A deadly feud was raging among the boys of Numedale. The East-Siders
hated the West-Siders, and thrashed them when they got a chance; and
the West-Siders, when fortune favored them, returned the compliment
with interest. It required considerable courage for a boy to venture,
unattended by comrades, into the territory of the enemy; and no one took
the risk unless dire necessity compelled him.
The hostile parties had played at war so long that they had forgotten
that it was play; and now were actually inspired with the emotions which
they had formerly simulated. Under the leadership of their chieftains,
Halvor Reitan and Viggo Hook, they held councils of war, sent out
scouts, planned midnight surprises, and fought at times mimic battles. I
say mimic battles, because no one was ever killed; but broken heads
and bruised limbs many a one carried home from these engagements, and
unhappily one boy, named Peer Oestmo, had an eye put out by an arrow.
It was a great consolation to him that he became a hero to all the
West-Siders and was promoted for bravery in the field to the rank of
first lieutenant. He had the sympathy of all his companions in arms and
got innumerable bites of apples, cancelled postage stamps, and colored
advertising-labels in token of their esteem.
But the principal effect of this first serious wound was to invest the
war with a breathless and all-absorbing interest. It was now no longer
“make believe,” but deadly earnest. Blood had flowed; insults had been
exchanged in due order, and offended honor cried for vengeance.
It was fortunate that the river divided the West-Siders from the
East-Siders, or it would have been difficult to tell what might
have happened. Viggo Hook, the West-Side general, was a handsome,
high-spirited lad of fifteen, who was the last person to pocket an
injury, as long as red blood flowed in his veins, as he was wont to
express it. He was the eldest son of Colonel Hook of the regular army,
and meant some day to be a Von Moltke or a Napoleon. He felt in his
heart that he was destined for something great; and in conformity with
this conviction assumed a superb behavior, which his comrades found very
admirable.
He had the gift of leadership in a marked degree, and established his
authority by a due mixture of kindness and severity. Those boys whom he
honored with his confidence were absolutely attached to him. Those whom,
with magnificent arbitrariness, he punished and persecuted, felt meekly
that they had probably deserved it; and if they had not, it was somehow
in the game.
There never was a more absolute king than Viggo, nor one more abjectly
courted and admired. And the amusing part of it was that he was at heart
a generous and good-natured lad, but possessed with a lofty ideal of
heroism, which required above all things that whatever he said or did
must be striking. He dramatized, as it were, every phrase he uttered and
every act he performed, and modelled himself alternately after Napoleon
and Wellington, as he had seen them represented in the old engravings
which decorated the walls in his father’s study.
He had read much about heroes of war, ancient and modern, and he lived
about half his own life imagining himself by turns all sorts of grand
characters from history or fiction.
His costume was usually in keeping with his own conception of these
characters, in so far as his scanty opportunities permitted. An old,
broken sword of his father’s, which had been polished until it “flashed”
properly, was girded to a brass-mounted belt about his waist; an
ancient, gold-braided, military cap, which was much too large, covered
his curly head; and four tarnished brass buttons, displaying the Golden
Lion of Norway, gave a martial air to his blue jacket, although the rest
were plain horn.
But quite independently of his poor trappings Viggo was to his comrades
an august personage. I doubt if the Grand Vizier feels more flattered
and gratified by the favor of the Sultan than little Marcus Henning did,
when Viggo condescended to be civil to him.
Marcus was small, round-shouldered, spindle-shanked, and freckle-faced.
His hair was coarse, straight, and the color of maple sirup; his nose
was broad and a little flattened at the point, and his clothes had a
knack of never fitting him. They were made to grow in and somehow he
never caught up with them, he once said, with no intention of being
funny. His father, who was Colonel Hook’s nearest neighbor, kept a
modest country shop, in which you could buy anything, from dry goods and
groceries to shoes and medicines. You would have to be very ingenious to
ask for a thing which Henning could not supply. The smell in the store
carried out the same idea; for it was a mixture of all imaginable smells
under the sun.
Now, it was the chief misery of Marcus that, sleeping, as he did, in the
room behind the store, he had become so impregnated with this curious
composite smell that it followed him like an odoriferous halo, and
procured him a number of unpleasant nicknames. The principal ingredient
was salted herring; but there was also a suspicion of tarred ropes, plug
tobacco, prunes, dried codfish, and oiled tarpaulin.
It was not so much kindness of heart as respect for his own dignity
which made Viggo refrain from calling Marcus a “Muskrat” or a
“Smelling-Bottle.” And yet Marcus regarded this gracious forbearance on
his part as the mark of a noble soul. He had been compelled to accept
these offensive nicknames, and, finding rebellion vain, he had finally
acquiesced in them.
He never loved to be called a “Muskrat,” though he answered to the name
mechanically. But when Viggo addressed him as “base minion,” in his
wrath, or as “Sergeant Henning,” in his sunnier moods, Marcus felt
equally complimented by both terms, and vowed in his grateful soul
eternal allegiance and loyalty to his chief.
He bore kicks and cuffs with the same admirable equanimity; never
complained when he was thrown into a dungeon in a deserted pigsty for
breaches of discipline of which he was entirely guiltless, and trudged
uncomplainingly through rain and sleet and snow, as scout or spy, or
what-not, at the behest of his exacting commander.
It was all so very real to him that he never would have thought of
doubting the importance of his mission. He was rather honored by the
trust reposed in him, and was only intent upon earning a look or word of
scant approval from the superb personage whom he worshipped.
Halvor Reitan, the chief of the East-Siders, was a big, burly peasant
lad, with a pimpled face, fierce blue eyes, and a shock of towy hair.
But he had muscles as hard as twisted ropes, and sinews like steel.
He had the reputation, of which he was very proud, of being the
strongest boy in the valley, and though he was scarcely sixteen years
old, he boasted that he could whip many a one of twice his years. He
had, in fact, been so praised for his strength that he never neglected
to accept, or even to create, opportunities for displaying it.
His manner was that of a bully; but it was vanity and not malice which
made him always spoil for a fight. He and Viggo Hook had attended
the parson’s “Confirmation Class,” together, and it was there their
hostility had commenced.
Halvor, who conceived a dislike of the tall, rather dainty, and
disdainful Viggo, with his aquiline nose and clear, aristocratic
features, determined, as he expressed it, to take him down a peg or two;
and the more his challenges were ignored the more persistent he grew in
his insults.
He dubbed Viggo “Missy.” He ran against him with such violence in the
hall that he knocked his head against the wainscoting; he tripped him up
on the stairs by means of canes and sticks; and he hired his partisans
who sat behind Viggo to stick pins into him, while he recited his
lessons. And when all these provocations proved unavailing he determined
to dispense with any pretext, but simply thrash his enemy within an inch
of his life at the first opportunity which presented itself. He grew to
hate Viggo and was always aching to molest him.
Halvor saw plainly enough that Viggo despised him, and refused to notice
his challenges, not so much because he was afraid of him, as because he
regarded himself as a superior being who could afford to ignore insults
from an inferior, without loss of dignity.
During recess the so-called “genteel boys,” who had better clothes and
better manners than the peasant lads, separated themselves from the
rest, and conversed or played with each other. No one will wonder
that such behavior was exasperating to the poorer boys. I am far from
defending Viggo’s behavior in this instance. He was here, as everywhere,
the acknowledged leader; and therefore more cordially hated than the
rest. It was the Roundhead hating the Cavalier; and the Cavalier making
merry at the expense of the Roundhead.
There was only one boy in the Confirmation Class who was doubtful as to
what camp should claim him, and that was little Marcus Henning. He was
a kind of amphibious animal who, as he thought, really belonged
nowhere. His father was of peasant origin, but by his prosperity and his
occupation had risen out of the class to which he was formerly attached,
without yet rising into the ranks of the gentry, who now, as always,
looked with scorn upon interlopers. Thus it came to pass that little
Marcus, whose inclinations drew him toward Viggo’s party, was yet forced
to associate with the partisans of Halvor Reitan.
It was not a vulgar ambition “to pretend to be better than he was” which
inspired Marcus with a desire to change his allegiance, but a deep,
unreasoning admiration for Viggo Hook. He had never seen any one who
united so many superb qualities, nor one who looked every inch as noble
as he did.
It did not discourage him in the least that his first approaches met
with no cordial reception. His offer to communicate to Viggo where there
was a hawk’s nest was coolly declined, and even the attractions of fox
dens and rabbits’ burrows were valiantly resisted. Better luck he had
with a pair of fan-tail pigeons, his most precious treasure, which Viggo
rather loftily consented to accept, for, like most genteel boys in the
valley, he was an ardent pigeon-fancier, and had long vainly importuned
his father to procure him some of the rarer breeds.
He condescended to acknowledge Marcus’s greeting after that, and to
respond to his diffident “Good-morning” and “Good-evening,” and Marcus
was duly grateful for such favors. He continued to woo his idol with
raisins and ginger-snaps from the store, and other delicate attentions,
and bore the snubs which often fell to his lot with humility and
patience.
But an event soon occurred which was destined to change the relations
of the two boys. Halvor Reitan called a secret meeting of his partisans,
among whom he made the mistake to include Marcus, and agreed with them
to lie in ambush at the bend of the road, where it entered the forest,
and attack Viggo Hook and his followers. Then, he observed, he would
“make him dance a jig that would take the starch out of him.”
The others declared that this would be capital fun, and enthusiastically
promised their assistance. Each one selected his particular antipathy to
thrash, though all showed a marked preference for Viggo, whom, however,
for reason of politeness, they were obliged to leave to the chief. Only
one boy sat silent, and made no offer to thrash anybody, and that was
Marcus Henning.
“Well, Muskrat,” cried Halvor Reitan, “whom are you going to take on
your conscience?”
“No one,” said Marcus.
“Put the Muskrat in your pocket, Halvor,” suggested one of the boys; “he
is so small, and he has got such a hard bullet head, you might use him
as a club.”
“Well, one thing is sure,” shouted Halvor, as a dark suspicion shot
through his brain, “if you don’t keep mum, you will be a mighty sick
coon the day after to-morrow.”
Marcus made no reply, but got up quietly, pulled a rubber sling from
his pocket, and began, with the most indifferent manner in the world,
to shoot stones down the river. He managed during this exercise, which
everybody found perfectly natural, to get out of the crowd, and, without
seeming to have any purpose whatever, he continued to put a couple of
hundred yards between himself and his companion.
“Look a-here, Muskrat,” he heard Halvor cry, “you promised to keep mum.”
Marcus, instead of answering, took to his heels and ran.
“Boys, the scoundrel is going to betray us!” screamed the chief. “Now
come, boys! We’ve got to catch him, dead or alive.”
A volley of stones, big and little, was hurled after the fugitive, who
now realizing his position ran for dear life. The stones hailed down
round about him; occasionally one vicious missile would whiz past his
ear, and send a cold shudder through him. The tramp of his pursuers
sounded nearer and nearer, and his one chance of escape was to throw
himself into the only boat, which he saw on this side of the river, and
push out into the stream before he was overtaken.
He had his doubts as to whether he could accomplish this, for the blood
rushed and roared in his ears, the hill-side billowed under his feet,
and it seemed as if the trees were all running a race in the opposite
direction, in order to betray him to his enemies.
A stone gave him a thump in the back, but though he felt a gradual heat
spreading from the spot which it hit, he was conscious of no pain.
Presently a larger missile struck him in the neck, and he heard a
breathless snorting close behind him. That was the end; he gave himself
up for lost, for those boys would have no mercy on him if they captured
him.
But in the next moment he heard a fall and an oath, and the voice was
that of Halvor Reitan. He breathed a little more freely as he saw the
river run with its swelling current at his feet. Quite mechanically,
without clearly knowing what he did, he sprang into the boat, grabbed
a boat-hook, and with three strong strokes pushed himself out into the
deep water.
At that instant a dozen of his pursuers reached the river bank, and
he saw dimly their angry faces and threatening gestures, and heard the
stones drop into the stream about him. Fortunately the river was partly
dammed, in order to accumulate water for the many saw-mills under the
falls. It would therefore have been no very difficult feat to paddle
across, if his aching arms had had an atom of strength left in them. As
soon as he was beyond the reach of flying stones he seated himself in
the stern, took an oar, and after having bathed his throbbing forehead
in the cold water, managed, in fifteen minutes, to make the further
bank. Then he dragged himself wearily up the hill-side to Colonel Hook’s
mansion, and when he had given his message to Viggo, fell into a dead
faint.
How could Viggo help being touched by such devotion? He had seen the
race through a fieldglass from his pigeon-cot, but had been unable to
make out its meaning, nor had he remotely dreamed that he was himself
the cause of the cruel chase. He called his mother, who soon perceived
that Marcus’s coat was saturated with blood in the back, and undressing
him, she found that a stone, hurled by a sling, had struck him, slid a
few inches along the rib, and had lodged in the fleshy part of his left
side.
A doctor was now sent for; the stone was cut out without difficulty,
and Marcus was invited to remain as Viggo’s guest until he recovered.
He felt so honored by this invitation that he secretly prayed he might
remain ill for a month; but the wound showed an abominable readiness to
heal, and before three days were past Marcus could not feign any ailment
which his face and eye did not belie.
He then, with a heavy heart, betook himself homeward, and installed
himself once more among his accustomed smells behind the store, and
pondered sadly on the caprice of the fate which had made Viggo a
high-nosed, handsome gentleman, and him--Marcus Henning--an under-grown,
homely, and unrefined drudge. But in spite of his failure to answer this
question, there was joy within him at the thought that he had saved
this handsome face of Viggo’s from disfigurement, and--who could
know?--perhaps would earn a claim upon his gratitude.
It was this series of incidents which led to the war between the
East-Siders and the West-Siders. It was a mere accident that the
partisans of Viggo Hook lived on the west side of the river, and those
of Halvor Reitan mostly on the east side.
Viggo, who had a chivalrous sense of fair play, would never have
molested any one without good cause; but now his own safety, and, as he
persuaded himself, even his life, was in danger, and he had no choice
but to take measures in self-defence. He surrounded himself with a
trusty body-guard, which attended him wherever he went. He sent little
Marcus, in whom he recognized his most devoted follower, as scout into
the enemy’s territory, and swelled his importance enormously by lending
him his field-glass to assist him in his perilous observations.
Occasionally an unhappy East-Sider was captured on the west bank of the
river, court-martialed, and, with much solemnity, sentenced to death as
a spy, but paroled for an indefinite period, until it should suit his
judges to execute the sentence. The East-Siders, when they captured a
West-Sider, went to work with less ceremony; they simply thrashed their
captive soundly and let him run, if run he could.
Thus months passed. The parson’s Confirmation Class ceased, and both the
opposing chieftains were confirmed on the same day; but Viggo stood at
the head of the candidates, while Halvor had his place at the bottom. [1]
During the following winter the war was prosecuted with much zeal, and
the West-Siders, in imitation of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, armed
themselves with cross-bows, and lay in ambush in the underbrush, aiming
their swift arrows against any intruder who ventured to cross the river.
Nearly all the boys in the valley between twelve and sixteen became
enlisted on the one side or the other, and there were councils of war,
marches, and counter-marches without number, occasional skirmishes, but
no decisive engagements. Peer Oestmo, to be sure, had his eye put out by
an arrow, as has already been related, for the East-Siders were not slow
to imitate the example of their enemies, in becoming expert archers.
Marcus Henning was captured by a hostile outpost, and was being
conducted to the abode of the chief, when, by a clever stratagem, he
succeeded in making his escape.
The East-Siders despatched, under a flag of truce, a most insulting
caricature of General Viggo, representing him as a rooster that seemed
on the point of bursting with an excess of dignity.
These were the chief incidents of the winter, though there were many
others of less consequence that served to keep the boys in a delightful
state of excitement. They enjoyed the war keenly, though they pretended
to themselves that they were being ill-used and suffered terrible
hardships. They grumbled at their duties, brought complaints against
their officers to the general, and did, in fact, all the things that
real soldiers would have been likely to do under similar circumstances.