_IN THE CHURCHYARD._
THOSE of my readers who have read any history of the American
Revolution are familiar with the fact that George III., at that time
king of England, hired many German soldiers to help fight his battles,
and that these soldiers were usually known as Hessians. These men
were not always or often enlisted of their own free will. They were
simply hired, or rather bought, at so much a head from their native
sovereigns, the princes of the smaller German states.
The princes or landgraves of Hesse had the honour of originating this
profitable line of business in the person of Landgrave William V., who
fought on the Swedish side under the great Gustavus during the Thirty
Years' War, and got himself into very hot water with his superiors of
the German empire. William VIII., father of Frederick II., lent his
forces to the British during what is known as the "Seven Years' War,"
thereby enriching his purse and impoverishing his dominions to a great
extent. William, indeed, always fought with his own men, exposed to
much the same hardships and dangers, and won honour as a brave and
skilful soldier.
But Landgrave Frederick had no notion of running any such foolish
risks. He liked his ease too well—his hunting-expeditions and
concert-rooms and collections of pictures and other elegant amusements.
Moreover, he was very busy learning a new religion. Ever since the
days of his ancestor Philip I., surnamed the Generous, who came to
the throne in 1509, Hesse-Cassel and its dependencies had been mostly
Protestant. But Frederick took it into his wise head to become a Roman
Catholic, and a very devout one, though it is but just to say that
he never interfered with the religion of his subjects. So he stayed
quietly at home and patronized art, while thousands of his subjects,
farmers, labourers, artisans, miners, and so forth, the best of the
nation, were carried away across the seas to fight for a people they
did not know against a people who had done them no harm.
If the men had gone with their own consent, it would not have been so
bad, but in many cases they had been kidnapped—carried off from their
farms and workshops, from market and church, without being allowed
to set their affairs in order or bid their families farewell. Three
millions of pounds—seven pounds four and fourpence for each man, and
as much more for every one killed—did the landgrave receive from the
British king. He spent the money, as I have said, in keeping up a
splendid court, but meantime in many places the fields lay unfilled
because there were none but boys and old men to plough them; the wolves
and bears increased and grew bolder and bolder.
The condition of the families whose heads had been taken away was of
course very pitiable. Even when, as in the case of Caspar Reinhart's
household, there was no lack of bread, there were long weeks and months
and years of slow, sickening suspense and anxiety. Many of the men
did not know how to write or had no means of writing, and those who
were able sent home reports which were anything but encouraging. It
was commonly reported among them that the American soldiers gave no
quarter, that they were more cruel and vindictive than the Indians
themselves, killing without mercy all the prisoners who fell into their
hands. These reports were no idle rumours picked up at second hand:
they were deliberate lies fabricated and circulated by the British and
German officers among their ignorant troops. The Hessians who were
taken prisoners were utterly astonished to find themselves treated with
kindness both by their captors and the people of the country.
Caspar Reinhart had been the owner of a little farm adjoining the
village of Nonnenwald. He kept a few cows, some sheep and goats, and
cultivated some fields of rye and oats, while a warm and sheltered
corner of the domain held a flourishing orchard of apple and cherry
trees. The profits of his farm, which, with all his industry and
Gertrude's economy, were not large, were greatly increased by his trade
of blacksmith and wheelwright. Nobody could shoe a restive horse or
tame a wild and frightened colt so well in all the district, and lame
and disabled carts and wagons were brought to him from far and near. He
also possessed considerable skill as a carver; which skill he practised
by the fire in the long winter evenings, making wooden bowls and spoons
and heads for spinning-wheels, and he had made a memorial tablet to
his mother which was an ornament to the little church and the object
of admiration to all the village. But his forge was silent and falling
to pieces, his carving-tools lay hidden in the cupboard of Philip's
bedroom. Only a few sheep and two cows remained of his stock, and the
orchard was suffering for want of the master's hand, for Caspar was
away in America, and his wife had heard no word from him for three long
years.
Gertrude remained for a moment or two standing where her visitor had
left her. The children looked on from their corner, hardly knowing
whether to be terrified or relieved by their mother's burst of weeping.
Presently she wiped her eyes and turned to them:
"Philip and Margaret, you may go and drive up the cows and sheep, lest
the wolves should come down again. Take Gustaf with you, and do not
remain out after sunset."
Gertrude's least word was law to the children, and without speaking a
word they hastened to obey.
The cattle were soon secured in the strong and high enclosure near the
house made to protect them in winter. This done, Margaret, stole up
softly and peeped through the window of the cottage.
"The mother is on her knees praying and weeping," said she, turning
with an awestruck face to her companions. "Do not let us disturb her. I
heard the good brother Gotthold say he would give a great deal to see
her weep, and so did Aunt Lisa."
"That strange gentleman who came with the young count said the same,"
observed Gustaf. "But where shall we go, Greta?"
"The sun is not near setting," replied his sister; "let us go up to the
churchyard."
The church of Nonnenwald stood on a little rocky eminence somewhat
apart from the village. It was a very ancient structure, and there
were ruins about it—very deep, dark vaults, grass-grown mounds, and
crumbling walls which seemed to show that the existing building had
once been part of a larger structure. There was a dim tradition that a
nunnery had once occupied the hill, which had been destroyed in some
unusual and awful manner for the wickedness of the inhabitants—some
said by an earthquake, others by a waterspout descending from the
clouds.
Be that as it might, the scene was peaceful enough now. The sun was
sinking, and sent his rays through the branches of an old oak which
still retained many of its leaves and cast a chequered shade over the
short green turf. Most of the graves were humble grass-grown mounds,
marked, if at all, only by a rude headstone or a wooden cross, but
there were a few stone tombs and monuments, very old and moss-grown.
On one of these was a recumbent figure, but so weather-worn and
bespattered with lichen that no one could have told whether it was
meant for a man or a woman. Tradition, however, had given it the name
of the Good Lady, and averred that it had once stood in the convent
church and was miraculously spared when the rest of the structure was
destroyed. Near it was the entrance to one of those vaults of which I
have spoken—a low arch partly stopped with stones.
The children bent their steps toward the old oak, where, under the
shelter of some nut-bushes, lay the little new-made grave. It had been
neatly covered with sods, and some kind hand had laid upon it a garland
of late flowers.
"I wonder where Fritz is now?" said Philip, in a low voice.
"Singing with the angels," answered little Gustaf, confidently. "I
asked Brother Gotthold last night, and he said so."
"Then I am sure he is very happy," said Philip. "You know how he always
loved music." He was silent a minute, and then added, in a still lower
voice, "I wonder if he has found father?"
"Father is not dead," said Margaret, abruptly; "so how should Fritz
find him?"
Philip shook his head:
"I wish I could think so, Greta dear. But you know how long it is since
we have heard a word—never since he sailed—"
"What of that?" interrupted Margaret, almost harshly. "Was not Uncle
Franz away more than seven years? And had not every one given him up
for dead? Yet he came back, and father will come back—I know he will."
"How do you know?" asked little Gustaf. "Who told you? Did Brother
Gotthold?"
"No, but Brother Gotthold thinks he may be alive, for all that; and you
heard what the young count said last night. But that is not the reason.
I cannot tell you, but somehow or other I do know that my father is
alive, and that I shall see him again."
Philip shook his head sadly, but he did not argue the point.
After standing a few moments in silence, he said, suddenly, "Margaret,
do you think my mother would let me have the oak log that lies under
the shed at the forge?"
"I dare say," answered Margaret, coming back as it were from a long
distance to answer the question. "At any rate, you can ask her. What
will you do with it?"
"I should like to carve a cross for Fritz—a cross with a garland, like
that we saw in the churchyard at Fulda. I would make the wreath all of
lilies and spring flowers such as Fritz loved. I can see just how to do
it;" and Philip's eyes brightened.
"And an inscription telling how he died," said Margaret.
"No, I think not, Greta dear," answered her brother. "Why keep up such
a sad story? The darling innocent is now with the angels, as Gustaf
said, and why fix our thoughts on his painful journey?"
"I 'will' think of it! I will 'never' forget it!" answered Margaret,
vehemently. "It is all the fault of the landgrave. It is he who killed
Fritz. If my father had not been sent away, it would never have
happened. But you, Philip, think of nothing and care for nothing but
your books and your carving. If you remembered father as I do, and how
he was carried away, you would not be so easy about the matter as you
are. It is not hard to be quiet when one does not care."
Philip winced as if some one had hurt him.
"You forget that I was older than you when father went away," said he,
in the gentle voice which was one of his characteristics. "True, I had
not seen him for a year, because I was with my uncle in Fulda, but I
remember him perfectly. I was not here when he went, and I never knew
exactly how it was. Did they take him from the forge?"
"No; it was from the church," answered Margaret. "It was All Saints'
day, and all the village was in the church. The new panels which my
father had carved for the pulpit had just been put up, I remember.
Just as the pastor finished his discourse, we heard outside the tramp
of soldiers and the clash of muskets, and then the harsh voice of the
officer,—
"'Let not a man escape!'
"We thought, to be sure, they had come to look for some deserter or
criminal, and everybody looked about them, but there was no stranger
in the church. Just as the service was ended, the officer and some
of his men entered. I can't tell you all; it was too dreadful," said
Margaret, covering her face. "They took away every able-bodied man—even
poor Maurice, the blind widow's son. It was of no use to struggle. Hans
Webber did so. His wife was very ill and had a little baby, and he
would pot go. He snatched up a club and fought the men who came to take
him, and, Philip, they shot him down like a dog, there by the tomb of
the Good Lady. No wonder the grass has never grown there. Poor Magdalen
has been mad ever since."
"No wonder!" said Philip, with a shudder. "Was that what made an
innocent of little Fritz?"
"Yes, I suppose so. All the women said so."
"And that is the reason my mother never comes to the church?"
"She has never set her foot in the churchyard till to-day. It was the
same in other places, or worse. And all that our landgrave might have
money to keep a grand court and buy pictures and build a fine chapel
like that yonder at the Schloss, with gold crucifixes, and altar-cloths
worked in crystals and pearls, and dressed-up dolls adorned with
diamonds!" said Margaret, in a tone of bitter scorn. "Brother Gotthold
says the Americans are fighting because they will not have a king or a
prince to rule them. I hope they will succeed; and if they do, I will
go there and live some day."
"Hush, Greta!" said Philip, looking around him. "Think if some one
should hear you!"
"Let them hear!"
"But the mother, sister! You would not add to her troubles? The sun
is getting very low," he added; "I think we had better be going home.
Where is Gustaf? Here he comes in a hurry. Why, child, what ails you?
You are as white as ashes."
Gustaf caught hold of his brother and sister, and held them tight.
"There is something in the vault by the Good Lady's tomb," said the
child, in a choked whisper—"something with glaring green eyes that
stared at me when I peeped in."
"An owl," said Philip. "You are not afraid of an owl at this time of
day, little brother?"
"It was not an owl," whispered the child. "It was big and dark. I could
just see it huddled in a corner, and it moved and growled fiercely like
a big dog."
Philip and Margaret looked at each other with pale faces as the same
thought occurred to both—that one or more of the wolves who had wrought
the mischief might have taken refuge in the vaults. At that moment,
the wicket of the churchyard was opened, and the old huntsman Franz
appeared, leading one of the great wolf-hounds, of which he had a
number under his charge—immensely powerful and savage-looking dogs,
but gentle and docile enough with friends. Leo especially was an old
playmate of Philip's.
The children sprang toward the old man with a feeling of relief.
"What are you doing here, children?" said Franz, roughly, but not
unkindly. "It is time you were at home. These are not days when
children should be out after dark. I cannot but think the wolves have
come near the town again, for the dogs are half crazy. Look at old
Leo, how he growls and bristles. One would think he smelt them at this
moment. Gently, gently, old fellow! There are no wolves here."
The dog struggled to free himself from his leash, and lifting up his
head made the air resound with his yells. He was answered by the
doleful braying of the other dogs in kennels at the lodge, and by the
howls of all the less aristocratic dogs of the village. The face of the
old man darkened.
"The beasts must be at hand," said he, anxiously. "Trust old Leo never
to give tongue on a false scent. There, again! Children, hasten home as
fast as you can."
"I believe the dog may be right, Uncle Franz," said Philip. "Gustaf saw
something in the vault yonder which frightened him."
"It had green glaring eyes and growled," said Gustaf. "I thought it was
the wehr-wolf."
"The dog was right," exclaimed the old man, exultingly. "Trust old Leo
for telling the truth. Hasten home, Greta; and do you, Philip, run to
the lodge and give the alarm. Tell Gaurenz—you will find him at the
kennels—that the wolves are in the churchyard. I will keep watch here
with the dog. A fine time, truly, when our very graves are not safe
from them! Take my pistol from my belt and look at the priming, boy,
before you go. They may take a fancy to bolt."
"Do you think there can be more than one?" asked Philip as he carefully
renewed the priming of the pistol and loosened his uncle's knife in
the sheath, for both the huntsman's hands were fully occupied in
restraining the now furious dog.
"I can't say, my boy. For aught I know, the whole pack may have slipped
down last night, after the moon set, and hidden themselves in these old
holes, ready for an onslaught to-night. They are as wise and cunning as
so many kobolds. Away with you now, and give the alarm as you go."
Philip was the fastest runner in all Nonnenwald, and in a few minutes
he was at the lodge telling his errand, not to the huntsman, but to the
landgrave himself, who was down at the kennels looking at the dogs. In
a few minutes the churchyard, late so quiet, was a scene of the wildest
commotion.
Franz turned out to be right in his conjecture. Not one, but the whole
pack of wolves, had taken refuge in the old vaults, no doubt with the
intention of making a midnight foray on the cattle and sheep of the
village. The unwillingness of the dogs to pass the churchyard in the
morning and their uneasiness during the day were fully explained. Five
wolves were killed in the churchyard itself, two were run down by the
dogs, and two or three made their escape. It was a memorable occasion
for the little village, and Gustaf found himself quite a hero, since,
but for his curiosity in prying into the vault, the wolves would
probably have remained undiscovered.
Early on the Sunday morning following the hunt, Philip was in the
churchyard. He carried in his hands some bunches and garlands of
flowers with which to deck the grave of his little brother. He smoothed
and pressed down the turf over the hillock, which had been disarranged
by the hunters, and in doing so his hand fell on something hard hidden
in the long grass by the side of his grandmother's grave. He drew it
forth. It was a gold chain, on which was suspended a jewelled locket
containing the portrait of a lady beautifully painted on ivory. The
back of the locket was enamelled with sundry heraldic devices which
Philip did not understand. He stood for a moment looking at the picture
in a kind of ecstacy, for Philip loved everything beautiful with a
real passion. Then, hearing voices, he dropped chain and locket into
his pocket, and turned again to his work as the two counts, Victor and
Maurice, entered the churchyard.
"I must take one more look," he heard Count Maurice say, in tones of
deep regret. "I cannot bear to give it up."
"I fear you will have to do so," answered his brother. "Doubtless both
chain and locket have been picked up by some of the boors about here.
Your best chance is to offer a reward for it, though I fear it is too
late even for that. I grieve over the loss, for it was our only good
likeness of our dear mother. Are you sure you had it on the night of
the hunt? You know Count Hanau went away the next day, and I think
he has those in his train to whose fingers such a trifle might stick
easily enough."
"Yes, but I am quite sure that I had it.—Well, my boy, what will you
have of me?"
For Philip had drawn near, and, hat in hand, was evidently waiting to
be spoken to.
"Is it a locket and picture that Your Highness has lost?" asked Philip,
modestly.
"Yes, a locket and picture of a lady. Have you heard of any such thing
being found?"
Philip took the chain and picture from his pocket and placed it in its
owner's hand.
"I found it just now in the grass by my brother's grave," said he. "I
thought it might belong to some one at the Schloss."
"And what would you have done if you had not found the owner, my boy?"
asked Count Victor, for Maurice was for the moment too happy in his
recovered treasure to say a word.
"I would have taken it to my uncle Franz the huntsman," answered
Philip; "but I am glad to have found it for His Highness, because he
was kind to my mother."
"Kind to your mother? When?" asked Count Maurice.
"On the day my little brother was buried," answered Philip. "You told
her that the Americans were not cruel. You made her cry, and she has
been better ever since."
"A small matter for gratitude!" said Count Maurice. "I remember now.
Your father was a recruit. But, my boy, you have done me a great
service. This picture is very dear to me. What shall I do for you in
return?"
"Give him a gold-piece," said Count Victor; "I dare say he would like
to spend it at the fair."
"I do not ask any reward," said Philip, blushing; "only, if I might
make so bold—if Your Highness would condescend so far—"
"Oh, you need not make any apologies," said Count Maurice,
good-humouredly. "My Highness is no such very grand personage if you
come to that, since my whole domain is not very much bigger than your
father's farm. But what can I do to give you pleasure?"
"If Your Highness would come to our house again and tell my mother more
about America," answered Philip. "What you said the other night did her
so much good. Even Brother Gotthold has never been in America, though
he is going some day. If Your Highness would but visit us again—"
"I will certainly do so, and that very soon," said Count Maurice.
"Meanwhile, do me the favour to spend this gold-piece for anything
you may fancy. Nay, you must not refuse. That is not gracious.—The
youngster has an independent spirit," he observed to his brother as
they turned away and left the churchyard.
"There are plenty more like him," answered Count Victor. "The spirit
of independence is in the very air nowadays; and if it is so now,
how do you think it will be when the men come home from America? Our
countrymen are not all blockheads. They will learn what the Americans
are fighting about."
"A good many will not come back," observed count Maurice. "They are
deserting by hundreds at a time, I hear, and the country-people are
kind to them and afford them shelter and food."
"And small blame to them! Who would not do the same, treated as these
poor villagers have been? For my part, I would like to emigrate to
America myself, settle on a farm in the wilderness, and follow the laws
of Nature among her savage children."
"Or have the laws of Nature follow you in the shape of a sound ague or
a country fever," said Count Maurice, laughing, "or perhaps furnish a
spectacle to her savage children in their own peculiar manner."
"As well that as the aimless life one lives now—a slave to court
formalities and royal etiquette, or, at the best, dancing attendance on
old Fritz and observing his humours."
"I would rather be a slave to court formalities than to a Mohawk
Indian," said Count Maurice.
"You are not like me, Maurice," said Count Victor. "These things pass
lightly over you. You take the good and leave the evil. I wish I had
been made like you—or rather, I wish I had never been born at all,"
said the young man, bitterly.
"And what would become of me without you, my poor Victor, my other
self?" said Maurice, pressing his brother's arm. "Remember, I have had
no such crushing sorrow as yours. I wish I could comfort you."
"There is no comfort—none—either in heaven or on earth," said Victor,
passionately. "Nothing can ever give me back my Emma or undo the wrong
which this horrible royal punctilio has done us both."
"Yet Emma herself found comfort," observed Maurice.
"Emma was a believer," answered his brother. "Maurice, I would cut
off my right hand before I would say a word to shake the faith of a
child in the Christian religion. Those who do so are like a man who
should rob another in the desert of his water-skins, promising him wine
instead, and then leave him to perish of thirst. But come, we should be
returning to the Schloss."
"What say you to going to church?" asked Maurice. "I hear the old
missionary is to preach."
Victor agreed, and the brothers returned to the lodge.