THE LIVELY ADVENTURES
OF
GAVIN HAMILTON
_By_
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
AUTHOR OF “THE ROCK OF THE LION”
“A VIRGINIA CAVALIER” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
BY H. C. EDWARDS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900
[Illustration: “‘IT IS MY TURN NOW!’ SHOUTED GAVIN”]
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
THE ROCK OF THE LION. Illustrated by A. I. KELLER. Post 8vo, cloth,
$1 50.
The book is written with much dash and spirit, as well as with
painstaking accuracy.--_N. Y. Times._
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50.
A Virginia cavalier is the title under which George Washington as
a youth is presented to us. Some of the incidents of his boyhood
and early manhood are told in a picturesque way, and the spirit and
manners of the time are well shown forth.--_Atlantic Monthly._
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
NOTE
In this story, as in all the other stories for the young written by
the author, few, or no liberties have been taken with history and
chronology.
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
ILLUSTRATIONS
ILLUSTRATED HALF-TITLE vii
“‘IT IS MY TURN NOW!’ SHOUTED GAVIN” _Frontispiece_
GAVIN THROWS AWAY HIS TROOPER’S SABRE _Facing p._ 18
THE KING DRAGGED GAVIN OUT OF THE CLOSET ” 46
HE DROPPED SIR GAVIN ON TO THE FLOWER-BED
FIFTEEN FEET BELOW ” 130
GAVIN CARRIES THE KING ACROSS THE FLOODED
GARDEN ” 184
“TAKE CHARGE OF THE PRISONER UNTIL I SEND
FOR HIM” ” 216
[Illustration:
THE
LIVELY ADVENTURES
OF
GAVIN
HAMILTON
BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
]
THE LIVELY ADVENTURES OF GAVIN HAMILTON
CHAPTER I
IN Silesia, the autumn of 1757 was one of frightful cold, of icy winds,
of sunless days, and freezing nights. The land, made desolate by the
contending armies of the Empress Queen, Maria Theresa, and Frederick
the Great, of Prussia, suffered still more from this bitter and
premature winter. The miserable inhabitants, many of them houseless,
died by thousands, of cold and starvation. The wretched remnant of
cattle left them perished; the fields lay untilled, the mills were
only piles of charred ruins, and desolation brooded over the land. War
could add but little more to the miseries of this unfortunate region;
but Frederick of Prussia and the lion-hearted Empress of Austria fought
as fiercely as they had done sixteen years before when the Titanic
combat had first begun. Rosbach had been fought--that terrible battle
in which Frederick prevailed against the Austrians, who were assisted
by the soldiers of France and the money of England. The Austrians and
French had, at first, attempted an orderly retreat; but the piercing
cold, the constant fall of snow, and the difficulties of subsistence,
had very much interfered with this. Their object was to reach Prince
Charles of Lorraine, in northwest Silesia, and many small bodies
of troops succeeded in maintaining their organization until they
joined Prince Charles. Others were not so fortunate; soldiers found
themselves without officers, and officers found themselves without
men. In this last case was Captain St. Arnaud, of the French regiment
of Dufour, a young gentleman who had exchanged his commission in the
King’s Musketeers, the most royal of all the royal guards, for a line
regiment where he could see service. It cannot be denied that this
decision on Captain St. Arnaud’s part surprised his world, for he was
a curled darling among the ladies, and the most superlative dandy in
Paris. And, wonderful to say, he still looked the superlative dandy
on the afternoon of the coldest day he ever felt in his life, amid
the snowy wastes of Silesia, when, after two weeks of starving and
running away from the Prussians, it looked as if the inevitable hour
had come. There was, yet, not a speck upon his handsome uniform; his
long, light hair lay in curls upon his shoulders--he had admired his
own locks too much to cover them up with a periwig; and his delicate,
handsome face, now gaunt and pale, was exquisitely shaven. Clearly,
starving did not agree with his constitution. His whole life before
that campaign had been spent in the courts and camps of kings, and he
had missed those hardening and fortifying influences which is Fate’s
rough way of benefiting her favorites. But faint and weak and hopeless
as he seemed, his soul was still unconquered, and his eyes looked
bravely around upon the desolate waste before him. The cold, already
intense, was becoming severer every hour. St. Arnaud, being naturally
of a reflective nature, which he hid under a mask of the utmost levity,
was thinking to himself, as he patted the neck of his lean and patient
horse, “The whole social order depends on the mercury in the tube.
At a certain point, varying in different races, all distinctions are
abolished. If my general were here this moment, I would be as good as
he; for the best man would be he who could keep up his circulation
best. And if my orderly were here--bah! he could only deprive me of my
last chance of living through this night by rubbing down my horse for
me, which exercise would keep my blood in circulation and increase the
poor beast’s chances of carrying me through to the end.” His piercing
eyes had swept the view in front of him, but he almost jumped out of
his saddle as a voice at his elbow said: “My Captain! I salute you!”
Close behind him, on a very good horse, sat a young private soldier
of St. Arnaud’s company. St. Arnaud at once recognized him; he was so
tall, so fresh coloured, so well made that he attracted attention in
the ranks; but private soldiers to St. Arnaud represented not names,
but numbers. He thought this young fellow was 472 on the regimental
roll, but had no idea of his name. He was a contrast to St. Arnaud in
every way; for besides being a perfect picture of physical well-being,
the young soldier was in rags. In one the inner man had suffered, in
the other the outer man. Having spoken, the young man awaited speech
from his officer with as much coolness as if he were on parade at
Versailles, instead of being alone with him at nightfall in a frozen
desert.
“I recognize you,” said St. Arnaud, after a moment; “where are the
others of your company?”
“I am the only man left, sir,” replied the soldier; “as you know, we
were very much cut up that villainous day at Rosbach; and when you
were swept from us, in that last charge, we had already lost half our
men. I don’t know how it was, sir; certainly it was not the fault of
our officers”--with another salute--“but I believe ours was the worst
demoralized regiment in the French forces after Rosbach, and my company
was the worst demoralized in the regiment. We had not an officer left
above a corporal, but the handful of us could have remained together.
Instead of doing that, it was _sauve qui peut_ with all of us. Note,
sir, I do not say we did not fight like devils at Rosbach; but being
unused to defeat, we did not know how to take it. I cannot tell you
how it is I come to be here alone; only I know that I, with twenty
others, started out to make our way toward Prince Charles, and one by
one the men dropped off, until yesterday morning, when, at sunrise, I
found myself alone where I had bivouacked the night before with three
comrades. They had gone off in the night, or early in the morning, to
follow a road I did not believe would lead us where we wanted to go. I
came this way, and well it was for me.”
The young soldier’s story, told jauntily, produced a singular effect
on St. Arnaud. He had kept on hoping that, in spite of the accident of
his being separated from his command--an accident caused by his own
impetuosity carrying him too far in advance of his men--he would yet
find his own personal command intact. But there was no more room for
hope in the face of what was before his eyes and ringing in his ears.
His countenance became so pale with grief and chagrin that he seemed
about to drop from his saddle. He laid the reins on his horse’s neck,
and raised both arms above his head in a gesture of despair, but he
said no word. The soldier, after waiting vainly for a question or an
answer, spoke again.
“We have no time to lose, sir; we must cross this plain before night. I
have some forage here and something in my haversack, and if we can get
a fire we can live.”
St. Arnaud, still silent, mechanically gathered up the reins again,
and the horse instinctively made for a faint track beaten through the
snow. The soldier followed, ten paces behind. On they travelled for
an hour or two. As the sickly sun sank below the fringe of dun clouds
in the west the cold became more terrible. A fierce wind set in, which
drifted furious flurries of snow across the vast, white plain; and
when the sky showed black against the white earth, neither man nor
horse could travel farther. There was not a tree or even a bush in
sight. They had passed a few dead horses on the dreary waste, but that
was the only thing that broke the ghastly monotony of the way. Now
they involuntarily halted, and each knew that from then until sunrise
they would be fighting with the cold for life. The thought came back
to St. Arnaud, who had scarcely spoken a word to his companion, how
calamity levels all distinctions. It would not have surprised him in
the least if, when he dismounted, and mechanically threw the reins
to the soldier, to have heard him say: “Take care of your own horse,
and I will attend to mine.” Instead of this, the soldier only pointed
to a little hillock near by, and said: “That place, sir, is a little
sheltered from the wind. It will do us good to walk there.”
St. Arnaud, whose faculties seemed frozen, obeyed the soldier. As he
was tramping through the half darkness, his eyes blinded by the snow,
and the icy blast nearly cutting him to pieces, he heard a shout of
joy behind him. The soldier had suddenly stumbled upon something which
was worth to them at that moment all the gold in the Bank of France. It
was nothing less than a broken gun-carriage, of which a few inches of
the wheel appeared above the snow. The soldier dashed toward it, and
tugged and pulled at it, shouting out exclamations of joy, as a man
will who has found that which will give him life. St. Arnaud watched
him dully as he wrenched such of it apart as he could, and dragging
it to the sheltered spot under the hillock, where St. Arnaud held the
trembling horses, scooped out a hole in the snow, and with a flint and
steel struck a flash of fire.
At first, the flame flickered tamely; then, suddenly, it burst into a
glory of light and warmth. St. Arnaud advanced, still leading the poor
horses, who gazed at the flames with an intelligent joy, almost human.
By that time it was so black overhead and so white underfoot, and the
swirling snow was so whipped about by the furious north wind, that it
seemed as if the two men and the two shivering horses were alone in
a universe of cold and snow and blackness. The young soldier first
gave the horses the feed they had carried, and melting some snow in a
tin pan he carried in his knapsack, gave them to drink. Then, washing
out the pan, he produced some bacon and cheese and black bread. St.
Arnaud showed the first sign of interest so far, by handing out his
canteen, of which one whiff caused the young soldier’s wide mouth to
come open with a grin, that showed the whitest teeth imaginable. And
then, huddling under their cloaks, officer and soldier shared their
first meal together. That day month St. Arnaud had been entertained by
a countess in one of the finest houses in Vienna, and the young soldier
had fared sumptuously in the kitchen with the maids; but to-night they
were supping together, and only too glad to sup at all. At last, all
the bacon and cheese being devoured, St. Arnaud’s spirit seemed to
rouse from its torpor. He looked at the soldier attentively and asked:
“What is your name?”
“Ameeltone,” was the response.
St. Arnaud’s French ear did not detect the strange pronunciation of the
name, yet he could not quite make it out.
“Can you spell it?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. H-a-m-i-l-t-o-n--Ameeltone.”
“But that is English.”
“Yes; my name is English all over. Gavin is my first name”--and he
pronounced it Garvan.
“Have you any English blood in you?”
“I have not a drop of any but English blood, my Captain. My father, Sir
Gavin Hamilton, is an Englishman; and my mother, God bless her, is Lady
Hamilton.”
“Then,” said St. Arnaud, very naturally, “what are you doing as a
trooper in Dufour’s regiment?”
“Because,” replied Gavin, taking up the tin pan and scooping out the
last remnants of their supper, “my father is a great rascal.” And he
washed the pan out with snow.
St. Arnaud, accustomed to the extreme filial respect of the French for
their parents, felt a shock at Gavin’s cool characterization of his
father, and said in reply:
“A man sometimes has cause for resentment against his father, but
seldom calls him a rascal.”
“True, my Captain,” cheerfully replied Gavin, “but my father is a
terrible rascal. He has ill-used my mother, the finest creature God
ever made. What do you think of a man with a great fortune deserting
his wife and child in a foreign land and then using all his power to
make her admit she is not his wife, when he knows she is; and when he
finds she has a soul not to be terrified, trying to fool her into a
divorce? But I tell you, my Captain, my mother is a brave lady. She
told him and wrote him that she was his lawful wife, and that she would
defend me--I was a little boy then--that she would have no divorce,
lest it reflect on me, and that no one of my rights would be bartered
away by her. And at that very time she could barely keep body and soul
together by giving lessons in Paris. She is well educated, luckily,
being an English officer’s daughter. The English laws are hard on poor
and friendless women, and being in France, too, my mother had little
chance to prove her rights. She looked to me, however, to be able one
day to maintain all she had claimed; and she taught me carefully,
so that, as she said, when I came to the condition and estate of a
gentleman, I might know how to bear myself. She did not wish to go back
to England, where she knew persecution awaited her, and brought me up
as much an English boy as she could in France. The only thing that
troubled her was my pronunciation--she always laughs when I pronounce
my own name. I have an English way of using my fists when I am angry.
She scolds me, but I know her brothers fought like that when they were
lads at school.”
“How came you to join the army?”
“Faith, sir, I had no choice. The King’s recruiting officers came after
me, and I had to go. But I cannot say I regretted it, for I could never
have been anything else but a soldier, and I have a better chance to
rise in the army than in any of the humble callings open to me in civil
life. My mother said it was best--that I came of good fighting stock on
her side--her brothers were officers, and as far back as she knows her
ancestors they were mostly in the army and navy.”
The fire was burning brightly now; they were warmed through, their
hunger was appeased, and so comfortable was their situation that they
were both in a mood to entertain and be entertained. A fire in the
snow and a supper of cheese and bacon meant luxury to St. Arnaud now,
who had been brought up in palaces, and he found himself listening to
Gavin’s story with the same interest that the Arab in the parching
desert listens to the story-teller who makes him forget all his
miseries.
“Did you ever see your father?” he asked.
“Once. My father was sent to the court of the Empress Queen on a
diplomatic mission. He passed secretly through Paris and sent for me.
I went with the sole idea that he might do justice to my mother. But
I might have saved my shoe leather. However, what I did that day to
my father is written to my credit in heaven’s books, for I mauled him
well, and I was but eighteen--I am only nineteen now.”
St. Arnaud could not refrain from a look of disapproval, and Gavin,
noting it, asked at once, with the greatest _naïveté_:
“But he spoke abominably of my mother, and any man who speaks one
disrespectful word of her--he is my enemy, and I am his. Would not you
do the same by your mother?”
And St. Arnaud involuntarily answered “Yes.”
“Well, then,” continued Gavin, rising to his feet, “are you surprised
that I should think I did a righteous act in flying at Sir Gavin? He is
a strong, well-made man, though not so big as I am now, and as I took
him by surprise, I succeeded in knocking him off his chair before he
had got out half he had meant to say about my mother. His valet came
running in then, and Sir Gavin, smiling as he wiped some blood off his
face, sent the man away. Oh, he was a cool one! He smiled all the
time we were together, and he laughed aloud when I called myself Gavin
Hamilton.
“‘Garvan Ameeltone!’ he cried, mocking me.”
Gavin was now thoroughly inspired by his own eloquence. He stood up and
put his hands behind his back, English fashion, while repeating his
father’s words and mimicking him in an odd, drawling voice. St. Arnaud
fully believed in the scene that Gavin not only told, but acted before
him. Even the two horses, tethered close to the red circle of light,
lifted their heads, attracted by the ringing human voice, and seemed to
be listening attentively to the story of Gavin Hamilton’s wrongs and
revenges.
“My father then, instead of being angry with me, seemed to like me
the better, and offered me everything--everything if I would abandon
my mother. He would acknowledge me as his son, according to both the
French and English law, for I was born in France; he would promise
never to marry again, and I don’t know what else beside. It was then my
turn to laugh. I said: ‘Wait until I am twenty-one, and then see if I
do not prove I am your son. And as for marrying again, you dare not in
my mother’s lifetime.’
“There was an hour-glass in the room, and Sir Gavin said to me: ‘In
about twenty minutes all the sand will have run out of that glass.
I give you until then to accept my offer.’ For answer I smashed the
hour-glass on the hearth. It was then he spoke insultingly of my
mother, and it was then that I think I laid up treasures in heaven by
the way I pounded him. I got several good blows at him before that
rascal of a valet came in and pulled me off.”
The wind was howling so, and the gusts of snow so driven between them,
that St. Arnaud drew close to Gavin to hear the rest of the story.
Gavin, who was thoroughly enjoying the recital of his affair, stopped
long enough to throw some of the iron work of the gun-carriage into
the fire, when it speedily grew red hot, and glowed radiantly, adding
materially to the warmth. He then resumed, in response to the interest
plain in St. Arnaud’s face:
“I trudged back to our garret, where my mother was waiting for me.
It was a cold evening, and my mother had a little fire for me--fuel
is cruelly dear in Paris, isn’t it, my Captain?--and she also had
something for me to eat. She let me be warmed and filled before asking
me any questions, for my mother has that English coolness which
nothing seems able to disturb. When I was through eating I told her
about the interview. I told her all except the words Sir Gavin had used
about her, but I said they were such as no man, father or no father,
should speak of her without being made to suffer all I could make him
suffer for it. Then my mother suddenly burst into tears, and taking
my face between her hands, kissed me, and said some of those sweet
things that women say to those they love; and I replied: ‘What matters
it about his threats and promises? You are his wife; I am his son and
heir. Wait until I am twenty-one, and I will go to England and proclaim
it all. If Sir Gavin Hamilton deals with us thinking he is dealing with
a helpless woman and a boy, he will find we are not quite so helpless
as he fancies we are. The notion that I, within three years of my
majority, would make a bargain with him! It is absurd!’”
“Quite so,” replied St. Arnaud, “and his anxiety to make a bargain with
you shows that he knows you will have to be reckoned with.”
Then, drawing his watch from his pocket, he said: “We must divide the
watch to-night. I will take the first hour until one in the morning.
The fire will last the night, and rubbing the horses down will warm us
up.”
Gavin then discovered that St. Arnaud meant the distinction between
officer and private to be overlooked. They both went to work on their
horses, and for fifteen minutes nothing more was said. Gavin had a
small supply of forage, and he noticed that St. Arnaud had a large
haversack strapped to his saddle. Gavin hoped that it was something to
sustain life in man or beast; but presently, both having got through
with their horses, St. Arnaud, noticing for the first time Gavin’s
tattered clothes, said:
“You are ill-clad for such weather as this. Yonder in my haversack is a
second uniform, which you may have. You see, I am not used to running
away, and carried with me clothes, when I should have taken food.”
Gavin’s eyes sparkled. He fetched the haversack, and tore it open. A
change of delicate linen, some toilet articles, and a handsome new
uniform tumbled out. Gavin was in ecstasy when he saw the uniform.
“Oh, my Captain,” he cried, “do you mean this for me? I have
longed--yes, longed to wear an officer’s uniform; and I have a
presentiment that if I once take off a private soldier’s coarse
clothes, I shall never again wear them.”
And as quick as lightning he slipped off his rags, jumped into the
uniform, and then, in the excess of his delight, he gave three loud and
ear-piercing huzzas, that were half lost in the tumult of the wind. At
the same moment he threw his own tattered clothes as far as he could
swing them, the wind seizing and scattering them; next, he dashed away
the dragoon’s sabre which he carried.
“There you go,” he shouted; “you never were any good as a weapon,
and I will replace you by an officer’s sword with a gold handle. And
meanwhile I will defend myself with my horse-pistol!”
St. Arnaud laughed until the tears came into his eyes. He had not in a
month been so amused and interested as in this young man, so strangely
found, and to whom he owed his life by the finding him. Gavin looked a
little sheepish at St. Arnaud’s laughter, but was compensated by his
next words.
“You are a fine-looking fellow, and you have the bearing of an officer.
Why is it I never recognized you in the regiment?”
[Illustration: GAVIN THROWS AWAY HIS TROOPER’S SABRE]
“I can’t say. I only know it was not because I did not want to be
recognized. But I knew you, my Captain, and often looked at you as you
stepped along so elegant, so debonair, with such beautiful cambric
handkerchiefs, and such small polished boots. I heard, too, that your
quarters were like a lady’s boudoir, and you had a private wagon to
carry your clavier and _viol da gamba_!”
“Yes,” replied St. Arnaud, somewhat ruefully. “I shall know better in
my next campaign.”
Gavin, then rolling himself in his blanket, lay down before the fire.
By its red light his dark, upturned eyes could be seen, and they were
full of hope and even joy. Defeat and disaster were lightly taken by
this young soldier. In a little while, though, he was sleeping, with
the soft, low breathing of a baby.
Beyond the red circle of the fire all was blackness, and, except the
roaring of the wind, all was silence. A few stars flickered dimly
in the cold heavens above them, but they were often obscured by the
flurries of snow. St. Arnaud sat still in front of the fire, for it was
not yet necessary to walk up and down to keep alive. His face was pale
and impassive, and he was still suffering from the shock of flight and
defeat. It seemed to him as if a hundred years separated him from the
year before, or even the month before. The hours dragged by toward
midnight. Every moment it grew colder, but the fire still lasted. At
last, at one o’clock, St. Arnaud waked Gavin, who rose instantly. St.
Arnaud showed him a pocket thermometer, with the mercury down to zero.
“That’s nothing,” cried Gavin jauntily. “I will throw some of the iron
of the gun-carriage on the fire, and if I see you freezing, I will wake
you up, never fear.”
St. Arnaud lay down and, covered with Gavin’s blanket, soon fell
asleep. Gavin watched him all the time, thinking:
“Some men in my place would think themselves unfortunate at this
moment. I don’t. This is my first real stroke of fortune. I have an
officer’s uniform--_parbleu!_ what may I not expect in the way of good
luck!”
Absorbed in a delicious dream of the future, the rest of the night
seemed short to Gavin. A ghastly half light succeeded the darkness;
and then all at once a pale rose colour appeared in the eastern sky,
and a faint golden haze overspread the snow-covered earth. The distant
mountains glowed in an opaline light--it was the dawn of the cloudless
winter day.
Gavin, however, beyond the thrill which morning brings to men of his
youth and type, noticed nothing, being occupied with the horses, and
with the preparation of the last of his cheese and bacon in the tin
pan. When it was ready he waked St. Arnaud, who was sleeping soundly.
“Come, my Captain,” he called out. “We are both alive. There is
something to eat. The weather is fair, and the sun is rising. And
faith! I feel as if I would like to right about face and go back to
fighting those confounded Prussians again.”
St. Arnaud got up instantly. In fifteen minutes they had finished all
they had to eat, had mounted, and were travelling along the faint track
in the snow which indicated the highroad. As they turned their horses’
heads, St. Arnaud said to Gavin:
“Ride by me.” And Gavin, without the least impertinence, replied firmly:
“I meant to. No man in an officer’s uniform rides behind his captain.”