides close with my stick so that
the well would hold water a long time. But how to get it there was a
difficulty, till by soaking my shirt, which was pretty fine, in water, I found
that I could make it fairly water-tight, and with this holland bucket carry
two gallons at a time, which only leaked out about a pint in two hundred
yards. By this contrivance, in two days I had filled my well.

I next made myself a cupboard of
earth by mixing water with it; but
unhappily it lasted only four days, the
sun drying it so fast that it cracked.
I had a small Ovid, printed by
Elzevir, which fortunately I had put in
my pocket as I was going up the
ladder of ropes. This was a great
solace, for I could entertain myself
with it under a bush till I fell asleep.
Moreover, I had good health, though
at first I was troubled with headache
for want of my hat, which I had lost in
the water. But I made myself a
Falconer knocks down a bird
wooden cap of green sprigs, and lined
it with one of the sleeves of my shirt.
The island I was upon seemed about two miles round, and perfectly
deserted. Often did I wish to have companions in my misfortune, and even
—Heaven forgive me!—hoped for a wreck. I fancied that if I stayed there
long alone I should lose the power of speech, so I talked aloud, asked
myself questions, and answered them. If anybody had been by to hear they
would certainly have thought me bewitched, I used to ask myself such odd
questions!
But one morning a violent storm arose, which continued till noon, when
I caught sight of a ship labouring with the waves. At last, with the fury of
the tempest, it was completely thrown out of the water upon the shore, a
quarter of a mile from the place where I was watching. I ran to see if there
was anyone I could help, and found four men, all who were in the vessel,
trying to save what they could out of her. When I came up and hailed them
in English they were mightily surprised, and asked me how I came there. I
told them my story, and they were greatly distressed for themselves as well
as for me, since they found there was no hope of getting their vessel off the
sands; so we began to bemoan each other's misfortunes. But I must confess
that I was never more rejoiced in my whole life, for they had on board
plenty of everything for a twelvemonth, and nothing spoiled. We worked as

hard as we could, and got out whatever would be useful to us before night.
Then, taking off the sails, we built a tent big enough to hold twenty men,
and now I thought myself in a palace.
The names of my four companions were Thomas Randal, Richard
White, William Musgrave, and Ralph Middleton. When we had been
together some time we began to be very easy, and to wait contentedly till
we should get out of this strait. But at last it came into our minds that a
determined effort might free us, and at once we set to work to clear the sand
from the ship. We laboured at the task for sixteen days, resting only on
Sundays, and by that time we had thrown up the sand on each side, making
a passage for our vessel right to the surface of the water where it was
lowest. We next got poles to put under the vessel to launch her out, and
resolved on the day following, God willing, to thrust her into the water. But
we were prevented by the illness of Mr. Randal, who had been the guide
and counsellor of our whole party. It soon became evident that he could not
recover, and the week after he died.
After this we succeeded in launching our vessel, but again a terrible
misfortune happened. We had made the ship fast with two anchors the night
before we intended to begin our voyage, and my companions resolved to
stay on shore, while I, as for some nights had been my custom, slept on
board.
I rested very contentedly, and in the morning went on deck ready to call
my companions. To my horror the sea surrounded the vessel; there was not
a glimpse of land! The shock was so terrible that I fell down on the deck
unconscious. How long I continued so I know not, but when I came to
myself a little reflection told me what had happened. A hurricane had risen
and torn away the vessel while I slept heavily, for the night before we had
all drunk too freely, and my remorse was the more bitter for remembering
Mr. Randal, the good man whose warnings, had he lived, would have
prevented this misfortune.
But fate was kinder to me than I deserved. For a fortnight I was tossed
upon the sea without discovering land, and with only the company of the
dog that had been poor Mr. Randal's. But three days later I saw land right
ahead, to my great joy, though joy was not unmixed with fear, as I did not

know into whose hands I might fall. It was on January 30 that I reached the
bay and town of Campeche, where I was met by two canoes, with a
Spaniard and six Indians, who, on learning something of my story, I
speaking in broken French, which the Spaniard understood, immediately
took me on shore to the Governor. He, on hearing of my arrival, sent for me
where he sat at dinner, and received me with the utmost kindness.
These generous Spaniards not only feasted me while I remained there,
but soon collected among themselves money enough to fit out my vessel
ready to go and rescue my poor companions left on the desert island. On
February 15 we sailed from Campeche Bay, after I, having nothing else to
give, had offered my Ovid to the Governor. He took it kindly, saying that he
should prize it very highly, not only for its own sake, but in memory of my
misfortunes.
Fifteen days after we reached the island, and found my three
companions, but in a miserable condition. For they were left without
provisions and with hardly any fresh water, every necessary being on board
the ship; and when we arrived they had been five days without eating or
drinking, and were too weak to crawl in search of food. But now, for the
time being, their misfortunes were ended, and I cannot describe the joy with
which they welcomed us after having almost despaired of any human help.
We soon set out again in the Spanish ship, and by-and-by, not without a
number of adventures on the way, we reached Jamaica, where I met with
my old shipmates, who were very much surprised to see me, thinking that I
had been lost in the sea many months ago. The ship had hung lights out for
several hours that I might know where to swim, but all to no purpose, as I
could see nothing through the darkness of the storm. I found that the captain
was very ill, and went to visit him on shore. He told me that he did not
expect to live long, and was glad I had come to take charge of the ship,
which would have sailed before if he had been fit to command her. A week
after he died, entrusting me with the management of his affairs, and
messages to his wife, who lived at Bristol.
We set sail for England on June 1, 1700, and on August 21 we
discovered the Land's End. How rejoiced I was to see England once more,
let them judge that have escaped so many perils as I had done. My first task

when I reached Bristol was to
inquire for my father; but a
bitter disappointment awaited
me. He was dead, broken down
before his time by grief and
misfortune. I could not bear to
stay on shore, where everything
reminded me of him, and, for all
my delight in coming back to
England, it was not long before
I set sail again in quest of fresh
adventures.

Falconer returns to his companions

MARBOT'S MARCH

I HAVE now [says General Marbot, speaking of his Spanish campaign]
reached one of the most terrible experiences of my military career.
Marshal Lannes had just won a great victory, and the next day, after having
received the reports of the generals, he wrote his despatch for one of our
officers to take to the Emperor. Napoleon's practice was to give a step to the
officer who brought him the news of an important success, and the marshals
on their side entrusted such tasks to officers for whose speedy promotion
they were anxious. It was a form of recommendation which Napoleon never
failed to recognise. Marshal Lannes did me the honour of appointing me to
carry the news of the victory of Tudela, and I could indulge the hope of
being major before long. But, alas! I had yet much blood to lose before I
reached that rank.
The high road from Bayonne to Madrid by Vittoria, Miranda del Ebro,
Burgos, and Aranda forks off at Miranda from that leading to Saragossa by
Logroño. A road from Tudela to Aranda across the mountains about Soria
forms the third side of a great triangle. While Lannes was reaching Tudela
the Emperor had advanced from Burgos to Aranda. It was, therefore, much
shorter for me to go from Tudela to Aranda than by way of Miranda del
Ebro. The latter road, however, had the advantage of being covered by the
French armies; while the other, no doubt, would be full of Spanish fugitives
who had taken refuge after Tudela in the mountains. The Emperor, however,
had informed Lannes that he was sending Ney's corps direct from Aranda to
Tudela; so thinking Ney to be at no great distance, and that an advanced
force which he had pushed on the day after the battle to get touch of him at
Taragona would secure me from attack as far as Aranda, Lannes ordered me
to take the shortest road. I may frankly admit that if I had had my choice I
should have preferred to make the round by Miranda and Burgos; but the
marshal's orders were positive, and how could I express any fear for my
own person in the presence of a man who knew no more fear for others than
he did for himself?

The duties of marshal's aide-de-camp in Spain were terrible. During the
revolutionary wars the generals had couriers paid by the state to carry their
despatches; but the Emperor, finding that these men were not capable of
giving any intelligible account of what they had seen, did away with them,
and ordered that in future despatches should be carried by aides-de-camp.
This was all very well as long as we were at war among the good Germans,
to whom it never occurred to attack a French messenger; but the Spaniards
waged fierce war against them. This was of great advantage to the
insurgents, for the contents of our despatches informed them of the
movements of our armies. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say that
more than two hundred staff officers were killed or captured during the
Peninsular War. One may regret the death of an ordinary courier, but it is
less serious than the loss of a promising officer, who, moreover, is exposed
to the risks of the battlefield in addition to those of a posting journey. A
great number of vigorous men well skilled in their business begged to be
allowed to do this duty, but the Emperor never consented.
Just as I was starting from Tudela, Major Saint-Mars hazarded a remark
intended to dissuade Lannes from sending me over the mountains. The
marshal, however, answered, 'Oh, he will meet Ney's advance guard to-
night, and find troops echelonned all the way to the Emperor's head-
quarters.' This was too decided for any opposition, so I left Tudela
November 4, at nightfall, with a detachment of cavalry, and got without any
trouble as far as Taragona, at the foot of the mountains. In this little town I
found Lannes' advance guard. The officer in command, hearing nothing of
Ney, had pushed an infantry post six leagues forward towards Agreda. But
as this body was detached from its supports, it had been ordered to fall back
on Taragona if the night passed without Ney's scouts appearing.
After Taragona there is no more high road. The way lies entirely over
mountain paths covered with stones and splinters of rock. The officer
commanding our advanced guard had, therefore, only infantry and a score
of hussars of the 2nd (Chamborant) Regiment. He gave me a troop horse
and two orderlies, and I went on my way in brilliant moonlight. When we
had gone two or three leagues we heard several musket-shots, and bullets
whistled close past us. We could not see the marksmen, who were hidden
among the rocks. A little farther on we found the corpses of two French
infantry soldiers, recently killed. They were entirely stripped, but their

shakoes were near
them, by the numbers
on which I could see
that they belonged to
one of the regiments in
Ney's corps. Some little
distance farther we saw
a horrible sight. A
young officer of the
10th Mounted
Chasseurs, still wearing
his uniform, was nailed
by his hands and feet,
head downwards, to a
barn door. A small fire
had been lighted 'Then, drawing their swords, they clashed at the rest'
beneath him. Happily,
his tortures had been
ended by death; but as the blood was still flowing from his wounds, it was
clear that the murderers were not far off. I drew my sword; my two hussars
handled their carbines. It was just as well that we were on our guard, for a
few moments later seven or eight Spaniards, two of them mounted, fired
upon us from behind a bush. We were none of us wounded, and my two
hussars replied to the fire, and killed each his man. Then, drawing their
swords, they dashed at the rest. I should have been very glad to follow
them, but my horse had lost a shoe among the stones and was limping, so
that I could not get him into a gallop. I was the more vexed because I feared
that the hussars might let themselves be carried away in the pursuit and get
killed in some ambush. I called them for five minutes; then I heard the
voice of one of them saying, in a strong Alsatian accent, 'Ah! you thieves!
you don't know the Chamborant Hussars yet. You shall see that they mean
business.' My troopers had knocked over two more Spaniards, a Capuchin
mounted on the horse of the poor lieutenant, whose haversack he had put
over his own neck, and a peasant on a mule, with the clothes of the
slaughtered soldiers on his back. It was quite clear that we had got the
murderers. The Emperor had given strict orders that every Spanish civilian
taken in arms should be shot on the spot; and, moreover, what could we do

with these two brigands, who were already seriously wounded, and who had
just killed three Frenchmen so barbarously? I moved on, therefore, so as not
to witness the execution, and the hussars shot the monk and the peasant,
repeating, 'Ah, you don't know the Chamborant!' I could not understand
how an officer and two privates of Ney's corps could be so near Taragona
when their regiments had not come that way; but most probably they had
been captured elsewhere, and were being taken to Saragossa, when their
escort learned the defeat of their countrymen at Tudela, and massacred their
prisoners in revenge for it.
After this not very encouraging start I continued my journey. We had
gone for some hours, when we saw a bivouac fire of the detachment
belonging to the advance guard which I had left at Taragona. The sub-
lieutenant in command, having no tidings of Ney, was prepared to return to
Taragona at daybreak, in pursuance of his orders. He knew that we were
barely two leagues from Agreda, but did not know of which side that town
was in possession. This was perplexing for me. The infantry detachment
would return in a few hours, and if I went back with it, when it might be
that in another league I should fall in with Ney's column, I should be giving
a poor display of courage, and laying myself open to reproach from Lannes.
On the other hand, if Ney was still a day or two's march away, it was almost
certain that I should be murdered by the peasants of the mountains or by
fugitive soldiers. What was more, I had to travel alone, for my two brave
hussars had orders to return to Taragona when we had found the infantry
detachment. No matter; I determined to push on; but then came the
difficulty of finding a mount. There was no farm or village in this deserted
place where I could procure a horse. That which I was riding was dead
lame; and even if the hussars had been able, without incurring severe
punishment, to lend me one of theirs, theirs were much fatigued. The horse
that had belonged to the officer of chasseurs had received a bullet in the
thigh during the fighting. There was only the peasant's mule left. This was a
handsome beast, and, according to the laws of war, belonged to the two
hussars, who, no doubt, reckoned on selling her when they got back to the
army. Still the good fellows made no demur about lending her to me, and
put my saddle on her back. But the infernal beast, more accustomed to the
pack than to the saddle, was so restive that directly I tried to get her away

from the group of horses and make her go alone she fell to kicking, until I
had to choose between being sent over a precipice and dismounting.
So I decided to set out on foot. After I had taken farewell of the infantry
officer, this excellent young man, M. Tassin by name—he had been a friend
of my poor brother Felix at the military school—came running after me,
and said that he could not bear to let me thus expose myself all alone, and
that though he had no orders, and his men were raw recruits, with little
experience in war, he must send one with me, so that I might at least have a
musket and some cartridges in case of an attack. We agreed that I should
send the man back with Ney's corps; and I went off, with the soldier
accompanying me. He was a slow-speaking Norman, with plenty of slyness
under an appearance of good nature. The Normans are for the most part
brave, as I learnt when I commanded the 23rd Chasseurs, where I had five
or six hundred of them. Still, in order to know how far I could rely on my
follower, I chatted with him as we went along, and asked if he would stand
his ground if we were attacked. He said neither yes nor no, but answered,
'Well, sir, we shall see.' Whence I inferred that when the moment of danger
arrived my new companion was not unlikely to go and see how things were
getting on in the rear.
The moon had just set, and as yet daylight had not appeared. It was
pitch-dark, and at every step we stumbled over the great stones with which
these mountain paths are covered. It was an unpleasant situation, but I
hoped soon to come upon Ney's troops, and the fact of having seen the
bodies of soldiers belonging to his corps increased the hope. So I went
steadily on, listening for diversion to the Norman's stories of his country.
Dawn appeared at last, and I saw the first houses of a large village. It was
Agreda. I was alarmed at finding no outposts, for it showed that not only
did no troops of the marshal's occupy the place, but that his army corps
must be at least half a day further on. The map showed no village within
five or six leagues of Agreda, and it was impossible that the regiments
could be quartered in the mountains, far from any inhabited place. So I kept
on my guard, and before going any farther reconnoitred the position.
Agreda stands in a rather broad valley. It is built at the foot of a lofty
hill, deeply escarped on both sides. The southern slope, which reaches the
village, is planted with large vineyards. The ridge is rough and rocky, and

the northern slope covered with thick coppice, a torrent flowing at the foot.
Beyond are seen lofty mountains, uncultivated and uninhabited. The
principal street of Agreda runs through the whole length of the place, with
narrow lanes leading to the vineyards opening into it. As I entered the
village I had these lanes and the vineyards on my right. This is important to
the understanding of my story.
Everybody was asleep in Agreda; the moment was favourable for going
through it. Besides, I had some hope—feeble, it is true—that when I
reached the farther end I might perhaps see the fires of Marshal Ney's
advance guard. So I went forward, sword in hand, bidding my soldier cock
his musket. The main street was covered with a thick bed of damp leaves,
which the people placed there to make manure; so that our footsteps made
no sound, of which I was glad. I walked in the middle of the street, with the
soldier on my right; but, finding himself no doubt in a too conspicuous
position, he gradually sheered off to the houses, keeping close to the walls
so that he might be less visible in case of an attack, or better placed for
reaching one of the lanes which open into the country. This showed me how
little I could rely on the man; but I made no remark to him. The day was
beginning to break. We passed the whole of the main street without meeting
any one. Just as I was congratulating myself on reaching the last houses of
the village, I found myself at twenty-five paces' distance, face to face with
four Royal Spanish Carabineers on horseback with drawn swords. Under
any other circumstances I might have taken them for French gendarmes,
their uniforms being exactly similar, but the gendarmes never march with
the extreme advanced guard. These men, therefore, could not belong to
Ney's corps, and I at once perceived they were the enemy. In a moment I
faced about, but just as I had turned round to the direction from which I had
come I saw a blade flash six inches from my face. I threw my head sharply
back, but nevertheless got a severe sabre-cut on the forehead, of which I
carry the scar over my left eyebrow to this day. The man who had wounded
me was the corporal of the carabineers, who, having left his four troopers
outside the village, had according to military practice gone forward to
reconnoitre. That I had not met him was probably due to the fact that he had
been in some side lane, while I had passed through the main street. He was
now coming back through the street to rejoin his troopers, when, seeing me,
he had come up noiselessly over a layer of leaves and was just going to

cleave my head from behind, when, by turning round, I presented to him
my face and received his blow on my forehead. At the same moment the
four carabineers, who seeing that their corporal was all ready for me had
not stirred, trotted up to join him, and all five dashed upon me. I ran
mechanically towards the houses on the right in order to get my back
against a wall; but by good luck I found, two paces off, one of the steep and
narrow lanes, which went up to the vineyards. The soldier had already
reached it. I flew up there too with the five carabineers after me; but at any
rate they could not attack me all at once, for there was only room for one
horse to pass. The brigadier went in front; the other four filed after him. My
position, although not as unfavourable as it would have been in the street,
where I should have been surrounded, still remained alarming; the blood
flowing freely from my wound had in a moment covered my left eye, with
which I could not see at all, and I felt that it was coming towards my right
eye, so that I was compelled by fear of getting blinded to keep my head
bent over the left shoulder so as to bring the blood to that side. I could not
staunch it, being obliged to defend myself against the corporal, who was
cutting at me heavily. I parried as well as I could, going up backwards all
the time. After getting rid of my scabbard and my busby, the weight of
which hampered me, not daring to turn my head for fear of losing sight of
my adversary, whose sword was crossed with mine, I told the light infantry
man, whom I believed to be behind me, to place his musket on my shoulder,
and fire at the Spanish corporal. Seeing no barrel, however, I leapt a pace
back and turned my head quickly. Lo and behold, there was my scoundrel
of a Norman soldier flying up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.
The corporal thereupon attacked with redoubled vigour, and, seeing that he
could not reach me, made his horse rear so that his feet struck me more than
once on the breast. Luckily, as the ground went on rising the horse had no
good hold with his hind legs, and every time that he came down again I
landed a sword cut on his nose with such effect that the animal presently
refused to rear at me any more. Then the brigadier, losing his temper, called
out to the trooper behind him, 'Take your carbine: I will stoop down, and
you can aim at the Frenchman over my shoulders.' I saw that this order was
my death-signal; but as in order to execute it the trooper had to sheathe his
sword and unhook his carbine, while all this time the corporal never ceased
thrusting at me, leaning right over his horse's neck, I determined on a
desperate action, which would be either my salvation or my ruin. Keeping

my eye fixed on the Spaniard, and seeing in his that he was on the point of
again stooping over his horse to reach me, I did not move until the very
instant when he was lowering the upper part of his body towards me; then I
took a pace to the right, and leaning quickly over to that side, I avoided my
adversary's blow, and plunged half my sword-blade into his left flank. With
a fearful yell the corporal fell back on the croup of his horse; he would
probably have fallen to the ground if the trooper behind him had not caught
him in his arms. My rapid movement in stooping had caused the despatch
which I was carrying to fall out of the pocket of my pelisse. I picked it up
quickly, and at once hastened to the end of the lane where the vines began.
There I turned round and saw the carabineers busy round their wounded
corporal, and apparently much embarrassed with him and with their horses
in the steep and narrow passage.
This fight took less time than I
have taken to relate it. Finding
myself rid, at least for the moment,
of my enemies, I went through the
vines and reached the edge of the
hill. Then I considered that it
would be impossible for me to
accomplish my errand and reach
the Emperor at Aranda. I resolved,
therefore, to return to Marshal
Lannes, regaining first the place
where I had left M. Tassin and his
picket of infantry. I did not hope to
find them still there; but at any rate
the army which I had left the day
before was in that direction. I
looked for my soldier in vain, but I
saw something that was of more
use to me—a spring of clear water.
Marbot's fight with the Carabineers in the alley
I halted there a moment, and,
tearing off a corner of my shirt, I
made a compress which I fastened over my wound with my handkerchief.
The blood spurting from my forehead had stained the despatches which I

held in my hand, but I was too much occupied with my awkward position to
mind that.
The agitations of the past night, my long walk over the stony paths in
boots and spurs, the fight in which I had just been engaged, the pain in my
head, and the loss of blood had exhausted my strength. I had taken no food
since leaving Tudela, and here I had nothing but water to refresh myself
with. I drank long draughts of it, and should have rested longer by the
spring had I not perceived three of the Spanish carabineers riding out of
Agreda and coming towards me through the vines. If they had been sharp
enough to dismount and take off their long boots, they would probably have
succeeded in reaching me; but their horses, unable to pass between the vine
stocks, ascended the steep and rocky paths with difficulty. Indeed, when
they reached the upper end of the vineyards they found themselves brought
up by the great rocks, on the top of which I had taken refuge, and unable to
climb any farther. Then the troopers, passing along the bottom of the rocks,
marched parallel with me a long musket-shot off. They called to me to
surrender, saying that as soldiers they would treat me as a prisoner of war,
while if the peasants caught me I should infallibly be murdered. This
reasoning was sound, and I admit that if I had not been charged with
despatches for the Emperor, I was so exhausted that I should perhaps have
surrendered.
However, wishing to preserve to the best of my ability the precious
charge which had been entrusted to me, I marched on without answering.
Then the three troopers, taking their carbines, opened fire upon me. Their
bullets struck the rocks at my feet but none touched me, the distance being
too great for a correct aim. I was alarmed, not at the fire, but at the notion
that the reports would probably attract the peasants who would be going to
their work in the morning, and I quite expected to be attacked by these
fierce mountaineers. My presentiment seemed to be verified, for I perceived
some fifteen men half a league away in the valley advancing towards me at
a run. They held in their hands something that flashed in the sun. I made no
doubt that they were peasants armed with their spades, and that it was the
iron of these that shone thus. I gave myself up for lost, and in my despair I
was on the point of letting myself slide down over the rocks on the north
side of the hill to the torrent, crossing it as best I could, and hiding myself
in some chasm of the great mountains which arose on the farther side of the

gorge. Then, if I was not discovered, and if I still had the strength, I should
set out when night came in the direction of Taragona.
This plan, though offering many chances of failure, was my last hope.
Just as I was about to put it into execution, I perceived that the three
carabineers had given up firing on me, and gone forward to reconnoitre the
group which I had taken for peasants. At their approach the iron instruments
which I had taken for spades or mattocks were lowered, and I had the
inexpressible joy of seeing a volley fired at the Spanish carabineers.
Instantly turning, they took flight towards Agreda, as it seemed, with two of
their number wounded. 'The newcomers, then, are French!' I exclaimed.
'Here goes to meet them!' and, regaining a little strength from the joy of
being delivered, I descended, leaning on my sword. The French had caught
sight of me; they climbed the hill, and I found myself in the arms of the
brave Lieutenant Tassin.
This providential rescue had come about as follows. The soldier who had
deserted me while I was engaged with the carabineers in the streets of
Agreda had quickly reached the vines; thence, leaping across the vine
stocks, ditches, rocks, and hedges, he had very quickly run the distance
which lay between him and the place where we had left M. Tassin's picket.
The detachment was on the point of starting for Taragona, and was eating
its soup, when my Norman came up all out of breath. Not wishing,
however, to lose a mouthful, he seated himself by a cooking-pot and began
to make a very tranquil breakfast, without saying a word about what had
happened at Agreda. By great good luck he was noticed by M. Tassin, who,
surprised at seeing him returned, asked him where he had quitted the officer
whom he had been told off to escort. 'Good Lord, sir,' replied the Norman, 'I
left him in that big village with his head half split open, and fighting with
Spanish troopers, and they were cutting away at him with their swords like
anything.' At these words Lieutenant Tassin ordered his detachment to arms,
picked the fifteen most active, and went off at the double towards Agreda.
The little troop had gone some way when they heard shots, and inferred
from them that I was still alive but in urgent need of succour. Stimulated by
the hope of saving me, the brave fellows doubled their pace, and finally
perceived me on the ridge of the hill, serving as a mark for three Spanish
troopers.

M. Tassin and his men were tired, and I was at the end of my strength.
We halted, therefore, for a little, and meanwhile you may imagine that I
expressed my warmest gratitude to the lieutenant and his men, who were
almost as glad as I was. We returned to the bivouac where M. Tassin had
left the rest of his people. The cantinière of the company was there with her
mule carrying two skins of wine, bread, and ham. I bought the lot and gave
them to the soldiers, and we breakfasted, as I was very glad to do, the two
hussars whom I had left there the night before sharing in the meal. One of
these mounted the monk's mule and lent me his horse, and so we set out for
Taragona. I was in horrible pain, because the blood had hardened over my
wound. At Taragona I rejoined Lannes' advance guard: the general in
command had my wound dressed, and gave me a horse and an escort of two
hussars. I reached Tudela at midnight, and was at once received by the
marshal, who, though ill himself, seemed much touched by my misfortune.
It was necessary, however, that the despatch about the battle of Tudela
should be promptly forwarded to the Emperor, who must be impatiently
awaiting news from the army on the Ebro. Enlightened by what had
befallen me in the mountains, the marshal consented that the officer bearing
it should go by Miranda and Burgos, where the presence of French troops
on the roads made the way perfectly safe. I should have liked very much to
be the bearer, but I was in such pain and so tired that it would have been
physically impossible for me to ride hard. The marshal therefore entrusted
the duty to his brother-in-law, Major Guéhéneuc. I handed him the
despatches stained with my blood. Major Saint-Mars, the secretary, wished
to re-copy them and change the envelope. 'No, no,' cried the marshal, 'the
Emperor ought to see how valiantly Captain Marbot has defended them.' So
he sent off the packet just as it was, adding a note to explain the reason of
the delay, eulogising me, and asking for a reward to Lieutenant Tassin and
his men, who had hastened so zealously to my succour, without reckoning
the danger to which they might have been exposed if the enemy had been in
force.
The Emperor did, as a matter of fact, a little while after, grant the Cross
both to M. Tassin and to his sergeant, and a gratuity of 100 francs to each of
the men who had accompanied them. As for the Norman soldier, he was
tried by court martial for deserting his post in the presence of the enemy,

and condemned to drag a shot for two years, and to finish his time of
service in a pioneer company.

EYLAU. THE MARE LISETTE

G ENERAL MARBOT, one of Napoleon's most distinguished soldiers,
thus describes his adventures at the battle of Eylau. 'To enable you to
understand my story, I must go back to the autumn of 1805, when the
officers of the Grand Army, among their preparations for the battle of
Austerlitz, were completing their outfits. I had two good horses, the third,
for whom I was looking, my charger, was to be better still. It was a difficult
thing to find, for though horses were far less dear than now, their price was
pretty high, and I had not much money; but chance served me admirably. I
met a learned German, Herr von Aister, whom I had known when he was a
professor at Sorèze. He had become tutor to the children of a rich Swiss
banker, M. Scherer, established at Paris in partnership with M. Finguerlin.
He informed me that M. Finguerlin, a wealthy man, living in fine style, had
a large stud, in the first rank of which figured a lovely mare, called Lisette,
easy in her paces, as light as a deer, and so well broken that a child could
lead her. But this mare, when she was ridden, had a terrible fault, and
fortunately a rare one: she bit like a bulldog, and furiously attacked people
whom she disliked, which decided M. Finguerlin to sell her. She was
bought for Mme. de Lauriston whose husband, one of the Emperor's aides-
de-camp, had written to her to get his campaigning outfit ready. When
selling the mare M. Finguerlin had forgotten to mention her fault, and that
very evening a groom was found disembowelled at her feet. Mme. de
Lauriston, reasonably alarmed, brought an action to cancel the bargain; not
only did she get her verdict, but, in order to prevent further disasters, the
police ordered that a written statement should be placed in Lisette's stall to
inform purchasers of her ferocity, and that any bargain with regard to her
should be void unless the purchaser declared in writing that his attention
had been called to the notice. You may suppose that with such a character as
this the mare was not easy to dispose of, and thus Herr von Aister informed
me that her owner had decided to let her go for what anyone would give. I
offered 1,000 francs, and M. Finguerlin delivered Lisette to me, though she
had cost him 5,000. This animal gave me a good deal of trouble for some
months. It took four or five men to saddle her, and you could only bridle her

by covering her eyes and fastening all four legs; but once you were on her
back, you found her a really incomparable mount.
'However, since while in my possession she had already bitten several
people, and had not spared me, I was thinking of parting with her. But I had
meanwhile engaged in my service Francis Woirland, a man who was afraid
of nothing, and he, before going near Lisette, whose bad character had been
mentioned to him, armed himself with a good hot roast leg of mutton. When
the animal flew at him to bite him, he held out the mutton; she seized it in
her teeth, and burning her gums, palate, and tongue, gave a scream, let the
mutton drop, and from that moment was perfectly submissive to Woirland,
and did not venture to attack him again. I employed the same method with a
like result. Lisette became as docile as a dog, and allowed me and my
servant to approach her freely. She even became a little more tractable
towards the stablemen of the staff, whom she saw every day, but woe to the
strangers who passed near her! I could quote twenty instances of her
ferocity, but I will confine myself to one. While Marshal Augereau was
staying at the château of Bellevue, near Berlin, the servants of the staff,
having observed that when they went to dinner someone stole the sacks of
corn that were left in the stable, got Woirland to unfasten Lisette and leave
her near the door. The thief arrived, slipped into the stable, and was in the
act of carrying off a sack, when the mare seized him by the nape of the
neck, dragged him into the middle of the yard, and trampled on him till she
broke two of his ribs. At the shrieks of the thief people ran up, but Lisette
would not let him go till my servant and I compelled her, for in her fury she
would have flown at anyone else. She had become still more vicious ever
since the Saxon hussar officer, of whom I have told you, had treacherously
laid open her shoulder with a sabre-cut on the battlefield of Jena.
'Such was the mare which I was riding at Eylau at the moment when the
fragments of Augereau's army corps, shattered by a hail of musketry and
cannon-balls, were trying to rally near the great cemetery. You will
remember how the 14th of the line had remained alone on a hillock, which
it could not quit except by the Emperor's order. The snow had ceased for the
moment; we could see how the intrepid regiment, surrounded by the enemy,
was waving its eagle in the air to show that it still held its ground and asked
for support. The Emperor, touched by the grand devotion of these brave
men, resolved to try to save them, and ordered Augereau to send an officer

to them with orders to leave the hillock, form a small square, and make
their way towards us, while a brigade of cavalry should march in their
direction and assist their efforts. This was before Murat's great charge. It
was almost impossible to carry out the Emperor's wishes, because a swarm
of Cossacks was between us and the 14th, and it was clear that any officer
who was sent towards the unfortunate regiment would be killed or captured
before he could get to it. But the order was positive, and the marshal had to
comply.
'It was customary in the
Imperial army for the aides-
de-camp to place themselves
in file a few paces from their
general, and for the one who
was in front to go on duty
first: then, when he had
performed his mission, to
return and place himself last,
in order that each might carry
orders in his turn, and
dangers might be shared
equally. A brave captain of
engineers named Froissard,
who, though not an aide-de-
Lisette catches the thief in the stable camp, was on the marshal's
staff, happened to be nearest
to him, and was bidden to carry the order to the 14th. M. Froissard galloped
off; we lost sight of him in the midst of the Cossacks, and never saw him
again nor heard what had become of him. The marshal, seeing that the 14th
did not move, sent an officer named David; he had the same fate as
Froissard: we never heard of him again. Probably both were killed and
stripped, and could not be recognised among the many corpses which
covered the ground. For the third time the marshal called, "The officer for
duty." It was my turn.
'Seeing the son of his old friend, and I venture to say his favourite aide-
de-camp, come up, the kind marshal's face changed and his eyes filled with
tears, for he could not hide from himself that he was sending me to almost

certain death. But the Emperor must be obeyed. I was a soldier; it was
impossible to make one of my comrades go in my place, nor would I have
allowed it; it would have been disgracing me. So I dashed off. But though
ready to sacrifice my life I felt bound to take all necessary precautions to
save it. I had observed that the two officers who went before me had gone
with swords drawn, which led me to think that they had purposed to defend
themselves against any Cossacks who might attack them on the way. Such
defence, I thought, was ill-considered, since it must have compelled them to
halt in order to fight a multitude of enemies, who would overwhelm them in
the end. So I went otherwise to work, and leaving my sword in the
scabbard, I regarded myself as a horseman who is trying to win a
steeplechase, and goes as quickly as possible and by the shortest line
towards the appointed goal, without troubling himself with what is to right
or left of his path. Now, as my goal was the hillock occupied by the 14th, I
resolved to get there without taking any notice of the Cossacks, whom in
thought I abolished. This plan answered perfectly. Lisette, lighter than a
swallow and flying rather than running, devoured the intervening space,
leaping the piles of dead men and horses, the ditches, the broken gun-
carriages, the half-extinguished bivouac fires. Thousands of Cossacks
swarmed over the plain. The first who saw me acted like sportsmen who,
when beating, start a hare, and announce its presence to each other by
shouts of "Your side! Your side!" but none of the Cossacks tried to stop me,
first, on account of the extreme rapidity of my pace, and also probably
because, their numbers being so great, each thought that I could not avoid
his comrades farther on; so that I escaped them all, and reached the 14th
regiment without either myself or my excellent mare having received the
slightest scratch.
'I found the 14th formed in square on the top of the hillock, but as the
slope was very slight the enemy's cavalry had been able to deliver several
charges. These had been vigorously repulsed, and the French regiment was
surrounded by a circle of dead horses and dragoons, which formed a kind of
rampart, making the position by this time almost inaccessible to cavalry; as
I found, for in spite of the aid of our men, I had much difficulty in passing
over this horrible entrenchment. At last I was in the square. Since Colonel
Savary's death at the passage of the Wkra, the 14th had been commanded
by a major. While I imparted to this officer, under a hail of balls, the order

to quit his position and try to
rejoin his corps, he pointed out
to me that the enemy's artillery
had been firing on the 14th for
an hour, and had caused it such
loss that the handful of soldiers
which remained would
inevitably be exterminated as
they went down into the plain,
and that, moreover, there would
not be time to prepare to
execute such a movement, since
a Russian column was
marching on him, and was not
more than a hundred paces
away. "I see no means of saving
the regiment," said the major;
"return to the Emperor, bid him
farewell from the 14th of the
'I regarded myself as a horseman who is trying to win
line, which has faithfully
a steeplechase'
executed his orders, and bear to
him the eagle which he gave us,
and which we can defend no longer: it would add too much to the pain of
death to see it fall into the hands of the enemy." Then the major handed me
his eagle, saluted for the last time by the glorious fragment of the intrepid
regiment with cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" they were going to die for him. It
was the Cæsar morituri te salutant of Tacitus,[33] but in this case the cry
was uttered by heroes. The infantry eagles were very heavy, and their
weight was increased by a stout oak pole on the top of which they were
fixed. The length of the pole embarrassed me much, and as the stick without
the eagle could not constitute a trophy for the enemy, I resolved with the
major's consent to break it and only carry off the eagle. But at the moment
when I was leaning forward from my saddle in order to get a better
purchase to separate the eagle from the pole, one of the numerous cannon-
balls which the Russians were sending at us went through the hinder peak
of my hat, less than an inch from my head. The shock was all the more
terrible since my hat, being fastened on by a strong leather strap under the

chin, offered more resistance to the blow. I seemed to be blotted out of
existence, but I did not fall from my horse; blood flowed from my nose, my
ears, and even my eyes; nevertheless I still could hear and see, and I
preserved all my intellectual faculties, although my limbs were paralysed to
such an extent that I could not move a single finger.
'Meanwhile the column of Russian infantry which we had just perceived
was mounting the hill; they were grenadiers wearing mitre-shaped caps
with metal ornaments. Soaked with spirits, and in vastly superior numbers,
these men hurled themselves furiously on the feeble remains of the
unfortunate 14th, whose soldiers had for several days been living only on
potatoes and melted snow; that day they had not had time to prepare even
this wretched meal. Still our brave Frenchmen made a valiant defence with
their bayonets, and when the square had been broken, they held together in
groups and sustained the unequal fight for a long time.
'During this terrible struggle several of our men, in order not to be struck
from behind, set their backs against my mare's flanks, she, contrary to her
practice, remaining perfectly quiet. If I had been able to move I should have
urged her forward to get away from this field of slaughter. But it was
absolutely impossible for me to press my legs so as to make the animal I
rode understand my wish. My position was the more frightful since, as I
have said, I retained the power of sight and thought. Not only were they
fighting all round me, which exposed me to bayonet-thrusts, but a Russian
officer with a hideous countenance kept making efforts to run me through.
As the crowd of combatants prevented him from reaching me, he pointed
me out to the soldiers around him, and they, taking me for the commander
of the French, as I was the only mounted man, kept firing at me over their
comrades' heads, so that bullets were constantly whistling past my ear. One
of them would certainly have taken away the small amount of life that was
still in me had not a terrible incident led to my escape from the mêlée.
'Among the Frenchmen who had got their flanks against my mare's near
flank was a quartermaster-sergeant, whom I knew from having frequently
seen him at the marshal's, making copies for him of the "morning states."
This man, having been attacked and wounded by several of the enemy, fell
under Lisette's belly, and was seizing my leg to pull himself up, when a
Russian grenadier, too drunk to stand steady, wishing to finish him by a

thrust in the breast, lost his
balance, and the point of his
bayonet went astray into my
cloak, which at that moment
was puffed out by the wind.
Seeing that I did not fall, the
Russian left the sergeant and
aimed a great number of blows
at me. These were at first
fruitless, but one at last reached
me, piercing my left arm, and I
felt with a kind of horrible
pleasure my blood flowing hot.
The Russian grenadier with
redoubled fury made another
thrust at me, but, stumbling
Lisette carries off the Russian officer with the force which he put into
it, drove his bayonet into my
mare's thigh. Her ferocious
instincts being restored by the pain, she sprang at the Russian, and at one
mouthful tore off his nose, lips, eyebrows, and all the skin of his face,
making of him a living death's-head, dripping with blood. Then hurling
herself with fury among the combatants, kicking and biting, Lisette upset
everything that she met on her road. The officer who had made so many
attempts to strike me tried to hold her by the bridle; she seized him by his
belly, and carrying him off with ease, she bore him out of the crush to the
foot of the hillock, where, having torn out his entrails and mashed his body
under her feet, she left him dying on the snow. Then, taking the road by
which she had come, she made her way at full gallop towards the cemetery
of Eylau. Thanks to the hussar's saddle on which I was sitting, I kept my
seat. But a new danger awaited me. The snow had begun to fall again, and
great flakes obscured the daylight when, having arrived close to Eylau, I
found myself in front of a battalion of the Old Guard, who, unable to see
clearly at a distance, took me for an enemy's officer leading a charge of
cavalry. The whole battalion at once opened fire on me; my cloak and my
saddle were riddled, but I was not wounded nor was my mare. She
continued her rapid course, and went through the three ranks of the

battalion as easily as a snake through a hedge. But this last spurt had
exhausted Lisette's strength; she had lost much blood, for one of the large
veins in her thigh had been divided, and the poor animal collapsed suddenly
and fell on one side, rolling me over on the other.
'Stretched on the snow among the piles of dead and dying, unable to
move in any way, I gradually and without pain lost consciousness. I felt as
if I was being gently rocked to sleep. At last I fainted quite away without
being revived by the mighty clatter which Murat's ninety squadrons
advancing to the charge must have made in passing close to me and perhaps
over me. I judge that my swoon lasted four hours, and when I came to my
senses I found myself in this horrible position. I was completely naked,
having nothing on but my hat and my right boot. A man of the transport
corps, thinking me dead, had stripped me in the usual fashion, and wishing
to pull off the only boot that remained, was dragging me by one leg with his
foot against my body. The jerks which the man gave me no doubt had
restored me to my senses. I succeeded in sitting up and spitting out the clots
of blood from my throat. The shock caused by the wind of the ball had
produced such an extravasation of blood, that my face, shoulders, and chest
were black, while the rest of my body was stained red by the blood from my
wound. My hat and my hair were full of bloodstained snow, and as I rolled
my haggard eyes I must have been horrible to see. Anyhow, the transport
man looked the other way, and went off with my property without my being
able to say a single word to him, so utterly prostrate was I. But I had
recovered my mental faculties, and my thoughts turned towards God and
my mother.
'The setting sun cast some feeble rays through the clouds. I took what I
believed to be a last farewell of it. "If," thought I, "I had only not been
stripped, some one of the numerous people who pass near me would notice
the gold lace on my pelisse, and, recognising that I am a marshal's aide-de-
camp, would perhaps have carried me to the ambulance. But seeing me
naked, they do not distinguish me from the corpses with which I am
surrounded, and, indeed, there soon will be no difference between them and
me. I cannot call help, and the approaching night will take away all hope of
succour. The cold is increasing: shall I be able to bear it till to-morrow,
seeing that I feel my naked limbs stiffening already?" So I made up my
mind to die, for if I had been saved by a miracle in the midst of the terrible

mêlée between the Russians and the 14th, could I expect that there would be
a second miracle to extract me from my present horrible position? The
second miracle did take place in the following manner. Marshal Augereau
had a valet named Pierre Dannel, a very intelligent and very faithful fellow,
but somewhat given to arguing. Now it happened during our stay at La
Houssaye that Dannel, having answered his master, got dismissed. In
despair, he begged me to plead for him. This I did so zealously that I
succeeded in getting him taken back into favour. From that time the valet
had been devotedly attached to me. The outfit having been all left behind at
Landsberg, he had started all out of his own head on the day of battle to
bring provisions to his master. He had placed these in a very light waggon
which could go everywhere, and contained the articles which the marshal
most frequently required. This little waggon was driven by a soldier
belonging to the same company of the transport corps as the man who had
just stripped me. This latter, with my property in his hands, passed near the
waggon, which was standing at the side of the cemetery, and, recognising
the driver, his old comrade, he hailed him, and showed him the splendid
booty which he had just taken from a dead man.
'Now you must know that when we were in cantonments on the Vistula
the marshal happened to send Dannel to Warsaw for provisions, and I
commissioned him to get the trimming of black astrachan taken from my
pelisse, and have it replaced by grey, this having recently been adopted by
Prince Berthier's aides-de-camp, who set the fashion in the army. Up to
now, I was the only one of Augereau's officers who had grey astrachan.
Dannel, who was present when the transport man made his display, quickly
recognised my pelisse, which made him look more closely at the other
effects of the alleged dead man. Among these he found my watch, which
had belonged to my father and was marked with his cypher. The valet had
no longer any doubt that I had been killed, and while deploring my loss, he
wished to see me for the last time. Guided by the transport man he reached
me and found me living. Great was the joy of this worthy man, to whom I
certainly owed my life. He made haste to fetch my servant and some
orderlies, and had me carried to a barn, where he rubbed my body with rum.
Meanwhile someone went to fetch Dr. Raymond, who came at length,
dressed the wound in my arm, and declared that the release of blood due to
it would be the saving of me.

'Guided by the transport man he reached me and found me living'

'My brother and my comrades were quickly round me; something was
given to the transport soldier who had taken my clothes, which he returned
very willingly, but as they were saturated with water and with blood,
Marshal Augereau had me wrapped in things belonging to himself. The
Emperor had given the marshal leave to go to Landsberg, but as his wound
forbad him to ride, his aides-de-camp had procured a sledge, on which the
body of a carriage had been placed. The marshal, who could not make up
his mind to leave me, had me fastened up beside him, for I was too weak to
sit upright.
'Before I was removed from the field of battle I had seen my poor Lisette
near me. The cold had caused the blood from her wound to clot, and
prevented the loss from being too great. The creature had got on to her legs
and was eating the straw which the soldiers had used the night before for
their bivouacs. My servant, who was very fond of Lisette, had noticed her
when he was helping to remove me, and cutting up into bandages the shirt
and hood of a dead soldier, he wrapped her leg with them, and thus made
her able to walk to Landsberg. The officer in command of the small
garrison there had had the forethought to get quarters ready for the
wounded, so the staff found places in a large and good inn.

'In this way, instead of passing the night without help, stretched naked on
the snow, I lay on a good bed surrounded by the attention of my brother, my
comrades, and the kind Dr. Raymond. The doctor had been obliged to cut
off the boot which the transport man had not been able to pull off, and
which had become all the more difficult to remove owing to the swelling of
my foot. You will see presently that this very nearly cost me my leg, and
perhaps my life.
'We stayed thirty-six hours at Landsberg. This rest, and the good care
taken of me, restored me to the use of speech and senses, and when on the
second day after the battle Marshal Augereau started for Warsaw I was able
to be carried in the sledge. The journey lasted eight days. Gradually I
recovered strength, but as strength returned I began to feel a sensation of
icy cold in my right foot. At Warsaw I was lodged in the house that had
been taken for the marshal, which suited me the better that I was not able to
leave my bed. Yet the wound in my arm was doing well, the extravasated
blood was becoming absorbed, my skin was recovering its natural colour.
The doctor knew not to what he could ascribe my inability to rise, till,
hearing me complaining of my leg, he examined it, and found that my foot
was gangrened. An accident of my early days was the cause of this new
trouble. At Sorèze I had my right foot wounded by the unbuttoned foil of a
schoolfellow with whom I was fencing. It seemed that the muscles of the
part had become sensitive, and had suffered much from cold while I was
lying unconscious on the field of Eylau; thence had resulted a swelling
which explained the difficulty experienced by the soldier in dragging off
my right boot. The foot was frost-bitten, and as it had not been treated in
time, gangrene had appeared in the site of the old wound from the foil. The
place was covered with an eschar as large as a five-franc piece. The doctor
turned pale when he saw the foot: then, making four servants hold me, and
taking his knife, he lifted the eschar, and dug the mortified flesh from my
foot just as one cuts the damaged part out of an apple. The pain was great,
but I did not complain. It was otherwise, however, when the knife reached
the living flesh, and laid bare the muscles and bones till one could see them
moving. Then the doctor, standing on a chair, soaked a sponge in hot
sweetened wine, and let it fall drop by drop into the hole which he had just
dug in my foot. The pain became unbearable. Still, for eight days I had to
undergo this torture morning and evening, but my leg was saved.

'Nowadays, when promotions and decorations are bestowed so lavishly,
some reward would certainly be given to an officer who had braved danger
as I had done in reaching the 14th regiment; but under the Empire a devoted
act of that kind was thought so natural that I did not receive the cross, nor
did it ever occur to me to ask for it. A long rest having been ordered for the
cure of Marshal Augereau's wound, the Emperor wrote to bid him return for
treatment to France, and sent to Italy for Masséna, to whom my brother,
Bro, and several of my comrades were attached. Augereau took me with
him, as well as Dr. Raymond and his secretary. I had to be lifted in and out
of the carriage; otherwise I found my health coming back as I got away
from those icy regions towards a milder climate. My mare passed the winter
in the stables of M. de Launay, head of the forage department. Our road lay
through Silesia. So long as we were in that horrible Poland, it required
twelve, sometimes sixteen, horses to draw the carriage at a walk through the
bogs and quagmires; but in Germany we found at length civilisation and
real roads.
'After a halt at Dresden, and ten or twelve days' stay at Frankfort, we
reached Paris about March 15. I walked very lame, wore my arm in a sling,
and still felt the terrible shaking caused by the wind of the cannon-ball; but
the joy of seeing my mother again, and her kind care of me, together with
the sweet influences of the spring, completed my cure. Before leaving
Warsaw I had meant to throw away the hat which the ball had pierced, but
the marshal kept it as a curiosity and gave it to my mother. It still exists in
my possession, and should be kept as a family relic.'

HOW MARBOT CROSSED THE DANUBE

A FTER crossing the Traun, burning the bridge at Mauthhausen, and
passing the Enns, the army advanced to Mölk, without knowing what
had become of General Hiller. Some spies assured us that the archduke had
crossed the Danube and joined him, and that we should on the morrow meet
the whole Austrian army, strongly posted in front of Saint-Pölten. In that
case, we must make ready to fight a great battle; but if it were otherwise, we
had to march quickly on Vienna in order to get there before the enemy
could reach it by the other bank. For want of positive information the
Emperor was very undecided. The question to be solved was, Had General
Hiller crossed the Danube, or was he still in front of us, masked by a swarm
of light cavalry, which, always flying, never let us get near enough to take a
prisoner from whom one might get some enlightenment?
Still knowing nothing for certain, we reached, on May 7, the pretty little
town of Mölk, standing on the bank of the Danube, and overhung by an
immense rock, on the summit of which rises a Benedictine convent, said to
be the finest and richest in Christendom. From the rooms of the monastery a
wide view is obtained over both banks of the Danube. There the Emperor
and many marshals, including Lannes, took up their quarters, while our staff
lodged with the parish priest. Much rain had fallen during the week, and it
had not ceased for twenty-four hours, and still was falling, so that the
Danube and its tributaries were over their banks. That night, as my
comrades and I, delighted at being sheltered from the bad weather, were
having a merry supper with the parson, a jolly fellow, who gave us an
excellent meal, the aide-de-camp on duty with the marshal came to tell me
that I was wanted, and must go up to the convent that moment. I was so
comfortable where I was that I found it annoying to have to leave a good
supper and good quarters to go and get wet again, had but I to obey.
All the passages and lower rooms of the monastery were full of soldiers,
forgetting the fatigues of the previous days in the monks' good wine. On
reaching the dwelling-rooms, I saw that I had been sent for about some
serious matter, for generals, chamberlains, orderly officers, said to me

repeatedly, 'The Emperor has sent for you.' Some added, 'It is probably to
give you your commission as major.' This I did not believe, for I did not
think I was yet of sufficient importance to the sovereign for him to send for
me at such an hour to give me my commission with his own hands. I was
shown into a vast and handsome gallery, with a balcony looking over the
Danube; there I found the Emperor at dinner with several marshals and the
abbot of the convent, who has the title of bishop. On seeing me, the
Emperor left the table, and went towards the balcony, followed by Lannes. I
heard him say in a low tone, 'The execution of this plan is almost
impossible; it would be sending a brave officer for no purpose to almost
certain death.' 'He will go, sir,' replied the marshal; 'I am certain he will go,
at any rate we can but propose it to him.' Then, taking me by the hand, the
marshal opened the window of the balcony over the Danube. The river at
this moment, trebled in volume by the strong flood, was nearly a league
wide; it was lashed by a fierce wind, and we could hear the waves roaring.
It was pitch-dark, and the rain fell in torrents, but we could see on the other
side a long line of bivouac fires. Napoleon, Marshal Lannes, and I, being
alone on the balcony, the marshal said, 'On the other side of the river, you
see an Austrian camp. Now, the Emperor is keenly desirous to know
whether General Hiller's corps is there, or still on this bank. In order to
make sure he wants a stout-hearted man, bold enough to cross the Danube,
and bring away some soldier of the enemy's, and I have assured him that
you will go.' Then Napoleon said to me, 'Take notice that I am not giving
you an order; I am only expressing a wish. I am aware that the enterprise is
as dangerous as it can be, and you can decline it without any fear of
displeasing me. Go, and think it over for a few moments in the next room;
come back and tell us frankly your decision.'
I admit that when I heard Marshal Lannes' proposal I had broken out all
over in a cold sweat; but at the same moment, a feeling, which I cannot
define, but in which a love of glory and of my country was mingled,
perhaps, with a noble pride, raised my ardour to the highest point, and I said
to myself, 'The Emperor has here an army of 150,000 devoted warriors,
besides 25,000 men of his guard, all selected from the bravest. He is
surrounded with aides-de-camp and orderly officers, and yet when an
expedition is on foot, requiring intelligence no less than boldness, it is I
whom the Emperor and Marshal Lannes choose.' 'I will go, sir,' I cried

without hesitation. 'I will go; and if I perish, I leave my mother to your
Majesty's care.' The Emperor pulled my ear to mark his satisfaction; the
marshal shook my hand, 'I was quite right to tell your Majesty that he
would go. There's what you may call a brave soldier.'
My expedition being thus
decided on, I had to think about
the means of executing it. The
Emperor called General
Bertrand, his aide-de-camp,
General Dorsenne, of the guard,
and the commandant of the
imperial head-quarters, and
ordered them to put at my
disposal whatever I might
require. At my request an
infantry picket went into the
town to find the burgomaster,
the syndic of the boatmen, and
five of his best hands. A
corporal and five grenadiers of
the old guard who could all
speak German, and had still to
earn their decoration, were also
'"I will go, sir," I cried'
summoned, and voluntarily
agreed to go with me. The
Emperor had them brought in first, and promised that on their return they
should receive the Cross at once. The brave men replied by a 'Vive
l'Empereur!' and went to get ready. As for the five boatmen, on its being
explained to them through the interpreter that they had to take a boat across
the Danube, they fell on their knees and began to weep. The syndic declared
that they might just as well be shot at once, as sent to certain death. The
expedition was absolutely impossible, not only from the strength of the
current, but because the tributaries had brought into the Danube a great
quantity of fir trees recently cut down in the mountains, which could not be
avoided in the dark, and would certainly come against the boat and sink it.
Besides, how could one land on the opposite bank among willows which

would scuttle the boat, and with a flood of unknown extent? The syndic
concluded, then, that the operation was physically impossible. In vain did
the Emperor tempt them with an offer of 6,000 francs per man; even this
could not persuade them, though, as they said, they were poor boatmen with
families, and this sum would be a fortune to them. But, as I have already
said, some lives must be sacrificed to save those of the greater number, and
the knowledge of this makes commanders sometimes pitiless. The Emperor
was inflexible, and the grenadiers received orders to take the poor men,
whether they would or not, and we went down to the town.
The corporal who had been assigned to me was an intelligent man.
Taking him for my interpreter, I charged him as we went along to tell the
syndic of the boatmen that as he had got to come along with us, he had
better in his own interest show us his best boat, and point out everything
that we should require for her fitting. The poor man obeyed; so we got an
excellent vessel, and we took all that we wanted from the others. We had
two anchors, but as I did not think we should be able to make use of them, I
had sewn to the end of each cable a piece of canvas with a large stone
wrapped in it. I had seen in the south of France the fishermen use an
apparatus of this kind to hold their boats by throwing the cord over the
willows at the water's edge. I put on a cap, the grenadiers took their forage
caps, we had provisions, ropes, axes, saws, a ladder,—everything, in short,
which I could think of to take.
Our preparations ended, I was going to give the signal to start, when the
five boatmen implored me with tears to let the soldiers escort them to their
houses, to take perhaps the last farewell of their wives and children; but,
fearing that a tender scene of this kind would further reduce their small
stock of courage, I refused. Then the syndic said, 'Well, as we have only a
short time to live, allow us five minutes to commend our souls to God, and
do you do the same, for you also are going to your death.' They all fell on
their knees, the grenadiers and I following their example, which seemed to
please the worthy people much. When their prayer was over, I gave each
man a glass of the monks' excellent wine, and we pushed out into the
stream.
I had bidden the grenadiers follow in silence all the orders of the syndic
who was steering; the current was too strong for us to cross over straight

from Mölk: we went up, therefore, along the bank under sail for more than
a league, and although the wind and the waves made the boat jump, this
part was accomplished without accident. But when the time came to take to
our oars and row out from the land, the mast, on being lowered, fell over to
one side, and the sail, dragging in the water, offered a strong resistance to
the current and nearly capsized us. The master ordered the ropes to be cut
and the masts to be sent overboard: but the boatmen, losing their heads,
began to pray without stirring. Then the corporal, drawing his sword, said,
'You can pray and work too; obey at once, or I will kill you.' Compelled to
choose between possible and certain death, the poor fellows took up their
hatchets, and with the help of the grenadiers, the mast was promptly cut
away and sent floating. It was high time, for hardly were we free from this
dangerous burden when we felt a fearful shock. A pine-stem borne down by
the stream had struck the boat. We all shuddered, but luckily the planks
were not driven in this time. Would the boat, however, resist more shocks of
this kind? We could not see the stems, and only knew that they were near by
the heavier tumble of the waves. Several touched us, but no serious accident
resulted. Meantime the current bore us along, and as our oars could make
very little way against it to give us the necessary slant, I feared for a
moment that it would sweep us below the enemy's camp, and that my
expedition would fail. By dint of hard rowing, however, we had got three-
quarters of the way over, when I saw an immense black mass looming over
the water. Then a sharp scratching was heard, branches caught us in the
face, and the boat stopped. To our questions the owner replied that we were
on an island covered with willows and poplars, of which the flood had
nearly reached the top. We had to grope about with our hatchets to clear a
passage through the branches, and when we had succeeded in passing the
obstacle, we found the stream much less furious than in the middle of the
river, and finally reached the left bank in front of the Austrian camp. This
shore was bordered with very thick trees, which, overhanging the bank like
a dome, made the approach difficult no doubt, but at the same time
concealed our boat from the camp. The whole shore was lighted up by the
bivouac fires, while we remained in the shadow thrown by the branches of
the willows. I let the boat float downwards, looking for a suitable landing-
place. Presently I perceived that a sloping path had been made down the
bank by the enemy to allow the men and horses to get to the water. The
corporal adroitly threw into the willows one of the stones that I had made

ready, the cord caught in a tree, and the boat brought up against the land a
foot or two from the slope. It must have been just about midnight. The
Austrians, having the swollen Danube between them and the French, felt
themselves so secure that except the sentry the whole camp was asleep.
It is usual in war for the guns and the sentinels always to face towards
the enemy, however far off he may be. A battery placed in advance of the
camp was therefore turned towards the river, and sentries were walking on
the top of the bank. The trees prevented them from seeing the extreme edge,
while from the boat I could see through the branches a great part of the
bivouac. So far my mission had been more successful than I had ventured to
hope, but in order to make the success complete I had to bring away a
prisoner, and to execute such an operation fifty paces away from several
thousand enemies, whom a single cry would rouse, seemed very difficult.
Still, I had to do something. I made the five sailors lie down at the bottom
of the boat under guard of two grenadiers, another grenadier I posted at the
bow of the boat which was close to the bank, and myself disembarked,
sword in hand, followed by the corporal and two grenadiers. The boat was a
few feet from dry land; we had to walk in the water, but at last we were on
the slope. We went up, and I was making ready to rush on the nearest
sentry, disarm him, gag him, and drag him off to the boat, when the ring of
metal and the sound of singing in a low voice fell on my ears. A man,
carrying a great tin pail, was coming to draw water, humming a song as he
went; we quickly went down again to the river to hide under the branches,
and as the Austrian stooped to fill his pail my grenadiers seized him by the
throat, put a handkerchief full of wet sand over his mouth, and placing their
sword-points against his body threatened him with death if he resisted or
uttered a sound. Utterly bewildered, the man obeyed, and let us take him to
the boat; we hoisted him into the hands of the grenadiers posted there, who
made him lie down beside the sailors. While this Austrian was lying
captured, I saw by his clothes that he was not strictly speaking a soldier, but
an officer's servant. I should have preferred to catch a combatant, who
could have given me more precise information; but I was going to content
myself with this capture for want of a better, when I saw at top of the slope
two soldiers carrying a cauldron between them, on a pole. They were only a
few paces off. It was impossible for us to re-embark without being seen. I
therefore signed to my grenadiers to hide themselves again, and as soon as

the two Austrians stooped to fill their vessel, powerful arms seized them
from behind, and plunged their heads under water. We had to stupefy them a
little, since they had their swords, and I feared that they might resist. Then
they were picked up in turn, their mouths covered with a handkerchief full
of sand, and sword-points against their breasts constrained them to follow
us. They were shipped as the servant had been, and my men and I got on
board again.
So far all had gone
well. I made the sailors
get up and take their
oars, and ordered the
corporal to cast loose
the rope which held us
to the bank. It was,
however, so wet, and
the knot had been
drawn so tight by the
force of the stream, that
it was impossible to
unfasten. We had to
saw the rope, which 'We had to saw the rope'
took us some minutes.
Meanwhile, the rope, shaking with our efforts, imparted its movement to the
branches of the willow round which it was wrapped, and the rustling
became loud enough to attract the notice of the sentry. He drew near, unable
to see the boat, but perceiving that the agitation of the branches increased,
he called out, 'Who goes there?' No answer. Further challenge from the
sentry. We held our tongues, and worked away. I was in deadly fear; after
facing so many dangers, it would have been too cruel if we were wrecked in
sight of port. At last, the rope was cut and the boat pushed off. But hardly
was it clear of the overhanging willows than the light of the bivouac fires
made it visible to the sentry, who, shouting, 'To arms,' fired at us. No one
was hit but at the sound the whole camp was astir in a moment, and the
gunners, whose pieces were ready loaded and trained on the river, honoured
my boat with some cannon-shots. At the report my heart leapt for joy, for I
knew that the Emperor and marshal would hear it. I turned my eyes towards

the convent, with its lighted windows, of which I had, in spite of the
distance, never lost sight. Probably all were open at this moment, but in one
only could I perceive any increase of brilliancy; it was the great balcony
window, which was as large as the doorway of a church, and sent from afar
a flood of light over the stream. Evidently it had just been opened at the
thunder of the cannon, and I said to myself, 'The Emperor and the marshals
are doubtless on the balcony; they know that I have reached the enemy's
camp, and are making vows for my safe return.' This thought raised my
courage, and I heeded the cannon-balls not a bit. Indeed, they were not very
dangerous, for the stream swept us along at such a pace that the gunners
could not aim with any accuracy, and we must have been very unlucky to
get hit. One shot would have done for us, but all fell harmless into the
Danube. Soon I was out of range, and could reckon a successful issue to my
enterprise. Still, all danger was not yet at an end; We had still to cross
among the floating pine-stems, and more than once we struck on submerged
islands, and were delayed by the branches of the poplars. At last we reached
the right bank, more than two leagues below Mölk, and a new terror
assailed me. I could see bivouac fires, and had no means of learning
whether they belonged to a French regiment. The enemy had troops on both
banks, and I knew that on the right bank Marshal Lannes' outposts were not
far from Mölk, facing an Austrian corps, posted at Saint-Pölten.
Our army would doubtless go forward at daybreak, but was it already
occupying this place? And were the fires that I saw those of friends or
enemies? I was afraid that the current had taken me too far down, but the
problem was solved by French cavalry trumpets sounding the reveillé. Our
uncertainty being at an end, we rowed with all our strength to the shore,
where in the dawning light we could see a village. As we drew near, the
report of a carbine was heard, and a bullet whistled by our ears. It was
evident that the French sentries took us for a hostile crew. I had not foreseen
this possibility, and hardly knew how we were to succeed in getting
recognised, till the happy thought struck me of making my six grenadiers
shout, 'Vive l'Empereur Napoléon!' This was, of course, no certain evidence
that we were French, but it would attract the attention of the officers, who
would have no fear of our small numbers, and would no doubt prevent the
men from firing on us before they knew whether we were French or
Austrians. A few moments later I came ashore, and I was received by

Colonel Gautrin and the 9th Hussars, forming part of Lannes' division. If
we had landed half a league lower down we should have tumbled into the
enemy's pickets. The colonel lent me a horse, and gave me several wagons,
in which I placed the grenadiers, the boatmen, and the prisoners, and the
little cavalcade went off towards Mölk. As we went along, the corporal, at
my orders, questioned the three Austrians, and I learnt with satisfaction that
the camp whence I had brought them away belonged to the very division,
General Killer's, the position of which the Emperor was so anxious to learn.
There was, therefore, no further doubt that that general had joined the
archduke on the other side of the Danube. There was no longer any question
of a battle on the road which we held, and Napoleon, having only the
enemy's cavalry in front of him, could in perfect safety push his troops
forward towards Vienna, from which we were but three easy marches
distant. With this information I galloped forward, in order to bring it to the
Emperor with the least possible delay.
When I reached the gate of the monastery, it was broad day. I found the
approach blocked by the whole population of the little town of Mölk, and
heard among the crowd the cries of the wives, children, and friends of the
sailors whom I had carried off. In a moment I was surrounded by them, and
was able to calm their anxiety by saying, in very bad German, 'Your friends
are alive, and you will see them in a few moments.' A great cry of joy went
up from the crowd, bringing out the officer in command of the guard at the
gate. On seeing me he ran off in pursuance of orders to warn the aides-de-
camp to let the Emperor know of my return. In an instant the whole palace
was up. The good Marshal Lannes came to me, embraced me cordially, and
carried me straight off to the Emperor, crying out, 'Here he is, sir; I knew he
would come back. He has brought three prisoners from General Hiller's
division.' Napoleon received me warmly, and though I was wet and muddy
all over, he laid his hand on my shoulder, and did not forget to give his
greatest sign of satisfaction by pinching my ear. I leave you to imagine how
I was questioned! The Emperor wanted to know every incident of the
adventure in detail, and when I had finished my story said, 'I am very well
pleased with you, "Major" Marbot.' These words were equivalent to a
commission, and my joy was full. At that moment, a chamberlain
announced that breakfast was served, and as I was calculating on having to
wait in the gallery until the Emperor had finished, he pointed with his finger

towards the dining-room, and said, 'You will breakfast with me.' As this
honour had never been paid to any officer of my rank, I was the more
flattered. During breakfast I learnt that the Emperor and the marshal had not
been to bed all night, and that when they heard the cannon on the opposite
bank they had all rushed on to the balcony. The Emperor made me tell again
the way in which I had surprised the three prisoners, and laughed much at
the fright and surprise which they must have felt.
At last, the arrival of the wagons was announced, but they had much
difficulty in making their way through the crowd, so eager were the people
to see the boatmen. Napoleon, thinking this very natural, gave orders to
open the gates, and let everybody come into the court. Soon after, the
grenadiers, the boatmen, and the prisoners were led into the gallery. The
Emperor, through his interpreter, first questioned the three Austrian soldiers,
and learning with satisfaction that not only General Hiller's corps, but the
whole of the archduke's army, were on the other bank, he told Berthier to
give the order for the troops to march at once on Saint-Pölten. Then, calling
up the corporal and the five soldiers, he fastened the Cross on their breast,
appointed them knights of the Empire, and gave them an annuity of 1,200
francs apiece. All the veterans wept for joy. Next came the boatmen's turn.
The Emperor told them that, as the danger they had run was a good deal
more than he had expected, it was only fair that he should increase their
reward; so, instead of the 6,000 francs promised, 12,000 in gold were given
to them on the spot. Nothing could express their delight; they kissed the
hands of the Emperor and all present, crying, 'Now we are rich!' Napoleon
laughingly asked the syndic if he would go the same journey for the same
price the next night. But the man answered that, having escaped by miracle
what seemed certain death, he would not undertake such a journey again
even if his lordship, the abbot of Mölk, would give him the monastery and
all its possessions. The boatmen withdrew, blessing the generosity of the
French Emperor, and the grenadiers, eager to show off their decoration
before their comrades, were about to go off with their three prisoners, when
Napoleon perceived that the Austrian servant was weeping bitterly. He
reassured him as to his safety, but the poor lad replied, sobbing, that he
knew the French treated their prisoners well, but that, as he had on him a
belt, containing nearly all his captain's money, he was afraid that the officer
would accuse him of deserting in order to rob him, and he was heart-broken

at the thought. Touched by the worthy fellow's distress, the Emperor told
him that he was free, and as soon as we were before Vienna, he would be
passed through the outposts, and be able to return to his master. Then,
taking a rouleau of 1,000 francs, he put it in the man's hand, saying, 'One
must honour goodness wherever it is shown.' Lastly, the Emperor gave
some pieces of gold to each of the other two prisoners, and ordered that
they too should be sent back to the Austrian outposts, so that they might
forget the fright which we had caused them, and that it might not be said
that any soldiers, even enemies, had spoken to the Emperor of the French
without receiving some benefit.

THE PITEOUS DEATH OF GASTON, SON OF
THE COUNT OF FOIX

M ORE than five hundred years ago, on St. Catherine's Day, 1388,
Master Jean Froissart, a priest of Hainault, rode into the little town
of Orthez. He was in search of information about battles and tournaments,
for he was writing his famous 'History and Chronicle.' To get news of all
kinds he rode gaily about, with a white greyhound in a leash, and carrying a
novel which he had begun for the entertainment of ladies and princes.
Arriving at Orthez (where, long afterwards, the Duke of Wellington fought
the French on the borders of Spain), Master Froissart alighted at the hotel
with the sign of the Moon. Meanwhile a knight who had travelled with
Froissart went up to the castle, and paid his court to Gaston Phœbus, Count
of Foix. He found the Count in the gallery of the palace just after dinner, for
this prince always went to bed at midday and took supper at midnight. He
was a great and powerful noble, of stately and beautiful presence, though
now he was nearly sixty years old. A wise knight he was, bold in enterprise,
and of good counsel. Never did he suffer any unbeliever in his company,
and he was very pious, every day making many and long prayers, and
giving alms to the poor folk at his gate. He took much delight in minstrelsy,
and at his midnight supper songs and virelays were chanted to him. Till
about three o'clock in the morning he listened while Master Froissart read
aloud his poems, tales, or histories, while the courtiers yawned, no doubt,
and wished for bedtime. But it was the good Count's manner to turn night
into day. He was sometimes melancholy, and, as is told in the story of
Orthon, men believed that he saw and knew events far distant, but in what
manner none could tell. This great prince dwelt at peace while the wars of
France, England, Portugal, and Spain raged outside his dominions. Rich,
powerful, handsome, and deeply religious, he seemed to have everything
that could make him happy, but he had no son and heir; his lands, on his
death, would go to a distant cousin. Nor did the lady his wife live with the
Count of Foix. Concerning this, and the early death of the Count's one son,
Gaston, Master Froissart was very curious, but he found that people did not
care to speak of the matter. At length an old squire told him the story of the
death of Gaston.
The Countess of Foix was the sister of the King of Navarre, and between
the Count her husband, and the King her brother, a quarrel arose on a
question of money. The Count therefore sent his wife to her brother at
Pampeluna, that she might arrange the matter; but the end of it was that she

stayed in Navarre, and did not return to her lord. Meanwhile her son Gaston
grew up at Orthez, and married a daughter of the Count of Armagnac, being
now a lad of sixteen, a good squire, and in all things very like his father. He
had a desire to see his mother, and so rode into Navarre, hoping to bring
home his mother, the Countess of Foix. But she would not leave Navarre
for all that he could say, and the day came when he and the young squires of
his company must return. Then the King of Navarre led him apart into a
secret chamber, and there gave him a little purse. Now the purse was full of
a powder of such sort that no living creature could taste of it and live, but
must die without remedy.
'Gaston, fair nephew,' said the King, 'you see how your father, the Count,
holds your mother in bitter hate—a sore grief to me and to you also. Now to
change all this, and bring your father and mother back to their ancient love,
you must watch your chance and sprinkle a little of this powder on any food
that your father is about to eat, taking good care that no man sees you. And
the powder is a charm so strong that your father, as soon as he has tasted it,
will desire nothing so much as to be friends with your mother again, and
never will they leave each other. But you must take heed that no man knows
of this purpose, or all is lost.'
The young Count, believing, in his innocence, what his uncle said, made
answer that he would gladly do as he was bidden. Then he rode back to
Orthez, and showed his father all the presents and jewels that had been
given to him in Navarre, except the little purse.
Now it was the custom of the young Count to be much in the company
of his brother by another mother, and, as they played together one day, this
boy, named Yvain, caught hold of the little purse which Gaston wore about
his neck under his coat, and asked him what it was. But Gaston made no
answer. Three days later the lads quarrelled over a stroke at tennis, and
Gaston struck Yvain a blow. Yvain ran weeping to his father, the Count,
who asked what ailed him.

'The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand'

'Gaston struck me,' said he, 'but it is Gaston, not I, who deserves a blow.'
'What has he done?' asked the Count.
'Ever since he came from his mother's in Navarre he carries about his
neck a little purse full of a powder. But I only know that he says you and his
mother will soon be good friends once more.'
'Ha!' cried the Count, 'do you be silent.'
That day at dinner, as Gaston served the meats, for this was his duty, the
Count called to him, seized his coat, opened it, and, with his knife, cut the
purse from the boy's neck. Gaston said no word, but grew pale and
trembled. The Count opened the purse, spread the powder on a piece of
bread, and threw it to a dog. No sooner had the dog eaten the bread than his
eyes turned round, and he fell dead.
The Count leaped up, a knife in his hand, and would have slain his son
as a traitor, but the knights and esquires, kneeling, prayed him to hold his
hand.

'Perchance,' said they,
'Gaston knew not the nature of
that which was in the purse,
and is guiltless in this matter.'
'So be it,' said the Count.
'Hold him prisoner in the tower
at your own peril.'
Then he seized all the
companions and friends of
Gaston, for they must have
known, he said, that his son
carried a purse secretly. Fifteen
of the fairest and noblest of the
boys he put to death with
horrible tortures, but they knew
Gaston in prison nothing and could tell nothing.
Then he called together all his
nobles and bishops, and told them that Gaston also must die. But they
prayed for his life, because they loved him dearly, and he was the heir of all
the Count's lands. So the Count decided to keep Gaston in prison for some
months, and then send him to travel for two or three years. The Pope sent a
cardinal to the Count, bidding him spare Gaston, but, before the Cardinal
reached Orthez, Gaston was dead.
One day the servant who took meat and drink into the boy's dark
dungeon saw that he had not tasted food for many days. All the dishes lay
full of mouldering meat in a row along the wall. Then the servant ran and
warned the Count that Gaston was starving himself to death. The Count was
trimming his nails with a little knife, and he sped in great anger to the
dungeon.
'Traitor, why dost thou not eat?' he cried, dealt the boy a cuff, and rushed
out again, and so went to his chamber.
But the point of the little knife, which was in his hand, had cut a vein in
Gaston's neck, and, being weak with hunger and grief, Gaston died, for the

vein could not be staunched. Then the Count made great lament, and had
his head shaven, and wore mourning for many days.
Thus it chanced that the Count of Foix lived without an heir, turning
night into day, praying much, and listening to minstrels, giving alms, and
hearkening to strange messages of death and war that were borne to him
how no man knew. And his brother, Pierre, was a good knight and wise by
day, yet at night madness fell on him, and he raved, beating the air with a
naked sword. And this had been his manner ever since he fought with and
slew a huge bear on the hills. Now when his wife saw that bear brought
home dead she fainted, and in three days she fled with her children, and
came back no more. For her father had once pursued that bear, which cried
to him: 'Thou huntest me who wish thee no harm, but thou shalt die an ill
death.' He then left off pursuing the bear; but the Count's brother slew the
beast on another day, and thereafter he went mad in the night, though by
day he was wise enough.
These tales were told to Master Froissart by the old squire at Orthez.

ROLF STAKE[34]

T here was once a king in Denmark named Rolf Stake; right famous is
he among the kings of yore, foremost for liberality, daring, and
courtesy. Of his courtesy one proof celebrated in story is this.
A poor little boy named Vögg came into King Rolf's hall: the King was
then young and slender of build. Vögg went near and looked up at him.
Then said the King: 'What wouldst thou say, boy, that thou lookest at me
so?'
Vögg answered: 'When I was at home, I heard tell that King Rolf at
Hleidr was the tallest man in Northland; but now here sits in the high seat a
thin stake, and they call him their king.'
Then answered the King: 'Thou, boy, hast given me a name to be known
by—Rolf Stake to wit. 'Tis custom to follow a naming with a gift. But now
I see that thou hast not with the naming any gift to give me such as would
beseem me to accept, wherefore he of us who hath must give to the other.'
With that the King drew a gold ring from his own hand and gave it to him.
Then said Vögg: 'Blessed above all kings be thou who givest! And by
this vow I bind me to be that man's bane who shall be thine.'
Then said the King with a laugh: 'With small gain is Vögg fain.'
Further, this proof is told of Rolf Stake's daring.
There ruled over Upsala a king named Adils, who had to wife Yrsa, Rolf
Stake's mother. He was at war with Ali, the king who then ruled Norway.
They appointed to meet in battle upon the ice of the lake called Venir. King
Adils sent a message to Rolf Stake, his stepson, that he should come to help
him, and promised pay to all his force so long as they should be on the
campaign, but the King himself was to receive for his own three costly
things from Sweden, whatsoever he should choose. King Rolf could not go
himself by reason of a war that he had against the Saxons; but he sent to

Adils his twelve Berserks, of whom were Bödvar Bjarki, Hjalti Stoutheart,
Whiteserk Bold, Vött, Vidseti, and the brothers Svipdag and Beigud.
In the battle then fought fell King Ali and a great part of his host. And
King Adils took from the dead prince the helmet Battleboar and his horse
Raven. Then the Berserks of Rolf Stake asked for their wage, three pounds
of gold apiece; and further they asked to carry to Rolf Stake those costly
things which they in his behalf should choose. These were the helmet
Battleboar, and the corslet Finnsleif, which no weapon could pierce, and the
gold ring called Sviagriss, an heirloom from Adils' forefathers. But the King
denied them all the costly things, nor did he even pay their wage.

'But now here sits in the high seat a thin stake'

The Berserks went away ill-content with their lot, and told Rolf Stake
what had been done.
At once he started for Upsala, and when he came with his ships into the
river Fyri he then rode to Upsala, and with him his twelve Berserks, without
any truce guaranteed. Yrsa, his mother, welcomed him, and led him, not to
the King's hall, but to a lodging. There fires were lighted for them and ale
given them to drink.

'He fleeth not the flame
Who leapeth o'er the same'

Then some men of King Adils came in and threw billets of wood on the
fire, and made such a blaze that it scorched the clothes of Rolf's company.
And they said: 'Is it true that Rolf Stake and his Berserks flee neither fire
nor iron?' Then up leapt Rolf and all his twelve, and he crying,
'Heap we yet higher
Adils' house-fire,'
took his shield and cast it on the fire, and leapt thereover, crying yet again,
'He fleeth not the flame
Who leapeth o'er the same.'
Likewise one after the other did all his men. Then they seized those who
had heaped up the fire, and cast them thereon.
And now came Yrsa and gave to Rolf Stake a deer's horn filled with
gold, and therewith the ring Sviagriss, and bade them ride away to their
fleet. They leapt on their horses and rode down to Fyris-field. Soon they
saw that King Adils rode after them with his force fully armed, purposing to

slay them. Whereupon Rolf Stake, plunging his right hand into the horn,
took of the gold and sowed it all over the path. But when the Swedes saw
that, they leapt from their saddles and gathered each what he could get; but
King Adils bade them ride on, and himself rode at speed. Slungnir his horse
was named, of all horses the fleetest.
Then Rolf Stake, when he saw that King Adils rode near him, took the
ring Sviagriss and threw it to him, and bade him accept the gift. King Adils
rode to the ring, and lifting it on his lowered spear-point slid it up along the
shaft. Then did Rolf Stake turn him back, and, seeing how he louted low,
cried: 'Now have I made Sweden's greatest grovel swine-wise.'
So they parted.
For this reason gold is by poets called 'the seed of Stake' or 'of Fyris-
field.'

THE WRECK OF THE 'WAGER'

T HE Honourable John Byron, grandfather of the poet, was a celebrated
British Admiral who in almost all his voyages fell in with such rough
weather that his sailors nicknamed him 'Foul-weather Jack.'
When he was seventeen years old he served as midshipman in the
'Wager,' a vessel attached to the squadron under the command of
Commodore Anson which sailed out to the Spanish Settlements in the
Pacific in 1740.
From the set-out the expedition was unfortunate. Almost all the ships
were ill-fitted and ill-provisioned for so long a voyage. Moreover they were
delayed until long after the proper season for their departure was past,
which was regarded by the soldiers and sailors as an evil omen. This neglect
affected the 'Wager' more than any other ship, as she was an old East
Indiaman, and had been bought into the service for the voyage, and fitted
out for it as a man-of-war.
Besides this, when under sail she listed to one side, as she was top-laden
with heavy military gear and stores for the use of the other vessels, while
the lower holds were filled with light merchandise for bartering with the
Indians.
Her crew were men who had been pressed on their return from long
voyages, and the marines a small troop of invalids from the Chelsea
Hospital, who were all alike very miserably depressed at the prospect of the
long voyage which lay before them.
Even Captain Kid, under whose command the 'Wager' sailed out of port,
when on his death-bed shortly after, foretold her ill-success.
Upon his death Captain Cheap took command, and was able to keep
with the squadron until they were about to enter the Straits la Marie, where
the wind shifted to the south, and with the turn of the tide the 'Wager' was

separated from the other ships, and very narrowly escaped being wrecked
off Staten Island.
However, she regained her
station with the rest of the fleet
until a few days later, when they
were caught by a deep roll of a
hollow sea, and lost their mizzen
mast, and all the windward chain
plates were broken.
They tried to rig up a
substitute for the mizzen mast,
but failed, as hard westerly gales
set in with a tremendous short
chopping swell, which raised the
waves to a mountainous height,
while from time to time a heavy
sea broke over the ship. The
boats on the davits were cast
from their lashings, and filled
with water, and the ship in all
parts was soon in a most
shattered and crazy state.
They had now lost sight of the
squadron, and from the numbers
'ONE MAN . . . STALKED ABOUT THE DECK
of birds, and the drifting seaweed
AND FLOURISHED A CUTLASS . . . SHOUTING
in the waters, they found they
THAT HE WAS "KING OF THE COUNTRY"'
were being borne on to a lee
shore. The heavy clouds that
lowered above them, or the blinding sleet and snow, hid the sun and
prevented the officers from taking sights; and at night no moon or stars by
which they could steer their course were visible in the wild gloom through
which they tossed.
When the officers at last found they were out of their bearings, they tried
to persuade the captain to alter the course, but this he refused to do, as he

believed he was making directly for the Island of Socoro, which was the
place arranged for the squadron to meet, and whence it was intended they
should make their first attack upon the Spaniards.
At this time, when all but twelve men on the 'Wager' were disabled by
fatigue or sickness, there loomed against the dull clouds a yet heavier cloud,
which was that of mountainous masses of land. Then Captain Cheap at last
realised their danger, and gave orders to wear ship to the southward, hoping
that they might crowd her off the land.
But the fury of the gale increased as night fell upon them, while to add to
their dismay, as each sail was set with infinite labour, it was set only to be
blown or rent immediately from the yard.
At four o'clock in the morning the ship struck, then again for the second
time more violently; and presently she lay helpless on her beam ends—
while the sea every now and then broke over her.
Everyone who could move rushed to the quarter-deck, but those who
were dying of scurvy and who could not leave their hammocks were
drowned in them.
In the uncertain light of dawn they could see nothing around them but
leaden breakers from whose foam-crested manes the wind swept the
blinding spray. The ship lay in this terrible plight for some little time, while
every soul on board counted each moment as his last.
In this scene of wild disorder the men lost all reason and restraint, some
gave themselves up to death like logs, and were rolled hither and thither
with each jerk and roll of the shivering ship.
One man in the exaltation of his despair stalked about the deck, and
flourished a cutlass over his head, and struck at anyone who came near him
with it—meanwhile shouting that he was the 'king of the country.'
Another, and a brave man, was so overcome by the fury of the seething
waters, that he tried to throw himself from the rails at the quarter-deck, and
to end in death a scene he felt too shocking to look upon.

The man at the helm still kept his post, though both rudder and tiller had
been carried away; and applied himself to his duty with the same respect
and coolness as though the ship were in the greatest safety.
Then Mr. Jones, the mate, spoke to the men, saying, 'My friends! have
you never seen a ship amongst breakers before? Lend a hand, boys, and lay
on to the sheets and braces. I have no fear but that we shall stick her near
enough to the land to save our lives.'
Although he said these gallant words without hope of saving a single
soul, he gave courage to many of the men, and they set to work in earnest.
They steered as best they could by the sheets and braces, and presently
ran her in between an opening in the breakers, and soon found themselves
wedged fast between two great rocks.
With the break of day the weather cleared sufficiently to give them a
glimpse of the land. They then set to work to get out the boats. The first one
that was launched was so overladen by those anxious to save themselves,
that they were almost swamped before they reached the shore.
On the day before the ship was wrecked, the captain had had his
shoulder dislocated by a fall, and was lying in his berth when John Byron,
whose duty it was to keep him informed of all that passed on deck, went to
ask if he would not like to land. But the captain refused to leave the ship
until everyone else had gone.
Throughout the ship, the scene was now greatly changed. The men who
but a few moments before had been on their knees praying for mercy, when
they found themselves not in immediate danger, became very riotous,
rushed to the cabins and stores, and broke open every chest and box they
could find, as well as casks of wine and brandy. And by drinking it some of
them were rendered so helpless that they were drowned on board by the
seas that continually swept over them.
The boatswain and five other men refused to leave the ship while there
was any liquor to be got; then at last the captain consented to be helped
from his bed, and to be taken on shore.

Although they were thankful to escape from the wreck, when they
reached the land they found themselves in a scene desolate enough to quell
the bravest soul.
The bay in which they had been cast away was open to the full force of
the ocean, and was formed by rocky headlands and cliffs with here and
there a stretch of beach, while rising abruptly from the sea a rock-bound
steep frowned above them, which they afterwards named Mount Misery.
Stretching back from the beach lay stagnant lagoons and dreary flats of
morass and swamp, the edges of which were drained by the roots of heavy
forest trees whose impenetrable gloom clothed the intervening country and
hillsides.
And out before them in the tempestuous waters the wreck lay, from
whose stores must come their only present chance of life.
With nightfall presently at hand, though they were cold and wet and
hungry, they had to try to find a shelter, and at last chanced upon an Indian
hut at a little distance from the beach. Into this poor refuge the men packed
themselves in a voluntary imprisonment, while, to add to their distress, they
were afraid of being attacked by Indians.
One of the officers died in this miserable place during the night, and of
those left outside who were unable from want of room to press in, two more
perished from cold.
The next morning found them cramped with starvation and cold, with no
food but some fragments of biscuit, a solitary seagull someone had killed,
and the stalks of wild celery that grew upon the beach. This they made into
soup, and served as far as it would go to the hundred and forty men who
clamoured for food.
The men who had remained on the wreck were now anxious to be
brought on shore, and repeatedly made signals to that effect; but the sea was
running high and it was not possible at once to set out to their relief. In their
rage at the delay they fired one of the quarter-deck guns upon the camp,
while on board they destroyed everything they could lay hands on. In his
brutality and greed for spoil, a man named James Mitchell murdered one of
their number. When at last they were brought to land they came dressed in

laced clothes and officers' suits which they had put on over their own dirty
clothes.
These men Captain Cheap instantly had stripped of their finery and
arms, and enforced the most strict discipline upon them and all the crew.
In a few days they had a shelter made with boats turned keel upwards,
and placed on props, while the sides were lined with canvas and boughs.
Then followed five weary months, during which these hunger-driven
men roamed the wretched island rocks both night and day, searching for
shell-fish for food—men who were even thankful at the times when they
were able to kill and eat the carrion crows that fed upon the flesh of their
drowned comrades cast up by the tide. Some Indians surprised them by a
visit, and stayed for several days, and with them they were able to barter
cloth and beads for some dogs, and these they killed and ate.
The Indians were very short and black, and had long coarse hair that
hung over their faces, and were almost without clothing of any kind.
The shipwrecked men grew more and more discontented as the months
went by, and several of them threatened to take the life of the captain,
whose strict discipline and guard over the stores made them very angry.
James Mitchell, who had murdered a man on the wreck, and had since
committed another murder on Mount Misery, where his victim was found
shockingly stabbed and mangled, was amongst this set. They had
determined to leave the others, and on the night before their departure had
placed a barrel of gunpowder close to the captain's hut, intending to blow it
up, but were dissuaded from doing this by one of their number. After
wandering about the island for some time they went up one of the lagoons
on a punt they had made, and were never heard of again.
Captain Cheap was very jealous of his authority, and hasty in suspecting
both officers and men of a desire to mutiny, and this suspicion on his part
led to the unfortunate shooting by him of a midshipman named Mr. Cozens,
whom he heard one day disputing with the purser as to the disposal of some
stores he was at the time receiving from the wreck. The captain already had
a personal dislike to Mr. Cozens, and hearing high words immediately
rushed out of his hut and shot him. Mr. Cozens did not die until several days

after, but the captain would not allow him to be attended to by the surgeon,
or to have any care from the other men, though they begged to be allowed
to carry him to their tent, but ordered that he should be left upon the ground,
under a bit of canvas thrown over some bushes, until he died. This
inhumanity on the part of Captain Cheap much embittered the men against
him.
Their numbers were
now lessened, chiefly
by famine, to one
hundred souls; the
weather was still
tempestuous and rainy,
and the difficulty of
finding food daily
increased.
They had saved the
long-boat from the
wreck, and about this
time John Bulkely, who
had been a gunner on
the 'Wager,' formed a
plan of trying to make The Captain shoots Mr. Cozens
the voyage home
through the Straits of Magellan. The plan was proposed to the captain, and
though he thought it wiser to pretend to fall in with it, he had no intention of
doing so. And when Bulkely and his followers suggested that there should
be some restrictions on his command, or that at least he should do nothing
without consulting his officers, the captain refused to consent to this;
whereupon they imprisoned him, intending to take him to England on the
charge of having murdered Mr. Cozens.
But when the boats were ready for sailing they found there would not be
enough room for everybody. So the captain, Mr. Hamilton, and the doctor
were left on the island.

John Byron did not know they were going to do this until the last
moment. There were eighty-one men who left the island, who were
distributed in the long-boat, the cutter, and the barge.
After they had been out about two days it was thought necessary to send
back to the old station for some spare canvas. John Byron was sent back
with the barge on this errand. When he was well away from the long-boat
he told those with him he did not mean to return, but to rejoin Captain
Cheap; and they agreed to do so too.
Although they were welcomed by those left on the island, there was little
food for so many mouths, as almost everything had been carried off by the
voyagers, and for a considerable time they were forced to live upon a kind
of seaweed called slaugh, which with the stalks of wild celery they fried in
the tallow of some candles they had saved.
This poor food reduced them to a terrible condition of weakness.
At last a really fair day broke upon them, when they went out to the
remains of the wreck, and had the good fortune to hook up out of the
bottom, three casks of beef which they brought safely to shore. The good
food gave them renewed strength and energy, and again they became very
anxious to leave the island.
Accordingly they launched both boats on December 15. The captain,
Lieutenant Hamilton, and John Byron were in the barge with nine men, and
Mr. Campbell in the yawl with six. And thus they set out on their journey
northward.
Then followed weary days, during which they rowed over high seas, and
weary nights of exposure and cold, when they landed on some barren shore
for rest and to wait for daylight.
On Christmas Eve they found themselves tossing on a wide bay, and
unable by the force of the currents to double the rocky headlands that lay in
front of them. Unable, too, by the fury of the breakers to make the land or to
find harbour, they were forced to lie outside all that night upon their oars.
They were so hungry then that they ate their shoes, which were made of
raw sealskin.

On Christmas Day some of them landed, and had the good fortune to kill
a seal. Though the two men who were left in each boat to take care of it
could see their companions on shore eating seal, they were unable to have
any themselves, as again when night came on the wind blew very hard, and
the mighty breakers beat with pulse-like regularity on the shore.
John Byron, who had fallen into a comfortless sleep in the boat, was
suddenly awakened by a shriek, and saw the yawl turned bottom upwards
and go down.
One man was drowned, the other was thrown up by the breakers on the
beach and saved by the people there.
At this place Mr. Hamilton, who was with the shore party, shot at a large
sea-lion, which he hit with two balls; and when the brute presently charged
at him with open mouth, he thrust his bayonet down its throat, as well as a
great part of the barrel of his gun. But the sea-lion bit this in two with the
greatest ease, and in spite of all its wounds, and all other efforts to kill it,
got away.
As they had lost the yawl there was not enough of room to take all the
men away from this place, therefore four of the marines agreed to remain
and to try to make their way on foot to a more habitable country.
The captain gave them guns and food, and as the boat put off, they stood
upon the beach and gave three cheers, and shouted 'God bless the King.'
The others made another attempt to double the cape, but the wind, the
sea, and currents were too strong for them, and again they failed. So
disheartened were they now, that caring little for life, they agreed to return
to their original station on Wager's Island, and to end their days in miserable
existence there.
They went back to the place where they had left the four marines in
order to try to get some seal for their return passage and to take these men
back with them, but when they searched all traces of them had gone.
It was here that the surgeon found in a curious cave the bodies of several
Indians that were stretched out on a kind of platform. The flesh on the

bodies had become perfectly dry and hard, and it was thought that it must
be the kind of burial given to the great men or Caciques of the Indians.
After a terrible journey back to Wager's Island they reached it alive,
though again worn out by hunger and fatigue.
The first thing they did on reaching their old station was to bury the
corpse of the man who had been murdered on Mount Misery by James
Mitchell, for the men thought that all their misfortunes had arisen from the
neglect of this proper duty to the dead, and they were sure that the restless
spirit of this person haunted the waters around them at night, as they heard
strange and unearthly cries from the sea. And one night, in bright
moonlight, they saw and heard something which looked like a human being
swimming near the shore.
Inconsistent as this
may seem, they were
soon so terribly driven
by hunger that the last
dreadful suggestion for
food was beginning to
be whispered amongst
them, when fortunately
some Indians from the
island of Chiloc
appeared. It was
supposed they had
heard of the wreck
from those first Indians
who had visited them,
Mr. Hamilton's fight with the sea-lion and had come to collect
old iron and nails,
which they value very much.
They were able to persuade the Cacique, who was a Christian named
Martini, to promise to show them the safest and best way to some of the
Spanish Settlements. Once more the barge was launched, with the fifteen
souls on board who now remained on the island of the shipwrecked crew.

They followed their Indian guide by day for some time, during which
their sufferings were so terrible that it was no unusual thing for one of their
number to fall back dying from the oars, meanwhile beseeching his
comrades for two or three mouthfuls of food which they had not.
Captain Cheap, who was always well provided with seal by the Indians,
again showed how regardless he could be of the sufferings of others, and
often though he could have relieved his men by giving up a small portion of
his own food when he heard their heartrending appeals for it, let them die at
their posts unheedful of their want and misery.
They were rather taken in by their Christian Indian Martini. He made
them row the heavy barge a very long way up a river and then deserted
them for several days. They found he wished to secure the barge here,
which was to be a part of his reward, and which was too heavy to be carried
over the rocks of the headlands in the way they carried their own canoes—
and by which they escaped the heavy seas that ran round those places.
However, the Cacique returned again, and after a time he consented to
take the captain with John Byron to row his canoe on to another part of the
coast where there were more Indians.
They reached this camp late one evening, and while the captain was at
once taken by Martini to a wigwam, Byron was left outside to shift for
himself as best he could. He was so exhausted that all he could do was to
creep into the shelter of a wigwam, and chance what fate might bring him.
These wigwams were built of branches of trees placed in a circle, which
are bound at the top by a kind of creeper called supple-jack. The frame of
the wigwam is covered with boughs and bark. The fire is lit in the very
centre, round which the Indians lie. As there is no outlet for the smoke, it is
not a very comfortable place to sleep in.
There were only two Indian women in the wigwam into which John
Byron crept, who were very astonished to see him. However, they were
kind to him and made up a good fire, and presently, when he made them
understand that he was hungry, they gave him some fish to eat. But when he
had finished it he was still so hungry that he made signs for more. Then
they went out into the night, taking their dogs with them, and came back in

an hour or two shivering and with water dripping from their hair. They had
caught two more fish, which after they had cooked slightly they gave him to
eat.
These people live only on what they can take from the sea, and train
their dogs to dive for fish and their women for sea-eggs. While collecting
these the women stay under water a wonderfully long time; they have really
the hardest work to do, as they have to provide food for their husbands and
children. They are not allowed to touch any food themselves until the
husband is satisfied, when he gives them a very small portion, generally
that which he does not care to eat himself.
Martini then told them that they would have to return in the canoe by
which they had come to their companions, and that the Indians they were
leaving would join them in a few days, after which they would all set out
together on the journey northwards. They found Mr. Elliot, the surgeon,
very ill, and Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Campbell were almost starved, having
had only a few sea-eggs to eat since they had left.
About the middle of March they re-embarked with the other Indians, and
soon afterwards Mr. Elliot died. He had been one of the strongest of the
party, and one of the most useful and self-denying, and had never spared
himself in trying to provide food for the others. He was also one of the best
shots of the party.
Most of them were now reduced to rags and without shoes, and when
they had to cross the stony headlands and swamps, and to carry heavy
burdens, their feet were often terribly torn.
The Cacique had now become a very hard master to all but the captain,
and forced them to row like galley slaves when they were in the boats.
Indeed, the captain seemed to encourage the Indian in this conduct. He had
become more selfish and cunning in keeping all the food he could lay hands
on for himself, and was accustomed to sleep with his head pillowed on a
dirty piece of canvas in which he wrapped portions of seal or sea-eggs.
Thorough cleanliness had become an impossibility to them: they were now
terribly emaciated and covered by vermin. The captain particularly was a
most shocking sight. His legs had become tremendously swelled, probably
from the disease known as 'beri-beri,' while his body was almost a skeleton,

his beard had grown very long, and his face was covered with train oil and
dirt.
When at last they were within a few miles of the island of Chiloc, they
found they had to cross a most dangerous bay. After waiting for two days
for fair weather they started, although the Cacique even then seemed
terrified, and there was every reason for it, as the sea ran so strong and their
boat was most crazy, the bottom plank having opened, and ceaseless bailing
had to be carried on all the time. It was early in June when they reached this
place.

The Cacique fires off the gun

Directly the Cacique landed he buried all the things he had brought from
the wreck, for he knew that the Spaniards would take everything from him.
That same evening, as they drew near to a settlement of Chiloc Indians
the Cacique asked them to load their one remaining gun with the last charge
of powder, and to show him how to fire it off. Holding the gun as far away
from his head as he could he fired, and fell back into the bottom of the
canoe.
When the Chiloc Indians found out who they were, they brought fish and
potatoes for them to eat, and this was the nicest meal they had had for more

than a year.
These Indians are very strong and nice-looking people; they are
extremely neat in their dress. The men wear what is called a puncho, which
is a square piece of cloth in stripes of different colours, with a slit in the
centre wide enough to put their heads through, and it hangs from their
shoulders.
After a little time the shipwrecked men were sent on by these people to
the Spaniards at Castro. There they were met by a number of soldiers, with
three or four officers, who surrounded them fiercely as though they were a
most formidable enemy instead of the four poor helpless creatures left of
the fifteen men that had set out from Wager's Island.
Though they had had much better food since they had been with the
kindly Indians, they were so weak that they could hardly walk up the hill to
the shed in which they were to be lodged.
Numbers of people came to look at them in this place, as though they
were wild beasts or curiosities; and when they heard they had been starved
for more than a year, they brought quantities of chicken and all kinds of
good things for them to eat.
John Byron then began to feel more comfortable. He was always ready
to make a meal, and used to carry food in his pockets so that he need not
wait a second for it if he felt hungry. Even the captain owned that he ate so
much that he felt quite ashamed of himself.
In a little time an old Jesuit priest came to see them. He did not come
because he was sorry for them, but because he had heard from the Indian
Cacique that they had things of great value about them. The priest began by
producing a bottle of brandy, and gave them all some to open their hearts.
Captain Cheap told him he had nothing, not remembering that Martini
had seen his gold repeater watch; but at the same time he said that Mr.
Campbell had a silver watch, which he at once ordered him to make a
present of to the priest.
Soon after the Spanish governor sent for them to be brought to Chaco,
where they were very well treated by the people. Whilst here John Byron

was asked to marry the niece of a very rich old priest.
The lady made the suggestion through her uncle, saying that first she
wished him to be converted, and then he might marry her.
When the old priest made the offer, he took John Byron into a room
where there were several large chests full of clothes. Taking from one of
them a large piece of linen, he told him it should be made up into shirts for
him at once if he would marry the lady.
The thought of new shirts was a great temptation to John Byron, as he
had only the one in which he had lived ever since he had been wrecked.
However, he denied himself this luxury, and excused himself for not
being able to accept the honour of the lady's hand.
On this occasion he managed to speak Spanish sufficiently well to make
himself understood.
In January 1742 they were sent on to Valparaiso as English prisoners.
Only Captain Cheap and Mr. Campbell were recognised as officers, as they
had saved their commissions, and they were sent to St. Jago, while John
Byron and Mr. Hamilton were kept in prison. However, when they were
released they were permitted to rejoin the others at St. Jago, and found them
living with a Scotch physician named Don Patricio Gedd.
When Dr. Gedd heard of the four English prisoners, he had begged the
President to allow them to live at his house.
This was granted, and during the two years they lived there with him, he
treated them most hospitably, and would hear of no return being made for
his kindness.
Mr. Campbell changed his religion while they were at St. Jago, and left
his companions.
At the end of two years the President sent for them, and told them that
they were at liberty to leave the country in a French ship bound for Spain.
Accordingly, in the end of December 1744, they sailed in the frigate
bound for Conception, where she was to join three more French ships that

were homeward bound.
On October 27 they reached Cape Ortegal, and after lying at anchor
there for several days they were taken to Landernan, where they lived on
parole for three months, until an order came from the Court of Spain to
allow them to return home by the first ship that sailed. After arranging with
the captain of a Dutch lugger to land them at Dover they embarked in her
and had a very uncomfortable passage.
When they got well up Channel
they found the Dutchman had no
intention of landing them at Dover,
as he was making his way up off the
coast of France. In the midst of their
indignation at this breach of faith,
an English man-of-war appeared to
windward, and bore down upon
them. This was the 'Squirrel,'
commanded by Captain Masterton.
He at once sent them off in one of
his cutters, and they arrived at
Dover that afternoon.
They agreed to start for London
the next morning. Captain Cheap
and Mr. Hamilton were to drive in a
post-chaise, and John Byron was to
ride. But when they came to divide
the little money they had left, it was Byron rides past the turnpikes
found there would be barely enough
to pay for horses. There was not a farthing left for John Byron to buy any
food he might want on the way, nothing even to pay for the turnpikes.
However, he boldly cheated these by riding as hard as he could through
them all, and paid no attention to the shouts of the men when they tried to
stop him. The want of food he had to put up with.
When he got to the Borough he took a coach and drove to Marlborough
Street, where his people had lived before he left England. But when he

came to the house he found it shut up. He had been away for five years, and
had not heard a word from home all that time, therefore he was at a loss to
know what to do for a few minutes until he remembered a linen draper's
shop near by which his family had used. He drove there, and told them who
he was. They paid his coachman for him, and told him that his sister was
married to Lord Carlisle, and was living in Soho Square.
He went at once to her house; but the porter would not admit him for a
long time. He was strangely dressed; half in Spanish, and half in French
clothing, and besides, he wore very large and very mud-bespattered boots.
The porter was about to shut the door in his face when John Byron
persuaded him to let him in.
Then at last his troubles were over. His sister was delighted to see him,
and at once gave him money with which to buy new clothes. And until he
looked like an Englishman again, he did not feel he had come to the end of
all the strange scenes and adventures that he had experienced for more than
five years.

PETER WILLIAMSON[35]

I WAS born in Hirulay, in the county of Aberdeen. My parents, though
not rich, were respectable, and so long as I was under their care all went
well with me. Unhappily, I was sent to stay with an aunt at Aberdeen,
where, at eight years old, when playing on the quay, I was noticed as a
strong, active little fellow by two men belonging to a vessel in the harbour.
Now this vessel was in the employ of certain merchants of Aberdeen, who
used her for the villainous purpose of kidnapping—that is, stealing young
children from their parents, and selling them as slaves in the plantations
abroad.
These impious monsters, marking me out for their prey, tempted me on
board the ship, which I had no sooner entered than they led me between the
decks to some other boys whom they had kidnapped in like manner. Not
understanding what a fate was in store for me, I passed the time in childish
amusement with the other lads in the steerage, for we were never allowed to
go on deck while the vessel stayed in the harbour, which it did till they had
imprisoned as many luckless boys as they needed.
Then the ship set sail for America. I cannot remember much of the
voyage, being a mere child at the time, but I shall never forget what
happened when it was nearly ended. We had reached the American coast
when a hard gale of wind sprang up from the south-east, and about
midnight the ship struck on a sandbank off Cape May, near Delaware. To
the terror of all on board, it was soon almost full of water. The boat was
then hoisted out, and the captain and his fellow-villains, the crew, got into
it, leaving me and my deluded companions, as they supposed, to perish. The
cries, shrieks, and tears of a throng of children had no effect on these
merciless wretches.
But happily for us the wind abated, and the ship being on a sandbank,
which did not give way to let her deeper, we lay here till morning, when the
captain, unwilling to lose all his cargo, sent some of the crew in a boat to

the ship's side to bring us ashore. A sort of camp was made, and here we
stayed till we were taken in by a vessel bound to Philadelphia.
At Philadelphia people soon
came to buy us. We were sold for
16l. apiece. I never knew what
became of my unhappy
companions, but I was sold for
seven years to one of my
countrymen, Hugh Wilson, who in
his youth had suffered the same
fate as myself in being kidnapped
from his home.
Happy was my lot in falling
into his power, for he was a
humane, worthy man. Having no
children of his own, and pitying
my sad condition, he took great
care of me till I was fit for
business, and at twelve years old
set me about little things till I
could manage harder work.
Meanwhile, seeing my fellow-
servants often reading and writing,
I felt a strong desire to learn, and
THE INDIAN THREATENS PETER told my master that I should be
WILLIAMSON glad to serve a year longer than
the bond obliged me if he would
let me go to school. To this he
readily agreed, and I went every winter for five years, also learning as much
as I could from my fellow-servants.
With this good master I stayed till I was seventeen years old, when he
died, leaving me a sum of money, about 120l. sterling, his best horse, and
all his wearing apparel.

I now maintained myself by working about the country, for anyone who
would employ me, for nearly seven years, when I determined to settle
down. I applied to the daughter of a prosperous planter, and found my suit
was acceptable both to her and her father, so we married. My father-in-law
wishing to establish us comfortably, gave me a tract of land which lay,
unhappily for me, as it has since proved, on the frontiers of Pennsylvania. It
contained about two hundred acres, with a good house and barn.
I was now happy in my home with a good wife; but my peace did not
last long, for about 1754 the Indians in the French interest, who had
formerly been very troublesome in our province, began to renew their old
practices. Even many of the Indians whom we supposed to be in the English
interest joined the plundering bands; it was no wonder, for the French did
their utmost, to win them over, promising to pay 15l. for every scalp of an
Englishman!
Hardly a day passed but some unhappy family fell a victim to French
bribery and savage cruelty. As for me, though now in comfortable
circumstances, with an affectionate and amiable wife, it was not long before
I suddenly became the most pitiable of mankind. I can never bear to think
of the last time I saw my dear wife, on the fatal 2nd of October, 1754. That
day she had left home to visit some of her relations, and, no one being in
the house but myself, I stayed up later than usual, expecting her return.
How great was my terror when, at eleven o'clock at night, I heard the
dismal war-whoop of the savages, and, flying to the window, saw a band of
them outside, about twelve in number.
They made several attempts to get in, and I asked them what they
wanted. They paid no attention, but went on beating at the door, trying to
get it open. Then, having my gun loaded in my hand, I threatened them with
death if they would not go away. But one of them, who could speak a little
English, called out in return that if I did not come out they would burn me
alive in the house. They told me further—what I had already found out—
that they were no friends to the English, but that if I would surrender myself
prisoner they would not kill me.
My horror was beyond all words. I could not depend on the promises of
such creatures, but I must either accept their offer or be burnt alive.

Accordingly I went out of my house with my gun in my hand, not knowing
what I did or that I still held it. Immediately, like so many tigers, they
rushed on me and disarmed me. Having me now completely in their power,
the merciless villains bound me to a tree near the door, and then went into
the house and plundered what they could. Numbers of things which they
were unable to carry away were set fire to with the house and consumed
before my eyes. Then they set fire to my barn, stable, and outhouses, where
I had about two hundred bushels of wheat, and cows, sheep, and horses. My
agony as I watched all this havoc it is impossible to describe.
When the terrible business was over, one of the monsters came to me, a
tomahawk in his hand, threatening me with a cruel death if I would not
consent to go with them. I was forced to agree, promising to do all that was
in my power for them, and trusting to Providence to deliver me out of their
hands. On this they untied me, and gave me a great load to carry on my
back, under which I travelled all that night with them, full of the most
terrible fear lest my unhappy wife should likewise have fallen into their
clutches. At daybreak my master ordered me to lay down my load, when,
tying my hands round a tree with a small cord, they forced the blood out of
my finger ends. They then kindled a fire near the tree to which I was bound,
which redoubled my agony, for I thought they were going to sacrifice me
there.
When the fire was made, they danced round me after their manner, with
all kinds of antics, whooping and crying out in the most horrible fashion.
Then they took the burning coals and sticks, flaming with fire at the ends;
and held them near my face, head, hands and feet, with fiendish delight, at
the same time threatening to burn me entirely if I called out or made the
least noise. So, tortured as I was, I could make no sign of distress but
shedding silent tears, which, when they saw, they took fresh coals, and held
them near my eyes, telling me my face was wet, and they would dry it for
me. I have often wondered how I endured these tortures; but at last they
were satisfied, and sat down round the fire and roasted the meat which they
had brought from my dwelling!
When they had prepared it they offered some to me, and though it may
be imagined that I had not much heart to eat, I was forced to seem pleased,
lest if I refused it they should again begin to torture me. What I could not

eat I contrived to get between
the bark and the tree—my foes
having unbound my hands till
they supposed I had eaten all
they gave me. But then they
bound me as before, and so I
continued all day. When the sun
was set they put out the fire, and
covered the ashes with leaves,
as is their custom, that the white
people may find no signs of
their having been there.
Travelling thence, by the
river, for about six miles, I
being loaded heavily, we
reached a spot near the Blue
Hills, where the savages hid
their plunder under logs of
wood. Thence, shocking to
relate, they went to a
neighbouring house, that of
Jacob Snider, his wife, five
children, and a young man, a 'ANOTHER PARTY OF INDIANS ARRIVED,
servant. They soon forced their BRINGING TWENTY SCALPS AND THREE
way into the unhappy man's PRISONERS'
dwelling, slew the whole family,
and set fire to the house.
The servant's life was spared for a time, since they thought he might be
of use to them, and forthwith loaded him with plunder. But he could not
bear the cruel treatment that we suffered; and though I tried to console him
with a hope of deliverance, he continued to sob and moan. One of the
savages, seeing this, instantly came up, struck him to the ground, and slew
him.
The family of John Adams next suffered. All were here put to death
except Adams himself, a good old man, whom they loaded with plunder,

and day after day continued to treat with the most shocking cruelty, painting
him all over with various colours, plucking the white hairs from his beard,
and telling him he was a fool for living so long, and many other tortures
which he bore with wonderful composure, praying to God.
One night after he had been tortured, when he and I were sitting
together, pitying each other's misfortunes, another party of Indians arrived,
bringing twenty scalps and three prisoners, who gave us terrible accounts of
what tragedies had passed in their parts, on which I cannot bear to dwell.
These three prisoners contrived to escape, but unhappily, not knowing
the country, they were recaptured and brought back. They were then all put
to death, with terrible tortures.
A great snow now falling, the savages began to be afraid that the white
people would follow their tracks upon it and find out their skulking retreats,
and this caused them to make their way to their winter quarters, about two
hundred miles further from any plantations or English inhabitants. There,
after a long and tedious journey, in which I was almost starved, I arrived
with this villainous crew. The place where we had to stay, in their tongue,
was called Alamingo, and there I found a number of wigwams full of Indian
women and children. Dancing, singing, and shooting were their general
amusements, and they told what successes they had had in their expeditions,
in which I found myself part of their theme. The severity of the cold
increasing, they stripped me of my own clothes and gave me what they
usually wear themselves—a blanket, a piece of coarse cloth, and a pair of
shoes made of deer-skin.
The better sort of Indians have shirts of the finest linen they can get; and
with these some wear ruffles, but they never put them on till they have
painted them different colours, and do not take them off to wash, but wear
them till they fall into pieces. They are very proud, and delight in trinkets,
such as silver plates round their wrists and necks, with several strings of
wampum, which is made of cotton, interwoven with pebbles, cockle-shells,
&c. From their ears and noses they have rings and beads, which hang
dangling an inch or two.
The hair of their heads is managed in different ways: some pluck out and
destroy all except a lock hanging from the crown of the head, which they

interweave with wampum and feathers. But the women wear it very long,
twisted down their backs, with beads, feathers, and wampum, and on their
heads they carry little coronets of brass or copper.
No people have a greater love of liberty or affection for their relations,
yet they are the most revengeful race on earth, and inhumanly cruel. They
generally avoid open fighting in war, yet they are brave when taken,
enduring death or torture with wonderful courage. Nor would they at any
time commit such outrages as they do, if they were not tempted by drink
and money by those who call themselves civilised.
At Alamingo I was kept nearly two months, till the snow was off the
ground—a long time to be among such creatures! I was too far from any
plantations or white people to try to escape; besides, the bitter cold made
my limbs quite benumbed. But I contrived to defend myself more or less
against the weather by building a little wigwam with the bark of the trees,
covering it with earth, which made it resemble a cave, and keeping a good
fire always near the door.
Seeing me outwardly submissive, the savages sometimes gave me a little
meat, but my chief food was Indian corn. Having liberty to go about was,
indeed, more than I had expected; but they knew well it was impossible for
me to escape.
At length they prepared for another expedition against the planters and
white people, but before they set out they were joined by many other
Indians from Fort Duquesne, well stored with powder and ball that they had
received from the French.
As soon as the snow was quite gone, so that no trace of their footsteps
could be found, they set out on their journey towards Pennsylvania, to the
number of nearly a hundred and fifty. Their wives and children were left
behind in the wigwams. My duty was to carry whatever they entrusted to
me; but they never gave me a gun. For several days we were almost
famished for want of proper provisions: I had nothing but a few stalks of
Indian corn, which I was glad to eat dry, and the Indians themselves did not
fare much better.

When we again reached the Blue Hills, a council of war was held, and
we agreed to divide into companies of about twenty men each, after which
every captain marched with his party where he thought proper. I still
belonged to my old masters, but was left behind on the mountains with ten
Indians, to stay till the rest returned, as they did not think it safe to carry me
nearer to the plantations.
Here being left, I began to meditate on my escape, for I knew the
country round very well, having often hunted there. The third day after the
great body of the Indians quitted us my keepers visited the mountains in
search of game, leaving me bound in such a way that I could not get free.
When they returned at night they unbound me, and we all sat down to
supper together, feasting on two polecats which they had killed. Then, being
greatly tired with their day's excursion, they lay down to rest as usual.
Seeing them apparently fast asleep, I tried different ways of finding out
whether it was a pretence to see what I should do. But after making a noise
and walking about, sometimes touching them with my feet, I found that
they really slept. My heart exulted at the hope of freedom, but it sank again
when I thought how easily I might be recaptured. I resolved, if possible, to
get one of their guns, and if discovered to die in self-defence rather than be
taken; and I tried several times to take one from under their heads, where
they always secure them. But in vain; I could not have done so without
rousing them.
So, trusting myself to the divine protection, I set out defenceless. Such
was my terror, however, that at first I halted every four or five yards,
looking fearfully towards the spot where I had left the Indians, lest they
should wake and miss me. But when I was about two hundred yards off I
mended my pace, and made all the haste I could to the foot of the
mountains.
Suddenly I was struck with the greatest terror and dismay, hearing
behind me the fearful cries and howlings of the savages, far worse than the
roaring of lions or the shrieking of hyænas; and I knew that they had missed
me. The more my dread increased the faster I hurried, scarce knowing
where I trod, sometimes falling and bruising myself, cutting my feet against
the stones, yet, faint and maimed as I was, rushing on through the woods. I

fled till daybreak, then crept into a hollow tree, where I lay concealed,
thanking God for so far having favoured my escape. I had nothing to eat but
a little corn.
But my repose did not last long, for in a few hours I heard the voices of
the savages near the tree in which I was hid threatening me with what they
would do if they caught me, which I already guessed too well. However, at
last they left the spot where I heard them, and I stayed in my shelter the rest
of that day without any fresh alarms.
At night I ventured out again, trembling at every bush I passed, and
thinking each twig that touched me a savage. The next day I concealed
myself in the same manner, and at night travelled forward, keeping off the
main road, used by the Indians, as much as possible, which made my
journey far longer, and more painful than I can express.
But how shall I describe my terror when, on the fourth night, a party of
Indians lying round a small fire which I had not seen, hearing the rustling I
made among the leaves, started from the ground, seizing their arms, and ran
out into the wood? I did not know in my agony of fear whether to stand still
or rush on. I expected nothing but a terrible death; but at that very moment
a troop of swine made towards the place where the savages were. They,
seeing the hogs, guessed that their alarm had been caused by them, and
returned merrily to their fire and lay down to sleep again. As soon as this
happened I pursued my way more cautiously and silently, but in a cold
perspiration with terror at the peril I had just escaped. Bruised, cut, and
shaken, I still held on my path till break of day, when I lay down under a
huge log, and slept undisturbed till noon. Then, getting up, I climbed a great
hill, and, scanning the country round, I saw, to my unspeakable joy, some
habitations of white people, about ten miles distant.
My pleasure was somewhat damped by not being able to get among
them that night. But they were too far off; therefore, when evening fell, I
again commended myself to Heaven, and lay down, utterly exhausted. In
the morning, as soon as I woke, I made towards the nearest of the cleared
lands which I had seen the day before; and that afternoon I reached the
house of John Bull, an old acquaintance. I knocked at the door, and his

wife, who opened it, seeing me in such a frightful condition, flew from me
like lightning, screaming, into the house.
This alarmed the whole family, who immediately seized their arms, and I
was soon greeted by the master with his gun in his hand. But when I made
myself known—for at first he took me for an Indian—he and all his family
welcomed me with great joy at finding me alive; since they had been told I
was murdered by the savages some months ago.
No longer able to bear up, I fainted and fell to the ground. When they
had recovered me, seeing my weak and famished state, they gave me some
food, but let me at first partake of it very sparingly. Then for two days and
nights they made me welcome, and did their utmost to bring back my
strength, with the kindest hospitality. Finding myself once more able to
ride, I borrowed a horse and some clothes of these good people, and set out
for my father-in-law's house in Chester county, about a hundred and forty
miles away. I reached it on January 4, 1755; but none of the family could
believe their eyes when they saw me, having lost all hope on hearing that I
had fallen a prey to the Indians.
They received me with great joy; but when I asked for my dear wife I
found she had been dead two months, and this fatal news greatly lessened
the delight I felt at my deliverance.

A WONDERFUL VOYAGE

T HIS is a story of a man who, when in command of his ships and when
everything went prosperously with him, was so overbearing and cruel
that some of his men, in desperation at the treatment they received,
mutinied against him. But the story shows another side of his character in
adversity which it is impossible not to admire.
In 1787 Captain Bligh was sent from England to Otaheite in charge of
the 'Bounty,' a ship which had been specially fitted out to carry young plants
of the breadfruit tree, for transplantation to the West Indies.
'The breadfruit grows on a spreading tree, about the size of a large apple
tree; the fruit is round, and has a thick tough rind. It is gathered when it is
full-grown, and while it is still green and hard; it is then baked in an oven
until the rind is black and scorched. This is scraped off, and the inside is
soft and white like the crumb of a penny loaf.'
The Otaheitans use no other bread but the fruit kind. It is, therefore, little
wonder that the West Indian planters were anxious to grow this valuable
fruit in their own islands, as, if it flourished there, food would be provided
with little trouble for their servants and slaves.
In the passage to Otaheite, Captain Bligh had several disturbances with
his men. He had an extremely irritable temper, and would often fly into a
passion and make most terrible accusations, and use most terrible language
to his officers and sailors.
On one occasion he ordered the crew to eat some decayed pumpkins,
instead of their allowance of cheese, which he said they had stolen from the
ship's stores.
The pumpkin was to be given to the men at the rate of one pound of
pumpkin to two pounds of biscuits.
The men did not like accepting the substitute on these terms. When the
captain heard this, he was infuriated, and ordered the first man of each mess

to be called by name, at the same time saying to them, 'I'll see who will dare
refuse the pumpkin or anything else I may order to be served out.' Then,
after swearing at them in a shocking way, he ended by saying, 'I'll make you
eat grass, or anything else you can catch before I have done with you,' and
threatened to flog the first man who dared to complain again.
While they were at Otaheite several of the sailors were flogged for small
offences, or without reason, and on the other hand, during the seven months
they stayed at the island, both officers and men were allowed to spend a
great deal of time on shore, and were given the greatest possible liberty.
Therefore, when the breadfruit plants were collected, and they weighed
anchor on April 4 in 1787, it is not unlikely they were loth to return to the
strict discipline of the ship, and to leave an island so lovely, and where it
was possible to live in the greatest luxury without any kind of labour.
From the time they sailed until April 27, Christian, the third officer, had
been in constant hot water with Captain Bligh. On the afternoon of that day,
when the captain came on deck, he missed some cocoanuts that had been
heaped up between the guns. He said at once that they had been stolen, and
that it could not have happened without the officers knowing of it. When
they told him they had not seen any of the crew touch them, he cried, 'Then
you must have taken them yourselves!' After this he questioned them
separately; when he came to Christian, he answered, 'I do not know, sir, but
I hope you do not think me so mean as to be guilty of stealing yours.'
The captain swore terribly, and said, 'You must have stolen them from
me, or you would be able to give a better account of them!' He turned to the
others with much more abuse, and saying, 'D—n you! you scoundrels, you
are all thieves alike, and combine with the men to rob me. I suppose you'll
steal my yams next, but I'll sweat you for it, you rascals! I'll make half of
you jump overboard before you get through Endeavour Straits!'
Then he turned to the clerk, giving the order to 'stop the villains' grog,
and to give them but half a pound of yams to-morrow: if they steal them, I'll
reduce them to a quarter.'
That night Christian, who was hardly less passionate and resentful than
the captain, told two of the midshipmen, Stewart and Hayward, that he

intended to leave the ship on a raft, as he could no longer endure the
captain's suspicion and insults. He was very angry and excited, and made
some preparations for carrying out his plan, though these had to be done
with the greatest secrecy and care.
It was his duty to take the morning watch, which is from four to eight
o'clock, and this time he thought would he a good opportunity to make his
escape. He had only just fallen into a restless slumber when he was called to
take his turn.

The captain guarded by the mutineers

He got up with his brain still alert with the sense of injury and wrong,
and most curiously alive to seize any opportunity which might lead to an
escape from so galling a service.
On reaching the deck, he found the mate of the watch had fallen asleep,
and that the other midshipman was not to be seen.
Then he made a sudden determination to seize the ship, and rushing
down the gangway ladder, whispered his intention to Matthew Quintal and
Isaac Martin, seamen, both of whom had been flogged. They readily agreed
to join him, and several others of the watch were found to be quite as
willing.

Someone went to the armourer for the keys of the arm chest, telling him
they wanted to fire at a shark alongside.
Christian then armed those men whom he thought he could trust, and
putting a guard at the officers' cabins, went himself with three other men to
the captain's cabin.
It was just before sunrise when they dragged him from his bed, and tying
his hands behind his back, threatened him with instant death if he should
call for help or offer any kind of resistance. He was taken up to the quarter
deck in his nightclothes, and made to stand against the mizzen mast with
four men to guard him.
Christian then gave orders to lower the boat in which he intended to cast
them adrift, and one by one the men were allowed to come up the
hatchways, and made to go over the side of the ship into it. Meanwhile no
heed was given to the remonstrances, reasoning, and prayers of the captain,
saving threats of death unless he was quiet.
Some twine, canvas, sails, a small cask of water, and a quadrant and
compass were put into the boat, also some bread and a small quantity of
rum and wines. When this was done the officers were brought up one by
one and forced over the side. There was a great deal of rough joking at the
captain's expense, who was still made to stand by the mizzen-mast, and
much bad language was used by everybody.
When all the officers were out of the ship, Christian said, 'Come,
Captain Bligh, your officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go
with them; if you make the least resistance you will be instantly put to
death.'
He was lowered over the side with his hands still fastened behind his
back, and directly after the boat was veered astern with a rope.
Someone with a little pity for them threw in some pieces of pork and
some clothes, as well as two or three cutlasses; these were the only arms
given.
There were altogether nineteen men in this pitiful strait. Although much
of the conduct of the mutineers is easily understood with regard to the

captain, the wholesale crime of thrusting so many innocent persons out on
to the mercy of the winds and waves, or out to the death from hunger and
thirst which they must have believed would inevitably overtake them, is
incomprehensible.
As the 'Bounty' sailed away, leaving them to their fate, those in the boat
cast anxious looks to the captain as wondering what should then be done. At
a time when his mind must have been full of the injury he had received, and
the loss of his ship at a moment when his plans were so flourishing and he
had every reason to congratulate himself as to the ultimate success of the
undertaking, it is much in his favour that he seems to have realised their
unfortunate position and to have been determined to make the best of it.

THE SAVAGES ATTACK THE BOAT

His first care was to see how much food they had. On examining it they
found there was a hundred and fifty pounds of bread, thirty-two pounds of
pork, six quarts of rum, six bottles of wine, and twenty-eight gallons of
water.
As they were so near Tofoa they determined to put in there for a supply
of breadfruit and water, so that they might keep their other provisions. But
after rowing along the coast for some time, they only discovered some
cocoanut trees on the top of a stony cliff, against which the sea beat

furiously. After several attempts they succeeded in getting about twenty
nuts. The second day they failed to get anything at all.
However, some natives came down to the boat and made inquiries about
the ship; but the captain unfortunately told the men to say she had been lost,
and that only they were saved.
This proved most disastrous; for the treacherous natives, finding they
were defenceless, at first brought them presents of breadfruit, plantains and
cocoanuts, rendering them all more hopeful and cheerful by their kindness.
But towards night their numbers increased in a most alarming manner, and
soon the whole beach was lined by them.
Presently they began knocking stones together, by which the men knew
they intended to make an attack upon them. They made haste to get all the
things into the boat, and all but one, named John Norton, succeeded in
reaching it. The natives rushed upon this poor man and stoned him to death.
Those in the boat put to sea with all haste, but were again terribly
alarmed to find themselves followed by natives in canoes from which they
renewed the attack.
Many of the sailors were a good deal hurt by stones, and they had no
means at all with which to protect themselves. At last they threw some
clothes overboard; these tempted the enemy to stop to pick them up, and as
soon as night came on they gave up the chase and returned to the shore.
All the men now begged Captain Bligh to take them towards England;
but he told them there could be no hope of relief until they reached Timor, a
distance of full twelve hundred leagues; and that, if they wished to reach it,
they would have to content themselves with one ounce of bread and a
quarter of a pint of water a day. They all readily agreed to this allowance of
food, and made a most solemn oath not to depart from their promise to be
satisfied with the small quantity. This was about May 2. After the compact
was made, the boat was put in order, the men divided into watches, and they
bore away under a reefed lug-foresail.
A fiery sun rose on the 3rd, which is commonly a sign of rough weather,
and filled the almost hopeless derelicts with a new terror.

In an hour or two it blew very hard, and the sea ran so high that their sail
was becalmed between the waves; they did not dare to set it when on the
top of the sea, for the water rushed in over the stern of the boat, and they
were obliged to bale with all their might.
The bread was in bags, and in the greatest danger of being spoiled by the
wet. They were obliged to throw some rope and the spare sails overboard,
as well as all the clothes but what they wore, to lighten the boat, then the
carpenter's tool-chest was cleared and the bread put into it.
They were all very wet and cold, and a teaspoonful of rum was served to
each man, with a quarter of a breadfruit which was so bad that it could
hardly be eaten; but the captain was determined at all risks to keep to the
compact they had entered into, and to make their provisions last eight
weeks.
In the afternoon the sea ran even higher, and at night it became very
cold; but still they did not dare to leave off baling for an instant, though
their legs and arms were numb with fatigue and wet.
In the morning a teaspoonful of rum was served to all, and five small
cocoanuts divided for their dinner, and everyone was satisfied.
When the gale had subsided they examined the bread, and found a great
deal of it had become mouldy and rotten; but even this was carefully kept
and used. The boat was now near some islands, but they were afraid to go
on shore, as the natives might attack them; while being in sight of land,
where they might replenish their poor stock of provisions and rest
themselves, added to their misery. One morning they hooked a fish, and
were overjoyed at their good fortune; but in trying to get it into the boat it
was lost, and again they had to content themselves with the damaged bread
and small allowance of water for their supper.
They were dreadfully cramped for room, and were obliged to manage so
that half their number should lie down in the bottom of the boat or upon a
chest, while the others sat up and kept watch: their limbs became so stiff
from being constantly wet, and from want of space to stretch them in, that
after a few hours' sleep they were hardly able to move.

About May 7 they passed what the captain supposed must be the Fiji
Islands, and two large canoes put off and followed them for some time, but
in the afternoon they gave up the chase. It rained heavily that day, and
everyone in the boat did his best to catch some water, and they succeeded in
increasing their stock to thirty-four gallons, besides having had enough to
drink for the first time since they had been east adrift; but the rain made
them very cold and miserable, and as they had no dry things their shiverings
were terrible.
The next morning they had an ounce and a half of pork, a teaspoonful of
rum, half a pint of cocoanut milk, and an ounce of bread for breakfast,
which was quite a large meal for them. The rum, though (or because) in
such small quantities, is said to have been of the greatest service to them.
Through fifteen weary days and nights of ceaseless rain they toiled,
sometimes through fierce storms of thunder and lightning, and before
terrific seas lashed into foam and fury by swift and sudden squalls, with
only their miserable pittance of bread and water to keep body and soul
together. Now and then a little rum was given after any extra fatigue of
baling, but only at the times set apart for meals.
In this rain and storm the little sleep they got only added to their
discomfort, save for the brief forgetfulness it brought; for they had to lie
down in water in the bottom of the boat, and with no covering but the
streaming clouds above them.
The captain then advised them to wring their clothes through sea-water,
which they found made them feel much warmer for a time.
On May 17 everyone was ill and complaining of great pain, and begging
for more food; but the captain refused to increase their allowance, though
he gave them all a small quantity of rum.
Until the 24th they flew before the wild seas that swept over stem and
stern of their boat, and kept them constantly baling.
Some of them now looked more than half dead from starvation, but no
one suffered from thirst, as they had absorbed so much water through the
skin.

A fine morning dawned on the 25th, when they saw the sun for the first
time for fifteen days, and were able to eat their scanty allowance in more
comfort and warmth. In the afternoon there were numbers of birds called
boobies and noddies near, which are never seen far from land.
The captain took this opportunity to look at the state of their bread, and
found if they did not exceed their allowance there was enough to last for
twenty-nine days, when they hoped to reach Timor. That afternoon some
noddies came so near the boat that one was caught. These birds are about
the size of a small pigeon; it was divided into eighteen parts and given by
lot. The men were much amused when they saw the beak and claws fall to
the lot of the captain. The bird was eaten, bones and all, with bread and
water, for dinner.
Now they were in calmer seas they were overtaken by a new trouble.
The heat of the sun became so great that many of them were overcome by
faintness, and lay in the bottom of the boat in an apathetic state all day, only
rousing themselves towards evening, when the catching of birds was
attempted.
On the morning of the 28th the sound of breakers could be heard plainly;
they had reached the Great Barrier Beef, which runs up much of the east
coast of Australia.
After some little time a passage nearly a quarter of a mile in width was
discovered through the reef, and they were carried by a strong current into
the peaceful waters which lie within the Barrier.
For a little time they were so overjoyed that their past troubles were
forgotten. The dull blue-grey lines of the mainland, with its white patches of
glaring sandhills, could be seen in the distance, and that afternoon they
landed on an island.
They found the rocks around it were covered with oysters and huge
clams, which could easily be got at low tide. Some of their party sent out to
reconnoitre returned greatly pleased at having found plenty of fresh water.
A fire was made by help of a small magnifying-glass. Among the things
thrown into the boat from the ship was a small copper pot; and thus with a

mixture of oysters, bread, and pork a stew was made, and everyone had
plenty to eat.
The day after they landed was the 29th of May, the anniversary of the
restoration of King Charles II., and as the captain thought it applied to their
own renewed health and strength, he named it Restoration Island.
After a few days' rest, which did much to revive the men, and when they
had filled all their vessels with water and had gathered a large supply of
oysters, they were ready to go on again.
As they were about to start everybody was ordered to attend prayers, and
as they were embarking about twenty naked savages came running and
shouting towards them, each carrying a long barbed spear, but the English
made all haste to put to sea.
For several days they sailed over the lake-like stillness of the Barrier
reef-bound waters, and past the bold desolations of the Queensland coast,
every headland and bay there bearing the names Cook gave them only a few
years before, and which still tell us by that nomenclature each its own story
of disappointment and hope.
Still making way to the north, they passed many more islands and keys,
the onward passage growing hot and hotter, until on June 3, when they
doubled Cape York, the peninsula which is all but unique in its northward
bend, they were again in the open sea.
By this time many of them were ill with malaria, then for the first time
some of the wine which they had with them was used.
But the little boat still bravely made its way with its crew, whose faces
were so hollow and ghastly that they looked like a crew of spectres, sailing
beneath the scorching sun that beat down from the pale blue of the
cloudless sky upon a sea hardly less blue in its greater depths. Only the
hope that they would soon reach Timor seemed to rouse them from a state
of babbling delirium or fitful slumber.
On the 11th the captain told them they had passed the meridian of the
east of Timor; and at three o'clock on the next morning they sighted the
land.

It was on Sunday, June 14, when they arrived at Company Bay, and were
received with every kindness by the people.
Thus ended one of the most remarkable voyages that has ever been
made. They had been sent out with provisions only sufficient for their
number for five days, and Captain Bligh had, by his careful calculation, and
determination to give each man only that equal portion they had agreed to
accept, made it last for fifty days, during which time they had come three
thousand six hundred and eighteen nautical miles.
There had been days when the men were so hunger-driven that they had
besought him with pitiful prayers for more to eat, and when it was his
painful duty to refuse it; and times, as they passed those islands where
plentiful food could be got, when he had to turn a deaf ear to their longings
to land. He had to endure the need of food, the cramped position, the uneasy
slumber, as did his men; as well as the more perfect knowledge of their
dangers. There had been days and nights while he worked out their bearings
when he had to be propped up as he took the stars or sun.
It was, therefore, Captain Bligh's good seamanship, his strict discipline
and fairness in the method of giving food and wine to those who were sick,
that enabled them to land at Timor with the whole of their number alive,
with the exception of the one man who was stoned to death by the savages
at Tofoa.

THE PITCAIRN ISLANDERS

I T will be remembered that nothing had been heard of the 'Bounty' since
she was seen off Point Venus on the morning of September 22, 1789.
In 1809, just twenty years after, when Captain Folger, of the American
ship 'Topaz,' landed at Pitcairn Island, one of the most remote of the islands
in the Pacific, he found there a solitary Englishman and five Otaheitan
women and nineteen children. The man, who gave his name as Alexander
Smith, said he was the only remaining person of the nine who had escaped
in the 'Bounty.'
Although this information was given to the Admiralty shortly after, it
was not until the year 1814, when the 'Briton,' under the command of Sir
Thomas Staines, and the 'Tagus,' under that of Captain Pipon, were cruising
in the Pacific, that one day on which the ships were sailing in the same
direction about six leagues apart, both commanders were greatly surprised
to see an island in lat. 24° 40' and long. 130° 24' W.
They were puzzled to know what it could be, as Pitcairn Island (named
after a son of Major Pitcairn who was lost in the 'Aurora'), the only one
known in the neighbourhood, was marked on their charts as in long. 133°
24' W., more than three degrees out.
They thought they had made a new discovery, and as they ran in for the
land they were astonished to see some neatly-built huts surrounded by
gardens and plantations.
Some people were seen coming down the cliff with canoes on their
shoulders. Presently one was launched and made off through the heavy surf
towards the ships. They were more surprised than ever when one of the
young men in it cried out in English as they came alongside, 'Won't you
heave us a rope, now?'
He sprang up the side of the ship swiftly. When on deck he told Sir
Thomas Staines and Captain Pipon, when they asked him who he was, that

his name was Thursday October Christian, and that he was the son of the
late Fletcher Christian by an Otaheitan mother; that he was the first born on
the island, and his name was given him as he had been born on a Thursday
in October. He was now twenty-four years of age, and had a fine muscular
figure, dark hair, and a brownish complexion, and 'in his good-natured and
benevolent countenance he had all the features of an honest English face.'
He wore no clothing except a small piece of cloth about his loins and a
straw hat trimmed with cock's feathers. He spoke English correctly and
pleasantly both as to grammar and pronunciation. He also told them he was
married to a woman much older than himself, one of those who had come
with his father from Otaheite. His companion was a fine boy of about
seventeen or eighteen years, named George Young, son of Young the
midshipman.
The islanders were
much surprised at the
many things new to
them in the ship, at the
guns, and everything
around them. They
were greatly
entertained at the sight
of a little dog. 'Oh,
what a pretty little
thing it is!' exclaimed
Young. 'I know it is a
dog, for I have heard of
such an animal.'
The young men told
the captains of many of
the events that had
The Pitcairn islanders on board the English frigate happened among the
first settlers; but said
that John Adams, now an old man, could tell them much more. He was the
only surviving Englishman that came away in the 'Bounty,' and at that time
he was called Alexander Smith.

The captains determined to go on shore to see Adams, and to hear from
him the true story of Christian's fate, and of that of his companions.
Adams, who had been concealed since the arrival of the ships, when he
found that the two captains had landed and were not armed, and that they
did not intend to take him prisoner, came to the beach to meet them, and
brought his wife with him, who was a very old woman and nearly blind.
After so many years the sight of the King's uniform no doubt brought
back the scene of the 'Bounty' to Adams, for at first he was very nervous
and ill at ease.
However, when Sir Thomas Staines assured him they were not there
with any intention of taking him away, that they were not even aware that
such a person as himself existed, he regained confidence, and then told
them he had taken the name of John Adams since the sole care of the
women and children on the island had fallen upon him. He pretended he
had not taken any great share in the mutiny, that he was sick in bed when it
took place, and that he had been roused up and compelled to take a musket
in his hand. He said he was now ready and willing to go back to England in
one of the ships.
When the islanders heard him say this, all the women and children wept
bitterly, and the young men stood motionless and absorbed in grief. When
the officers again assured them that he should on no account be molested,
the people were overcome with joy and gratitude. Adams then told them of
the fate of the 'Bounty' and of the rest of the mutineers.

It is easy to suppose that when Christian sailed for the last time from
Otaheite his mind was full of misgiving; that he bitterly repented the rash
act by which the ship had fallen into his hands and by which in all
probability nineteen men had lost their lives, and also the wrecked and
criminal lives of his followers. The picture of the derelict crew in their little
boat was ever in his mind as he had last seen them watching with despairing
eyes their ship sail away; and again as distance blurred all form, and it lay a

blot on the sunny waters, immediately before it was hidden by the horizon
line.
That blot became ever blacker and heavier to his mental vision as one by
one his projects failed. A sullen and morose outcast for ever from
civilisation, he sailed out into the unknown seas with his little band of
desperate followers, to find if possible some solitary island, some unknown
spot, where they might be lost for ever from the world.
Curiously, the place which he pictured, the object for which he sought,
was soon after given to him to find.
Its steep cliffs rise from the sea precipitously, and beyond and above
them a ridge of rocky hills runs from north to south, from which, again, two
mountainous peaks of a thousand feet and more in height stand up like
sentinels.
At a little distance from the coast-line a white wall of surf lashes itself
into fury, and breaks everlastingly over the hidden reefs that raise so
formidable a guard around the island as to render safe landing impossible
save only at particular places and times.
Encouraged by this forbidding coast-line, after they had sailed all round
the island they effected a landing, and finding it uninhabited, they decided
to make it their home. The 'Bounty' was run into an inlet between the cliffs,
and after she had been dismantled and her materials used for building
houses, in 1790 they burnt her, as they feared she might attract the notice of
any ship that should chance to pass.
The first thing they did after their arrival was to divide the land into nine
equal parts, giving none to the Otaheitan men, who it is said had been
carried off from their own island by force. At first they were kindly treated
by the white men; but afterwards they made them their slaves.
When they had been on the island a few weeks Christian became more
gloomy and taciturn, and his conduct to the others grew more overbearing
and unreasonable day by day.
Fear entered into his soul, and he looked with dislike and suspicion upon
all around him, shunned their companionship and sought a place where he

could be alone with his dark thoughts. Up at the extreme end of the ridge of
hills that runs across the island the almost inaccessible cave may still be
seen to which he carried a store of provisions and ammunition, and thus
shut himself off from the others, and with only the sound of the roaring
breakers as they beat on the shore below to disturb his solitude, the madman
dwelt alone with his terrible history of the past.
One story is that in a fit of
maniacal insanity he flung
himself over the rocks into the
sea. Another that he was shot by
one of the mutineers whilst
digging in a plantation.
The accounts are
contradictory. But whether from
suicide or murder, his death
happened within a year after he
landed at Pitcairn Island.
For about two years, while
they all worked at the building
of the houses and at cultivating
the ground, the Otaheitan men
toiled without a murmur. But
when Williams, who had lost
his wife, insisted that he would
take one of theirs or leave the
island in one of the 'Bounty's'
boats, the other Englishmen,
who did not want to part with
'THE MADMAN DWELT ALONE'
him, compelled one of the
Otaheitans to give his wife to
him.
From this time the Otaheitans became discontented, until the man whose
wife had been taken away was murdered in the woods; then things went on
more quietly for a year or two longer, when two of the most desperate and

cruel of the mutineers, Quintal and M'Koy, at last drove them to form a plot
to destroy their oppressors. A day was fixed by them to attack and put to
death all the Englishmen when they were at work in the yam plots.
They killed Martin and Brown, one with a maul, the other with a musket,
while Adams made his escape, though he was wounded in the shoulder by a
bullet.
Young, who was a great favourite with the women, was hidden by them
during the attack, while M'Koy and Quintal fled to the woods.
That night all the native men were murdered by the widows of the
Europeans. This happened in 1793. From that time till 1798 the colonists
went on quietly, until M'Koy, who had once been employed in a Scotch
distillery, and had for some time been making experiments on the ti root,
succeeded in extracting from it an intoxicating liquor.
After this Quintal also gave his whole time to making the spirit, and in
consequence the two men were constantly drunk, and in one of his fits of
delirium M'Koy threw himself from a cliff, and was instantly killed. Quintal
became more and more unmanageable, and frequently threatened to destroy
Adams and Young—who, knowing that he would carry out his threat,
determined to kill him. This they did by felling him with an axe as they
would an ox.
Thus it was that at last only two men were left on the island, Adams and
Young. The latter, who was of a quiet and studious nature, resolved to have
prayers every morning and evening, and regular services on Sunday, and to
teach the children, of whom there were nineteen, several of them then being
between the ages of seven and nine years. Young, however, did not live
long, but died of asthma about a year after the murder of Quintal.

Old John Adams teaches the children

In their beautiful island of the sea, where the lordly banyans grow, and
where the feathery cocoanut palms stand boldly along the cliffs, or here and
there fringe the rocky beach—for in this temperate climate just without the
tropics there are but few trees and vegetables that will not grow—there,
unknown for many years to the world, and far away from its busy jar and
fret, the simple and kindly natures that these children of Pitcairn Island
must have inherited from their Otaheitan mothers were trained to an almost
perfect sense of duty and piety by old John Adams.
With a Bible and Prayer-book to aid him he persevered with his self-
imposed task. It was a task that must often have cost him much labour and
patient study, for though he could read he was not able to write until he was
a very old man.
Though in the eyes of the law his crime can never be wiped out, in the
eyes of humanity, his sincere repentance and long and tender devotion to his
charge—a charge that ended only on the day of his death—will for ever
render the last of the mutineers a character to be remembered with
admiration and respect.

A RELATION OF THREE YEARS' SUFFERING
OF ROBERT EVERARD UPON THE ISLAND OF
ASSADA, NEAR MADAGASCAR, IN A VOYAGE
TO INDIA, IN THE YEAR 1686[36]

W HEN I was a boy, my father, Mr. William Everard, apprenticed me
to the captain of a ship bound for Bombay in India, and thence to
Madagascar, for blacks. I left London on August 5, 1686, and after different
adventures on the voyage, of which I need not here speak, our ship reached
Madagascar.
The King of Madagascar received us kindly enough, and promised in
about a month to furnish the captain with as many negroes as he desired.
This satisfied us very well, and, mooring the ship, we stayed some days,
trading with the negroes for rice and hens and bananas.
Now one day the supercargo and six of the men and myself went ashore,
taking guns and powder, and knives and scissors to trade with, and the
ship's dog went with us. And, carrying our chest of goods to the house of
one of the natives, we traded, and the negroes brought us such things as
they had in exchange.
But presently we heard a great noise, and a crowd began to gather, so
that we thought the King was coming. But, alas! we soon found that the
people of the town had risen against us, and ten or twelve broke in with
their lances, and killed five of the boat's crew and the man who took care of
the boat! The supercargo, running out of the house to get to the King, was
thrust through by one of these murderous natives, and died immediately. I
myself, being knocked down by the fall of the others, lay among the dead
like one dead.
When the blacks took them up, however, they saw I was alive, and did
not kill me in cold blood, but carried me to the King's house, which was just

by the house where they had killed our men, whose bodies I saw them
carrying down to fling into the sea as I looked out at the King's door.
He bade me sit down, and ordered the women to bring me some boiled
rice on a plantain leaf, but in my terrible condition I could not eat. At night
the King's men showed me my lodging in a small hut among the slaves,
where I remained till the morning.
That morning our
ship sailed. All the
night as she lay there
she had kept firing her
great guns, and one
shot came into the
middle of the King's
house, and went
through it.
But when she had
sailed I saw some of
the blacks with bottles
of wine taken out of the
great cabin, which I
myself had filled the
morning I went ashore.
Death of the supercargo They had also the
captain's sword and the
ship's compass, and
some great pieces of the flag tied round their waists. So I asked those
negroes who understood a little English if they had killed any on board.
They said 'Yes,' and told me that the blacks in a canoe that went to our ship
to trade had lances hidden, and fell upon the captain and the mate, who
suspected nothing, and killed them and some others of our men, but the rest
had time to arm themselves, and so drove the blacks away.
I asked them also why they killed our men, and they told the King, who
answered that an English ship had been before, and played the rogue with
them, and killed some of the natives, and they had therefore taken revenge.

After this the King went to visit his towns, and bid me go along with
him; and I went first to one place and then another, to be shown to the
people. But the women when they saw me shrieked and ran away in a fright
—never having seen a white man, and thinking I was a spirit.
Then the King and his army went to the other side of the island, and
carried me with them and our dog, and there he began mustering together a
greater army, taking more men out of every town he visited. As soon as the
women saw the King and his army coming, they got their sticks and came
dancing for joy. And when he came into a town a mat was laid on the
ground for him to sit on. When he sat down the wife of the chief of the town
came out with some white stuff upon a stone, and dipped her finger in it,
and put one spot on the King's forehead, and one on each cheek, and one on
his chin; and so they did to his four wives who went with him. Then, when
the women had done spotting them, the captain of the town and all his men
came before the King, some with great calabashes full of liquor, and he bid
the captain get his men ready to go along with the army, which was done in
a day's time. Thus he went from town to town.
The dog belonging to our ship went too, and when he saw any hogs, he
ran and barked at them till the negroes came and killed them with their
lances. And sometimes he would fetch a young pig and bring it to me.
It was six or seven weeks before they reached the town of the enemy,
and rushed into it, firing and striking with their lances, and killing or taking
prisoners all who did not run away. Then marching further up the country
they met with the enemy's whole army; and for about a month they fought
with them day after day, our side nearly always getting the better of it.
When as many prisoners had been taken as the King needed for slaves,
we marched back again through the towns, and the people brought great
parcels of rice made up in plantain leaves, and pots of boiled fish for the
King and his men to eat with their rice. They used to sit four, and six, or
eight together; they also gave me some by myself, on a plantain leaf. This
they did at every town where the King came. But as I was coming back
with them I was taken lightheaded, so that sometimes I fell down, and could
not stir without extreme pain.

About a week after we reached our own town the King asked me if I
could make powder. I told him 'No;' he then asked if I could make shot. I
said 'Yes;' and he told his men to fetch some lead, and clay for the moulds,
and as well as I could I made three or four hundred shot. The King was
pleased with these, and while I was making them I had victuals given me,
and some of their best drink.
But afterwards the King bid me go about the island with some of his
men to find flint stones; and when I could find none he took no more notice
of me, but turned me out of his house, and would not let me come into it
any more. Then I had to seek for my own food to save myself from being
starved, and it pleased God that I found such food as the natives eat—yams
and potatoes, which I dug out of the earth with a piece of sharp stone,
having neither knife nor any other tool. And I made fire as the natives did,
rubbing together two pieces of stick, and roasted my yams, and gathered
bananas and oranges and other fruit. Then sometimes I caught fish with a
small, sharp-pointed stick, and crabs, and now and then a turtle. I also found
turtles' eggs. I used to keep yams and potatoes by me to serve five or six
days, and when they were gone I hunted for more.
My lodging was under a tree on the hard ground, where I slept for two
years and nine months and sometimes in the year it would rain for three
months together, or only become fine for an hour or so—yet for all that I
lay under the tree still. I always had a fire on each side of me to keep me
warm, because I had no covering but the branches and leaves of the tree.
Sometimes in the night I crept outside the cottage of one of the natives for
shelter, but I was forced to be gone before they were up for fear they would
do me harm.
When I wanted water I went almost a mile for a drink, and had nothing
to bring back a little water in to keep by me and drink whenever I was
thirsty. Also, I had to see that there were no blacks near the water, lest they
should set upon me.
Two years after I had come to the country I suffered terrible pain with
sores that broke out upon me, but finding some honey in a rock by the
seaside, I made a kind of salve which gave me a little ease. But now the
time of my worst distress was drawing to an end.

For when I had been three years in the island there came Arabs to buy
negroes, and I pleaded with them to take me away, telling them how it was
that I, an English boy, was left in this condition. Then the chief merchant of
the Arabs said he could not carry me away without the King's leave, for it
would spoil their trade; but he would try to get me clear, and as long as the
Arabian vessel lay there I might come to his house and get food and drink.
About six weeks after the merchant sent for me, and told me he had
bought me of the King for twenty dollars, and that he would carry me to my
own country people again.
The ship lay there about ten weeks, and when they had got all their
negroes we sailed from Madagascar. But all the history of my voyaging
with the Arabs, who treated me with much kindness, and sold me at last to
Englishmen, would be too long to relate. When I first saw my own
countrymen I had forgotten English, so that I could only speak to them in
the language of Madagascar; but by the time I had been among them six or
seven days my English came back, and I could tell them my story.
At last I was taken on board an English ship called the 'Diana,' and,
sailing in this, I reached Yarmouth and afterwards Blackwall, where I met
my father, to the great joy of us both. Thus I conclude my narrative, with
humble thanks to God for His wonderful preservation of me through so
many hardships and dangers.

THE FIGHT AT SVOLDER ISLAND (a.d. 1000)

O LAF TRYGGVASON, King of Norway, had sailed with a large fleet
eastwards to Wendland, passing through the Danish king's dominion
without his goodwill, and was now returning thence. He sailed with a light
breeze and fair weather for Denmark, the smaller ships going before, and
the larger ships following behind because they needed more wind.
At an island off Wendland were gathered many great chiefs: the island is
called Svolder. In this fleet was Sweyn, King of the Danes, who had many
charges against King Olaf—one being that Olaf had taken to wife Sweyn's
sister without his leave; another that he had established himself in Norway,
a land tributary to Sweyn and subdued by King Harold his father. Earl
Sigvaldi was there with the Danish king because he was his earl. And in this
combined fleet was a mighty chief, Olaf the Swede, King of the Swedes,
who deemed he had to avenge on King Olaf of Norway great dishonour; for
he had broken betrothals with, and smitten with his glove, Olaf the Swede's
mother. This same woman Sigridr Sweyn, the Danish king, had now to
wife, and she was strongly urging on Sweyn to do King Olaf hurt or
dishonour. With this fleet, too, was Earl Eric, Hacon's son, who deemed he
had very great charges against King Olaf and his men, because they had
been present at the slaying of his father, Earl Hacon, and had driven out of
the land all his sons; and Olaf had established himself in the kingdom
afterwards.
These chiefs had an overwhelming host, and lay in a harbour on the
inner side of the island; but King Olaf's ships were sailing past outside, and
the chiefs were on the high ground of the island, and saw where the fleet
was sailing from the east. They saw that the small craft sailed in front.
Soon they saw a ship large and splendid. Then said King Sweyn: 'Get we
to our ships with all speed; there sails Long Snake from the east.'
Answered Earl Eric: 'Bide we awhile, sire; they have more big ships than
Long Snake alone.'

And so it was. This ship belonged to Styrkar of Gimsa.
Now saw they yet another ship, large and well-equipped, a ship with a
figure-head.
Said King Sweyn: 'Now here will be sailing Long Snake; and take we
heed that we be not too late in meeting them.'
Then answered Earl Eric: 'That will not be Long Snake; few of their big
ships have passed as yet; there are many more to come.'
And it was even as the Earl said.
Now sailed a ship with striped sails, a long-ship built for speed, and
much larger than the others that had gone by. And when King Sweyn saw
that this ship had no figure-head on her, then stood he up and said, laughing
the while: 'Olaf Tryggvason is afraid now; he dares not to sail with his
dragon's head; go we and attack him.'
Answered then Earl Eric: 'That is not Olaf Tryggvason. I know the ship,
for I have often seen it; it belongs to Erling Skjalgsson. And 'tis better that
we go astern of him to this battle. Brave wights are on board there, as we
shall surely know if we meet Olaf Tryggvason. Better is a gap in the King's
fleet than a ship thus well-manned.'
Then said Olaf, the Swedish king, to the Earl: 'We ought not to fear
joining battle with Olaf, though he have many ships. And it is great shame
and disgrace for men to hear in other lands, if we lie by with an
overwhelming host while he sails the high road of the seas outside.'
Earl Eric answered: 'Sire, let this swift long-ship pass if she will. I can
tell you good tidings: that Olaf Tryggvason has not sailed by us, and this
day you will have the chance of fighting with him. There are here now
many chiefs, and I expect of this bout that we shall all have plenty of work.'
Still they said, when this long-ship and many craft had gone by: 'That
must have been Long Snake. And Earl Eric,' said the Danes, 'will never
fight to avenge his father if he do not so now.'
The Earl answered much in wrath, and said that the Danes would not be
found less loath to fight than himself and his men.

They waited not long ere three ships came sailing, whereof one, by far
the largest, bore a golden dragon's head. Then all said that the Earl had
spoken truth, and there now was Long Snake.
Earl Eric answered: 'That is not Long Snake.' But he bade them attack if
they would.
And at once Sigvaldi took his long-ship and rowed out to the ships,
holding up a white shield; they, on the other hand, lowered their sails and
waited. But that large ship was the Crane, steered by Thorkell Dydrill, the
King's kinsman. They asked of Sigvaldi what tidings he had to tell them. He
declared he could tell them tidings of Sweyn, the Danish king, which it
were right Olaf Tryggvason should know—he was setting a snare for him if
he were not on his guard. Then Thorkell and his men let their ship float, and
waited for the King.
Then saw King Sweyn four ships of great size sailing, and one by far the
largest, and on it a dragon's head conspicuous, all of gold. And they all at
once said: 'A wondrous big ship and a beautiful one is the Long Snake.
There will be no long-ship in the world to match her for beauty, and much
glory is there in causing to be made such a treasure.'
Then said Sweyn, the Danish king, out loud: 'The Long Snake shall bear
me; I shall steer it this evening before set of sun.'
Whereat Earl Eric said, but so that few men heard: 'Though Olaf
Tryggvason had no more ships than may now be seen, never will Danish
king steer this ship if they two and their forces have dealings together.'
Sigvaldi, when he saw where the ships were sailing, bade Thorkell
Dydrill draw his ship under the island; but Thorkell said the wind sat better
for them to sail out at sea than to keep under the land with large ships and
light breeze. But they gathered them under the island, these last four,
because they saw some of their ships rowing under the island, and
suspected that there might be some new tidings; so they tacked and stood in
close to the island, and lowered their sails and took to their oars. The large
ship of this group was named Short Snake.
And now the chiefs saw three very large ships sailing, and a fourth last
of all. Then said Earl Eric to King Sweyn and to Olaf, the Swedish king:

'Now stand ye up and to your ships; none will now deny that Long Snake
sails by, and there ye may meet Olaf Tryggvason.'
Whereat silence fell on the chiefs, and none spake; and great fear was on
the crews, and many a one there dreaded his bane.
Olaf Tryggvason saw where his men had laid them under the island, and,
feeling sure that they must have heard some tidings, he also turned these
ships inwards to the island, and they lowered sail. Earl Sigvaldi steered his
ship inwards along the island to meet the fleet of the other kings that was
coming out from the harbour inside. Therefore sang Stefnir about Sigvaldi,
the foul traitor who drew Tryggvason into a trap.

Sweyn, the Danish
king, and Olaf, the
Swedish king, and Earl
Eric had made this
agreement between
them, that, if they slew
Olaf Tryggvason, he of
them who should be
nearest at the time
should own the ship
and all the share of
booty taken in the
battle; but of the realm
of the Norse king they
should each have a
third. 'None will now deny that "Long Snake" sails by'

Then saw Olaf
Tryggvason and all his men that they were betrayed, for lo the whole sea
about them was covered with ships; but Olaf had a small force, as his fleet
had sailed on before him. And now lay in his place each one of those three
chiefs, Sweyn, King of Danes, with his force; Olaf, King of Swedes, with
his host; while in the third place Earl Eric set his men in array.
Then talked with King Olaf a wise man, Thorkell Dydrill, and said:
'Here are overwhelming odds to fight against. Hoist we our sails, and sail
we after our fleet out to sea; for in no man is it cowardice to know his own
measure.'
King Olaf answered with loud voice: 'Bind we our ships together with
ropes, and let men don their war apparel and draw their swords; my men
must not think of flight.'
And Olaf Tryggvason asked his men: 'Who is chief over this force that
lies here nearest to us?'
They answered:
'We think it be Sweyn, King of Danes.'

Then said King Olaf: 'We need
not fear that force; never did
Danes win victory in battle when
fighting on shipboard against
Norsemen.'
Again asked King Olaf: 'Who
lies there out beyond with so
many ships?'
He was told that it was Olaf
Ericsson, King of Swedes.
Then answered King Olaf: 'We
need not fear Swedish horse-
eaters;[37] they will be more eager
to lick up what is in their
sacrificial bowls than to board
Long Snake under our weapons.'
KING
OLAF LEAPS OVERBOARD And yet again asked King
Olaf Tryggvason: 'Who owns
those large ships that lie out beyond the other squadrons?'
He was told that it was Earl Eric, Hacon's son, with the Iron Earn, of all
ships the largest.
Then said King Olaf: 'Many high-born men are arrayed against us in that
host, and with that force we may expect a stubborn battle: they are
Norsemen as are we, and have often seen bloody swords and exchange of
blows, and they will think they meet their match in us, as in truth they do.'
So these four chiefs, two kings and two earls, joined battle with Olaf
Tryggvason. Sigvaldi indeed took little part in the fight, but Skuli
Thorsteinsson in his short poem says that Sigvaldi was there. Very sharp
and bloody was this contest, and the Danes fell most because they were
nearest the Norsemen. Soon they did not hold their ground, but withdrew
out of shot range; and this fleet, as Olaf had said, came off with no glory.
But none the less the battle raged fierce and long, and numbers fell on either
side—of the Swedes, however, most—till it came about that Olaf the Swede

saw this to be the best counsel for himself and his fleet, to make as if they
shunned the fight. And so he bade his ships drop away sternwards; and then
Earl Eric lay broadside on.
King Olaf Tryggvason had laid the Long Snake between Short Snake
and the Crane, and the smallest ships outside them. But Earl Eric, as each of
these was disabled, caused it to be cut away, and pressed on to those that
were behind. Now, when the small ships of King Olaf were cleared, the
men leapt from them and went up on the larger ships. There was in this bout
much loss of life in either party; but ever, as men fell in Earl Eric's ships,
others took their place, Swedes and Danes; whereas none took the place of
the men who fell on Olaf's side. All his ships were cleared presently except
Long Snake; this held out because it was highest inboard and best manned.
And while there were men to do so, they had gone thither aboard, and
though some of the crew had perished, the ship had maintained its full
numbers. But when Short Snake and Crane were disabled, then Earl Eric
had them cut away, and thereafter Iron Ram lay broadside to broadside with
Long Snake.
This battle was so stubborn as to stir wonder, first for the brave attack,
but still more for the defence. When ships made at the Snake from all sides
yet the defenders so hasted to meet them that they even stepped over the
bulwarks into the sea and sank with their weapons, heedless of all else save,
as in a land fight, to press ever forwards.
The men fell there first in the ship's waist, where the board was lowest,
while forward about the prow and aft in the space next the poop they held
out longest. And when Earl Eric saw that the Snake was defenceless
amidships he boarded it with fifteen men. But when Wolf the Red and other
forecastlemen saw that, then they advanced from the forecastle and charged
so fiercely on where the Earl was that he had to fall back to his ship. And
when he came on board the Ram the Earl roused his men to attack bravely;
and they boarded the Snake a second time with a large force.
By this time Wolf and all the forecastlemen had come to the poop, and
all the foreship was disabled, Earl Eric's force attacking King Olaf's on
every side. Earl Eric with his men then charged aft on the space next the
poop, and a stubborn resistance was there. King Olaf had been all that day