Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: The Golden Story Book]
The Golden Story Book
BY
G. Manville Fenn, D. H. Parry,
G. A. Henty, Sheila Braine,
L. L. Weedon, etc.
[Illustration]
ERNEST NISTER • LONDON E. P. DUTTON & CO. • NEW YORK
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
How Jean Became a Soldier L. L. Weedon
Defending the Fort Sheila Braine
A Border Raid D. H. Parry
A Pair of Brave Maids Sheila Braine
On Board a Pirate Ship Sheila Braine
How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment G. A. Henty
Never Trust a Stream . . . . . .
"Jean-Pierre" The Story of the St. Bernard Lilian Gask
The Jailer's Little Son E. Everett-Green
A Ride for Life L. L. Weeden
A Debt Paid Geraldine R. Glasgow
The Tale of Prince Tatters May Byron
Lost on the Fells Geraldine R. Glasgow
The Golden Story Book
How Jean Became a Soldier
[Illustration]
IT was early June in the year eighteen hundred and fifteen, and the
warm sun shone down upon the little farmhouse of Monsieur le Grand
and touched the old red brick walls lovingly. The bees hummed in the
garden, and there was no other sound except the lowing of the cattle
and the occasional merry noise of children's laughter.
It all seemed very peaceful and quiet, and yet a short distance away
two great armies were preparing for the great battle which was shortly
afterwards fought upon the field of Waterloo.
It seemed strange that the little farmhouse had escaped observation,
for most of the farms and cottages round had soldiers quartered in
them, but le Grand's house was tucked away in the hollow of a hill and
was far off the beaten track, about fifteen miles from the town of
Nivelle.
Little Jean le Grand came trudging up the garden path, sighing, as
he wiped his hot brow with the back of his sunburnt hand, for he was
very weary. The work of the farm was too much for such a lad, but the
good mother, who usually did her share, was ailing, and as for the
father—well, he was away, no doubt drinking and making merry with the
soldiers quartered in the next village, for Monsieur le Grand was
somewhat of a ne'er-do-well and could never be made to work whilst
others would work for him.
As Jean entered the house-place, he saw his mother stooping over the
hearth, stirring a pot, the odours from which made Jean realise how
very hungry he was.
"Supper is quite ready, dear one," said his mother. "I will call those
rascals in."
But the two young children had had apparently scented supper from afar
and came racing in to take their share.
In a very short space of time the food was all eaten, and the pot and
plates cleared away; the two younger children crept away to bed, and
Jean and his mother sat by the ingle nook to discuss the farm work, and
the best remedy for a sick cow.
"I wish the father were home," sighed the mother. "Celeste needs
watching to-night, and you are far too weary, and I fear I should but
increase my rheumatism."
At that moment the door opened and Monsieur le Grand came in—"Jean, my
lad," he cried jovially, "saddle the grey the grey mare and take a sup
of the mother's cordial to hearten you, for you have a long ride before
you; but there will be an ample reward to pay you for your trouble. It
has come my ears, no matter how, that the English General is at St.
Etienne with but a small escort, and the soldiers down at the village
tell me that Napoleon would give a fortune for the news—well, what
matters it to us who wins, English or French, we are safe enough away
here, and I mean to earn the French gold; but away with you, for, if
I mistake not, old Jacques Casson is off already to try his luck, but
I'll back you to reach Limal before he is two leagues on the way."
[Illustration]
Jean and his mother looked at each other in horror—le Grand had
committed many foolish acts, but never had they dreamt he would turn
traitor and betray his country.
The mother went out and beckoned Jean to follow her.
"You must indeed ride far and fast to-night, Jean," she said—"it is
useless to argue with your father, the soldiers have given him too much
wine, or he would never have done this thing. Ride as fast as the grey
mare will carry you to St. Etienne and warn the English General his
whereabouts are known. You must not let them be taken in a trap, and
Jacques Casson must be well on his way by now."
She kissed her boy and in five minutes' time the echo of the grey
mare's hoofs was dying away in the distance.
Jean never forgot that ride. On, on, on, mile after mile, past sleeping
villages, past meadows and rivers, fearing a foe in every shadow that
fell across the white moonlit road, for oh! if he fell into the hands
of the French, he would never be able to save the English General and
his father would be disgraced for ever.
By the time the grey mare's speed began to slacken Jean was sobbing
frantically—would he ever reach St. Etienne in time?
"Halt! Who goes there?" the dreadful challenge rang out at length.
Jean pounded his heels into the grey mare's flanks, she made a gallant
bound forward, but to no purpose: a hand seized the bridle and dragged
her back upon her haunches, and Jean was hauled roughly from his seat,
and hurried into a hut near by, where a number of French officers were
sleeping by the fire. They were soon roused and bade Jean give an
account of himself.
Desperate with fear Jean lied as he had never lied before and never
would again.
"I come from Villeton," he said, "and am riding to Bousval—the English
General is at Villeton with but a small escort and my father sends
me to the French Captain Goulet with the news—he is in Monsieur le
Capitaine's pay."
Jean had scarcely finished speaking when the order to mount was given,
the commanding officer being so anxious to steal a march on Captain
Goulet and secure the General himself, that he did not even remember
to take Jean with him as a security for his good faith, and as soon as
they were away Jean mounted his tired mare and in an hour's time was
riding into St. Etienne. Here he told his story to the first English
soldier who could understand him, and then, having done his duty, he
fainted away from sheer exhaustion.
[Illustration]
When he came to himself again he found he was in the midst of a group
of English soldiers, who began to question him eagerly, but he shook
his head, he could not understand them. Very soon an interpreter was
found, and on Jean eagerly enquiring if the General were safe the young
office laughed and told him he had never been near the town—"But don't
look so downfallen," he said kindly, "you have saved my life, I do not
doubt; I have no mind to be caught in a French trap, and we are off
now to join the General, and you, my lad, had best come with us, for I
fancy you would have too warm a reception if you fell into the hands of
those same hussars you sent upon a wildgoose chase."
And so it fell out that Jean rode away with his new friends and shortly
afterwards became attached to the English army as a drummer boy.
He did not go home until long after the war was ended, and then only
on a short leave, but what was his amazement to find his father a
completely altered man. Being firmly convinced that he had sent his son
to his death, for the one letter Jean had managed to send had never
reached the farm, poor le Grand never ceased to blame himself. He gave
up drinking too much wine and took to tilling the ground and looking
after his farm, and when the terrible remorse he had suffered from was
removed, he found he did not care to revert to his former habits.
As for Jean, having served his time in the English army and covered
himself with honour and glory, he returned one day to the old farmhouse
in the little Belgian village and lived there in ease and plenty for
the rest of his days.
L. L. Weedon.
[Illustration]
Defending the Fort
A SOLDIER in the uniform of a French grenadier was clambering up the
side of a steep ravine. His face and hands were covered with scratches,
and he was hot and breathless, but still he pressed eagerly after his
guide, a young goatherd, only pausing for a second to ask, "Does the
fort lie over yonder?"
"But half a league further," answered the boy, tossing back his shaggy
hair, and on they plunged through the underwood, by a path that nobody
but one born and bred among those mountains could have found.
They had come six miles across country at a desperate pace, but fatigue
was nothing to the grenadier, La Tour d'Auvergne, a name already known
for valour throughout the length and breadth of France. He had a
mission to accomplish, and his duty came before all else.
"Yonder is the fort; you have but to follow the path up the pass," said
his guide at last.
La Tour's eyes brightened, he put some money into the lad's hand, and
the latter disappeared among the bushes. Inspired by fresh courage the
weary grenadier pounded up the narrow rocky way, but he was surprised,
as he approached the building, that no sentinel challenged him. What
was the garrison doing that it took no precautions against a sudden
attack? La Tour had an inward feeling that all was not right: his heart
misgave him as he rushed up to the door.
[Illustration]
Why he had come was that he had received news that a regiment of
Austrians was pushing forward to get possession of the fort. If they
succeeded, it would be a serious matter for the French army, and La
Tour had set out instantly to warn the garrison. The fort was ten miles
distant by road, but he had found a young goatherd to take him a short
way across the mountains.
The door yielded as the grenadier flung his weight against it: he
gave a shout as he burst into the court, but no one answered it. "The
cowards!" he exclaimed in indignation, "they have deserted the place!
The mean-spirited rascals! Would that I had the hanging of them!"
It was but too true: the garrison had evidently been warned of the
approach of the enemy, and had fled after the main body of the
French army. They had gone off in a great hurry, for muskets lay
scattered about on the ground. "Villains!" muttered La Tour, and,
having completed his survey of the place, he began to prepare for
the Austrians. The dauntless soldier knew that if he could delay the
enemy's movements for even twenty-four hours, it would be of enormous
value to his countrymen. The fort was in a fine position, at the head
of a steep pass, and La Tour meant to hold it as long as there was life
in his lean, strong body.
There were some thirty muskets, and these he loaded; he then barricaded
the heavy door as well as he could, ate a hearty meal—plenty of
provisions were left fortunately—and sat down to await the enemy.
The night came on, and presently the grenadier caught the sound of
footsteps tramping up the narrow pass. Instantly he fired a couple of
shots into the darkness and heard the footsteps retreating. Although
desperately weary, the defender of the fort did not dare to close his
eyes, and he was glad enough when morning dawned.
"We shall see what will happen now," said La Tour to himself.
As soon as it was light, a soldier with a flag of truce came up the
path: the Austrian Government had sent to summon the garrison to
surrender.
La Tour naturally did not let the messenger inside. "You can go back
and inform your Commandant," he called out, "that we are here to defend
the pass for France, and that as long as there is a man left, this fort
will not yield."
[Illustration]
The envoy retired, and the bold grenadier made ready for action.
Presently he found that the Austrians were hauling a small cannon up
the pass, and as soon as the gunners came in sight he let fly at them,
taking care to keep well under cover himself. Five men went down, one
after the other, and the rest beat a retreat.
"Ah, ha! 'tis not as easy as you fancied, my fine fellows," said La
Tour, re-loading his guns.
He guessed pretty well that the enemy's next move would be to make a
sudden dash and try and take the fort by storm, and he guessed rightly.
But the pass was so narrow that the men could only come on two abreast,
and La Tour, an expert at quick firing, picked them off until fifteen
were lying dead or wounded on the ground. Scared, the rest fled down
the pass once more, leaving the "garrison" a victor. The Commandant was
furious, and later a third assault was made, but with the same result
as before. By sunset more than forty of his men were killed. The rest
were getting discouraged too: for it was like walking into the jaws of
certain death to march up that narrow path.
Once again the white flag was seen before the main entrance of the
fort, and the garrison was called upon to surrender. By this time La
Tour was almost worn out: he knew that he could not possibly hold out
much longer, so he proceeded to make the best terms he could.
"The garrison is to be allowed to march out with their arms, and retire
unmolested to the French army," was his stipulation.
After a good deal of parleying, the Commandant agreed to this, and La
Tour promised to give up the fort at break of day. Then he dropped
down, half dead with fatigue, and went to sleep; he had done all he
could, and had gained a certain amount of time. Probably if the real
garrison had been there, they might not have been able to accomplish
much more.
The grenadier was so weary that the sun was already high when he woke,
and a furious battering at the great door reminded him of his compact.
The Austrians were outside clamouring for the fort to be delivered up
to them.
"You are in too great a hurry, my friends," muttered La Tour,
grabbing an armful of muskets, "come, a little patience"—as the blows
re-doubled—"the garrison is not ready yet," and he went on calmly
gathering the guns together. Then he picked up a couple of straps and
fastened them together.
[Illustration]
Outside, on the little plateau at the head of the pass which the
Austrians had vainly attempted to gain, the troops were now drawn up in
line. They left a space for the garrison to march through, and waited
impatiently for them to appear.
"What on earth are the fellows about?" growled the Colonel, who was in
command, "do they mean to keep us here all day? Here, go and tell the
Captain that if the fort be not instantly given into my hands, I shall
hold the agreement at an end."
At that moment the heavy door was pushed slowly open, and, to the
astonishment of the Austrians, a solitary man appeared, a grenadier. He
staggered along with thirty muskets strapped on his back, and, as the
Colonel stepped forward, La Tour d'Auvergne saluted.
"But where is the garrison?" cried the Colonel quickly.
"It means that you behold here the garrison, Colonel."
"What!" thundered the Austrian, "do you expect me to believe that
we have been held at bay all these hours by one man? Where are your
comrades?"
La Tour explained, and, for a moment, the officer stood dumb-founded:
then he raised his hand to his cap, saying, "Grenadier, you are a hero!
Your emperor is indeed fortunate to possess so valiant a soldier," and
a ringing shout of approval went up from the troops as La Tour, again
saluting, went slowly onwards, with his load of weapons. He had killed
a number of their companions, but they knew how to respect a brave
soldier.
La Tour was one of the most modest of men, and would never accept the
honours and dignities offered him as a reward for his many deeds of
valour. One title, however, was given to him, by which he was known
both in his own country and in others, that of "The First Grenadier of
France."
So one reads of him in the pages of history, and at Carhaix, in
Brittany, his birthplace, a memorial ceremony was kept up for about
fifteen years after his death in 1800.
The roll-call of the Grenadiers began each day with the famous name
of La Tour d'Auvergne. There was an impressive silence that lasted a
few moments, and then the colour sergeant, stepping forward, saluted
gravely, and made answer: "Dead on the field of honour!"
Sheila Braine.
[Illustration]
A Border Raid
LONG John o' the Limp sat with his back against the mounting-block,
polishing a pair of steel gauntlets.
The sun, not a great way as yet above the low peat hills that edged the
little valley to eastwards, flung the shadow of the grey peel-tower far
along the grass, and Long John o' the Limp shifted his legs to bring
them into the sunshine.
"Hey! but I must be growing old, for I get as fond of warmth nowadays
as a cat of the fire," grunted the moss-trooper, his keen eye following
the course of the stream that gurgled among its rushes as it flowed
from the Scottish border, "and yet—if those reiving loons came riding
here I doubt not they would find some bite still left in these withered
jaws!"
"Good-morrow, Long John," said a sweet girl voice behind him, and there
in the doorway of the Tower stood little Mistress Alison Langley, hawk
upon fist, and her riding skirt gathered up in the other hand.
"Grammercy, child, and where be ye going?" said the moss-trooper,
getting slowly to his feet, for he was sadly lame from the slash of a
Jedburgh axe in an old border raid.
"Jocelyn flies his new falcon on the Red Moss, and I go with him," said
the pretty little maid, her golden hair all a-curl about her cheeks,
and looking mighty charming in the ancient doorway.
Before Long John could open his mouth, Jocelyn came down the narrow
stone stairs which wound in the thickness of the wall, and burst out
into the sunshine—a brown-faced boy in a green doublet, a heron's
feather in his flat cap, and a pair of silver spurs on his heels.
"Have a care, Master Jocelyn," said Long John, "the Red Moss is not the
safest place for your father's son, and if Wat Armstrong should spy
you, there will be wiping off of old scores."
"Black Wat has not dared to show his nose on English ground since my
father burned his tower and harried his lands three years ago," said
Jocelyn proudly; "and why should he be on the Red Moss to-day?"
"Laddie," said the old man, smiling, the while he shook his grey head,
"the Langleys were ever venturesome; but go your own road, only, mind
ye, the Flower o' Langley goes wi' ye, and if she come to harm whilst
your father is away I would not face his wrath for all the gold in
Northumberland!"
"My sister will never meet hurt or harm while I am beside her," cried
Jocelyn, touching his sword significantly; "but I promise you we will
ride no farther than the White Stone, and here comes Halbert with the
horses."
Through the ford, and up the valley they went, scaring the feeding
cattle, scattering the snowy tufts of the cotton grass, over the
springy heather that purpled the hillside, and so to the moss, three
miles away.
There, with eyes dancing and cheeks aglow, they reined in beside
a clump of gean, or wild cherry, and scanned the sedgy marsh that
bordered the lonely moorland.
"Yonder is our quarry, Ally—see, a grey heron rising from the reeds!"
and the boy unhooded the gerfalcon in haste. "Hooha—ha—ha!" he cried,
tossing the bird free, and away it raked, with the musical jingle of
bells, and graceful trail of jesses.
The heron changed its seemingly slow flight and mounted rapidly, up,
up; but the falcon, winging in circles, rose high above the quarry, and
poised for the stoop with quiver of sails and train wide spread. Then,
dropping with the rapidity of light, set his pounces into the heron.
With a mighty whir of wings, and showering of feathers, the two birds
came to earth, and Jocelyn gave a loud "whoop," which, in the language
of falconry, meant a kill.
"Come along, Ally," he shouted, setting his pony over the trickle of a
tiny burn, "you shall have a fine bunch of tail coverts." But the words
had scarce left Jocelyn's lips when Alison saw him pull the grey jennet
well nigh on to his croup and toss his arm up for a danger signal.
There were armed men upon the moss and the glint of the sun upon steel
caps.
[Illustration]
Alison had already leaped her pony across the burn, where the
treacherous quagmire was soft and spongy, and she gave a cry of alarm
as the frightened creature sank over his fetlocks and floundered wildly.
"Have no fear, little lady," said a deep voice beside her, and a
strange man rose out of the hazel copse and grasped her rein.
A plunge and a squeal of terror from the pony, and then the stranger
had plucked the pair from all danger, and set them safely in the bed of
the burn.
"By my faith, pretty lassie, ye hae a fine spirit and a soft cheek,"
said the bearded man, patting the one as he praised the other; "but
your confounded moss is a fearsome spot, and I came none too soon—nay,
look not sae scared—Wat Armstrong will do ye nae hurt, and maybe ye'll
tell me if we ride in the way for Langley Tower?"
Jocelyn came spurring back.
"If you follow us we will show you the path you seek," he said, his
face scarlet, and his eyes meeting Alison's. "You have saved my sister
from peril, and one courtesy deserves another," and thus speaking, he
led her pony up to the bank top, as the reiver's band came straggling
out of the hazel copse, forty moss-troopers with spears and axes.
"Now for our lives, Ally," he cried, striking her pony with the flat of
his sword, and away tore brother and sister up the grassy valley before
the reiver had inkling of their design.
"By the rood!" shouted Black Wat, smiting his thigh, "they hae baith
of them the fair hair of the cursed Langleys—ride men, ride, else our
trouble is a' for naught—we shall cut them off at the brae heid!"
From forty throats went up a yell that sent the curlews wheeling over
the moss, and the earth trembled with the thunder of iron hoofs, but
the ponies were fresh, and pacing like the wind, and already they had
good start of their pursuers.
"Beware the heather roots, Ally," cried Jocelyn between his set teeth,
"one stumble, and they will burn our Tower; if aught happen me, ride on
and warn Long John!"
She nodded, and no other word was spoken, as they tore side by side
past the rowan trees that showed their red berries, and the clumps of
silver birch.
* * * * *
"Hey, but the times are soft as tow on a distaff," said Long John o'
the Limp, out upon the parapet that girdled the top of the peel; "I
have seen the day when three bands have been in sight i' the same
morning coming to our undoing, and the burn running red before noon;
ay, and I mind me when Surrey marched up to fight the Scots, wi'
glaives and spears bristling like reeds in a mere; but now, men have
other ways, and look where these old eyes may—"
The old eyes roving round the horizon of Pet Hill and Autumn Wood
suddenly dilated, and Long John o' the Limp grasped the parapet with a
giant's grip.
"Horsemen, and riding on the spur!" he cried, "and hey, what is
this?—the children flying through the stream—bravely ridden, Flower
o' Langley—ho, there! Jock, Halbert, Tam Foster, all o' ye—a raid, a
raid—drive in the kye and stir yersels, the reiving loons are upon us!"
[Illustration]
Long John descended the stairs at infinite risk of his neck, and
reached the ground floor as Jocelyn rode in at the doorway and sprang
out of the saddle.
"Armstrong and a couple of score at his back," panted Jocelyn,
and, outside at a bound, he stayed Alison, who was on the point of
dismounting.
"Nay, Ally," he cried, "you must rouse the countryside and send us
help; away up the loan, and you'll be over the brae top before they see
you—warn them at the Long House, and they will fire Lattfell beacon,
then on to the Charltons and bid them send to the Musgraves—go, go, I
hear their gallop now!"
"Ay, go, lassie," said the old moss-trooper, "we'll need all the help
we may; let the sick cow bide, Jock, they're welcome to her; and now,
within boys, we've saved all we can, and yonder comes Black Wat hissel."
Jocelyn watched the whisk of the blue riding skirt disappear beyond the
orchard trees, and ran into the Tower, the iron grille swinging to with
a clang as Halbert secured it.
Five minutes before all had been peace, and the sun shining on the
green of the grass; now, they stood in the peculiar coolness of the
stone walls, watching the ragged reivers splash through the ford, and
pull up in a bunch in front of the doorway.
The Tower, strongly built of grey stone, was dimly lit by arrow slits,
and in the lower story the frightened cattle lowed.
About it clustered the outbuildings, byres and stabling; but on
occasions like the present, all the livestock were driven within, and
grille and door stoutly barred.
The door stood half open now, as Black Wat Armstrong reined in before
the square entrance, laughing aloud.
He was clad in breast and back piece, and had riding boots reaching
above his knee, and in addition to the long sword at his hip, he
carried a Jedburgh axe hanging by a thong from his saddle.
"Come forth, Ned Langley," he said, in a great voice, "Wat Armstrong of
Bannockbrae has somewhat to say to ye!"
"Get ye gone, Black Wat," replied Long John, derisively, from the
interior; "Captain Langley is away, and we like not Scots thieves
around the peel, being very particular of our acquaintance."
"Say ye so, Long John o' the Limp, for I ken your croak weel; ye shall
not be ower burdened wi' my company, man, for we'll e'en hang ye in ten
minutes," and the borderer laughed at his own rough jest. "In with the
door, lads, and the loons shall hae shorter shrift than they gied to
our ain puir folk!"
A dozen moss-troopers dismounted and ran towards the grille, and the
little garrison clanged the inner door to, but not before Halbert's
arbalist twanged, and a bolt flew into the midst of the attacking
party, stretching one of them lifeless, his steel cap ringing against
the horse-block as he fell.
"Up wi' ye, boys!" cried Long John, "we've plums for their pudding
in plenty above there, and they who come to meat at Langley peel,
unbidden, must bring lang spoons."
Jocelyn led the way, scampering like a rabbit up the steep, well-worn
stairs; and bursting out on to the parapet, his first thought was of
his sister.
Far away southward he saw a tiny moving object which vanished round the
shoulder of the hill, and he knew she was safe, and that help would not
be long in coming; then he crept to the parapet and looked over.
A shower of ringing blows from a heavy sledgehammer was falling upon
the grille.
"Lads," said Long John, crawling out upon the roof, with a grim smile,
"they knock over loud to our fancy, being unmannerly Scots, but they
shall taste a 'Langley loaf,'" and he picked up a great fragment of
rock that lay upon a pile that had evidently been brought there for
precisely such a purpose.
"Back!" shouted Armstrong, sitting on his horse, and spying five
figures appear on a sudden, each outlined against the blue sky above
him; but the warning came too late, and the huge stones fell among the
surge of men that sprang away from the door.
"That's Hal o' the Cleuch, wi' his neck broken," cried Long John,
looking down, "'twas he gave me the lick on the shinbone when we rode
back from Bannockbrae, and I'll now die happier for to-day's work!"
"I'll no take away from my father's joy, though 'twas my stone killed
him," whispered Halbert to Tam Foster. "Ha, the rogues have fired the
byre!"
A tremendous shout rose from the reivers, as a tongue of flame leaped
upwards from the outlying buildings; and the soft wind wreathed the
peel itself in smoke.
"We'll no want for a beacon now to raise the countryside, Wat
Armstrong!" called Long John o' the Limp. "If ye've a mind to come in,
take an old man's advice and delay not; we're five here and you two
score—fie on ye! Wat, we'd hae brent your rat hole sooner than this!"
Black Wat's eyes sparkled savagely.
"Sim Salkeld," said he, to a red-haired reiver, "yonder window will
serve us while the smoke hides it; set a ladder cautiously and I'll up
and in."
The window lit the living room in the second story, and was good
five-and-twenty feet from the ground: under cover of the burning byre
they lashed two ladders together, and followed their leader, while the
rest engaged the attention of the little garrison by a bold attack on
the main door.
A powerful, bearded man was Wat Armstrong, and his grasp was on the
iron bars of the window when a shrill cry made him look upward.
"Help! Long John," screamed Jocelyn, peering over the parapet as the
wind suddenly curled the smoke away and revealed the danger, and Black
Wat closed his eyes involuntarily as a jagged rock came hurtling
through the air.
It struck the second reiver standing on the rungs below him, and with a
terrible yell the man fell backwards, dragging the ladder away to fall
crashing into the blaze.
"Hold, boys," said Long John, checking the avalanche of missiles that
was about to descend on the wretched man clinging to the iron bars,
"this comes o' a man climbing above his station; how are ye feelin'
now, Black Wat Armstrong?"
The two enemies glared into each other's eyes, and the reiver's reply
was drowned in a cry of triumph from the Tower, and the clamour of
dismay that rose from the moss-troopers below.
A man clad in half armour, with a steel basinet on his head, must needs
pause before he drops twenty-five feet on to the hewn rock, but already
his men were racing to the ricks and returning with huge armfuls of hay
to break his fall.
"Father," cried Halbert, poising a slab of freestone that he had torn
from the roof, "he'll be away in a trice!"
"Fool, Halbert," said the old man, "cock your eye to the loan-head,
and tell me what you see!" and Long John o' the Limp sent a screech of
laughter into the clear air.
[Illustration]
They looked, and saw, and the reivers saw it at the same moment; for,
galloping as hard as horse could go, came Captain Langley, with full
fifty stout men of Northumberland behind him, and, at his side, brave
little Alison on her sorrel pony.
A thunder of hoofs, a whoop, and a flashing of steel, and then a wild
ride round the smoking byre, and through the ford, and the invaders
fleeing with hotspur for the "Bateable Land," leaving their leader
still grasping the iron bars and glowering at the spear points beneath
him.
Captain Langley pulled up and laughed aloud. "Let fall your axe, Wat
Armstrong, and we'll let you down," he called. "I have a word to sav to
you; bring ladders here."
The baffled reiver descended slowly with his bloodshot eyes on his
captor's, expecting nothing less than death, but Langley motioned back
the spears, and rode forward a pace to meet his old enemy.
"You saved my lassie, Armstrong, and you spake her fair: go your ways,
man; you'll leave horses and harness enough to pay for yonder burnt
byre," said he.
The reiver looked hard at him, and there was silence for a moment.
"Ye brent my Tower o' Bannockbrae," he said, and then paused, as though
bewildered.
"Ye slew my brother before that," replied the Captain sternly, as
Alison drew beside him.
"Gie me your hand, Langley, for ye're a guid mon, an' a forgiving,"
said the grizzled raider, drawing off his gauntlet; "but ne'er shall it
be said that a Scot fell short o' an English borderer in generosity,
an' ye hae my word that Langley Peel gaes free o' Wat Armstrong
henceforward!"
The two strong men gripped hands, and a right blithe shout went up from
the onlookers.
"Take your horse, friend," said the captain, "'tis far to fare afoot,"
and when the reiver turned at the head of valley and waved his arm,
Long John o' the Limp on the Tower top led the ringing cheer that sped
him on his way; and the sun came out, and the grass grew green again,
and all was peace on the lonely border.
D. H. Parry.
[Illustration]
A Pair of Brave Maids
"GILES, my lady bids you drive more warily!"
Lady Saxilby's coachman turned a wrathful face, red with exertion,
towards the speaker, Phoebe. But the coach gave a lurch, and the
waiting-maid's head disappeared. The road was terrible, and Giles had
his work cut out for him. By his side sat my lard's new servant, Roger
Clobery; while inside the lumbering vehicle were Lady Saxilby, her two
daughters, and the maid, Phoebe. They were travelling down to Iver
Hall, the family country seat, and had already been five days on the
road.
Joan Saxilby was fourteen, her sister Letty a year younger, and both
were pretty, dark-haired lassies. Their father, Lord Saxilby, lay in
the Tower, accused of being concerned in a Jacobite plot, and the girls
were surprised at their mother leaving town at such a critical time. If
the accusation were proved it would certainly go ill with him. There
was a son, nineteen, but he had managed to disappear at the time when
Lord Saxilby and some others were arrested, and no news of Dick had
come for many a day.
The party were descending a hill within a few miles of Iver when Letty,
flung bodily on the top of Phoebe, shrieked, "Mother, we are over!"
It was no fault of Giles that the linch-pin should come out of one of
the wheels. He could do nothing, and the coach toppled heavily over on
its side, dragging down the struggling horses with it. Giles himself
was pitched into a bush; Clobery saved himself by an active spring, and
hurried to extricate the young ladies and the weeping Phoebe through
the window that was uppermost. When Lady Saxilby was got out it was
found that she had hurt her shoulder severely, and they were obliged to
carry her to the nearest shelter, a tumbledown farmhouse.
Giles went off on one of the horses to try and find a doctor, and Joan,
hovering round her mother in great concern, heard her murmur in a tone
of bitter distress:
"It may be too late now."
"Mother, dear, can I not do anything?" said Joan, earnestly.
Lady Saxilby looked at her hesitatingly.
"Joan, would you be afraid to go to Iver to-night by yourself?"
It would soon be dusk, but the girl, impressed, answered sturdily:
"No, mother; I will go."
"The pain gets worse," said Lady Saxilby, faintly; "put your ear close
to my lips, Joan. You—you must try to save your father; now, listen."
Joan listened, and her face grew grave and eager. She understood now
why someone in the secret ought to go to Iver as soon as possible.
"Burn every scrap," concluded her ladyship, and closed her eyes,
exhausted.
[Illustration]
Phoebe came back at that instant. Joan beckoned Letty out into the
garden, and whispered to her for a few minutes. "I must go with you,"
said Letty, with decision. "Giles mayn't be back yet, and Clobery—" she
paused and looked at her sister.
"I don't like him either," said Joan. "Very well, Letty, we will go
together."
She felt that she had a good deal on her shoulders; her mother had been
too ill to give her any counsel. And she must not fail either, for
brave men's lives were at stake.
The reason of Lady Saxilby's hurried journey was this. She had received
from her husband, by the hand of Clobery, a scrap of paper with three
crosses marked on it. One cross signified, as she knew, "Destroy all
papers at Iver," two that it was urgent, three that his life depended
upon it. Lady Saxilby told Joan where the secret hiding-place was, and
particularly bade her burn a paper with a long list of names on it. It
was hard to leave their mother in her present state, but the girls knew
they must not linger; so without saying anything to Phoebe, who was a
chatterbox, they stole down the lane, hoping to find their way back to
the high road and reach Iver before nightfall.
It was a long and lonely tramp, for dusk came on, and they wandered
about a common for nearly an hour before they could discover a path.
Tired to begin with, they grew desperately weary, and hungry too into
the bargain. The tears came into the girls' eyes, but they struggled
on, cheering each other as best they could, and at last their courage
and perseverance were rewarded, and they crept up to the side entrance
of Iver Hall.
It was a huge, rambling old building, standing away by itself, and
many a Jacobite meeting had been held in secret beneath its roof. An
ancient servitor and his wife had been left in charge while the family
was away, and greatly astonished were they when Joan's voice begged for
admittance. Old Doggory unbarred the door, holding a light in one hand.
Before he could say a word Joan had snatched this light from him, and
was making for the staircase, Letty following her closely. The girls
had forgotten their fatigue, they only thought of their father's danger.
Yes, the papers were there. Joan, with trembling fingers, drew them
from the cunningly-contrived hiding-place. "Quick, Letty, the light,"
she murmured.
A step was heard behind them; Letty gave a startled cry, while Joan
felt her arm clutched. Looking up, she met the triumphant gaze of Roger
Clobery, and in a second he had snatched the bundle of papers from her.
[Illustration]
"Nicely trapped," said the fellow, mockingly. "I have been waiting for
someone to show me the trick of that sliding panel. We guessed the
papers we wanted were down at this old owl's nest."
"You spy!" cried Joan, indignantly, turning very white.
"Call me what you will, young mistress," returned Clobery, grinning,
"it matters not. We have got what we have been waiting and working for,
and there will be a rare clearance of the rebels, I warrant you, when I
get back to town."
The hearts of the two girls died within them; they had failed, and at
the last minute too, which made it all the more bitter. Their father
would be executed, and who could tell how many more with him? The list
of names looked a lengthy one. Joan made one despairing effort. Drawing
herself up, and trying to look much older than she was, she said,
haughtily:
"Perhaps you need money. How much will you take to give me back those
papers?"
Clobery laughed insultingly.
"How much, pray, have you to offer? A couple of gold pieces and a pair
of earrings? No, these papers go straight to King George's own hands;
he will pay for them fast enough."
With a sob Letty dropped on her knees, and Joan followed her example;
together they besought the spy for mercy.
He jeered at them, and, catching up the light, cried: "Farewell, my
pretty mistresses, I will e'en borrow this as far as the window, where
I made my entry. You have helped me much and I am beholden to you."
He left the room, waving the bundle of priceless documents derisively.
Joan and Letty rushed after him, not to be left in total darkness.
There was more light in the long corridor, and suddenly they caught
sight of a tall figure advancing towards them. It was clad in a long
brown cloak with a hood drawn over its head, and for a moment the
girls, in terror, fancied it might be a ghost. Then Letty gave a loud
cry: "Dick, Dick, get the papers from him!"
[Illustration]
The spy dashed the light on the floor and took to his heels; but he
had someone after him who knew the house better than he did. Clobery
was armed, but so was Dick Saxilby, and when they met, just by the
open window by which the traitor had entered, it became a fight to
the death. The young Jacobite was a good swordsman, and presently his
weapon shot under the other's guard, and Clobery fell with a shriek to
the ground.
"You have beaten me," he muttered, and rolled over and died.
There was so little light that young Saxilby could not tell who was his
fallen enemy, but the two girls quickly put him in possession of the
facts of the case.
"He deserved what he got," was Dick's comment; "and now we must get a
fresh light from old Doggory and burn the papers. Faith, I could have
managed the business before, but I knew not where they were hidden."
When the deed was accomplished, Joan and Letty heaved a sigh of great
relief. What a case of touch-and-go it had been! If Dick had not been
in hiding in his own home, which boasted of as many as three secret
chambers, and so was as safe a place as any, the papers would assuredly
have been carried off.
As it happened, the accusation against Lord Saxilby and his fellow
prisoners fell to the ground for want of evidence, and after some
months they were released. It was a happy family party that met then at
Iver; but Joan and Letty never forgot that night when their father's
life hung upon a single thread.
Sheila Braine.
On Board a Pirate Ship
[Illustration]
"HAS the boy eaten his fill?"
"Ay, enough for six, the young villain."
"Then pass him along here, Patch," and Captain Firebrace turned to
look once more across the tranquil ocean at a half-dismantled vessel,
which his own was slowly leaving behind it. The sky was so blue, the
air so warm, and the sea so calm that it was difficult to believe that
only a couple of days before they had been tossed about by a furious
hurricane. Yet so it was, and although the "Morning Star" had weathered
the storm, it appeared that other vessels had not been equally
fortunate.
"A sail on the weather-bow," had shouted the man at the mast-head, a
warning which put Captain and crew instantly on the alert, looking to
the priming of the guns. It was for no good and peaceful ends that the
rakish-looking "Morning Star" sailed the high seas, as more than a
dozen unlucky merchantmen had found to their cost.
On this occasion there was no resistance, for the schooner espied by
the watcher was drifting about helplessly, and when Firebrace and his
men boarded her, the only living soul they found was a boy locked
in a cabin, and half dead of hunger. It was clear that the crew and
passengers, expecting the ship to go down, had taken to the boats.
Roger Cary, fortified by a good meal, was able to stand up and reply
to the Captain's questions. The ship, he declared, was the "Speedy
Return," bound for Jamaica; his uncle, Austin Cary, being the Captain.
He himself hailed from Devonshire,—Roger, only son of Squire Cary of
Paignton, and he had run away from home, being wild to go a sea trip.
He could not say who had locked him into the cabin.
"H'm," remarked Captain Firebrace drily, "failing you, I presume this
uncle of yours is your father's heir, is he not? Well, you would have
starved like a rat in a trap had we not chanced upon your ship. And
now, my young cock-o'-the-west, the point is, what are we going to do
with you."
"I will gladly work," began Roger eagerly, but he was interrupted
by a hoarse voice, and the huge giant, Patch, thrust forward his
grim-looking visage.
"Cap'n," he cried, "'tis our opinion, me and my mates, that the boy
should go overboard to the sharks without more ado. We want no spies
and mealy-mouths here: our necks be none too safe for that."
Roger turned a shade paler, and fixed his eyes imploringly on the
Captain's handsome, reckless face.
"Ay, Cap'n, let him walk the plank," roared Long Andrew, the bo'sun.
[Illustration]
Captain Firebrace drew a pistol from his belt and played with it
carelessly.
"I'd have you know, Patch and the rest, that I am master here, and
if any man disputes it, let him step forward." He paused, but no one
accepted the invitation. "Well, then, this lad is going to stop here
as ship's boy, and he'll earn his victuals that way, or the rope's end
will teach him how. As for being a spy, if we are taken, he will swing
the same as we shall, take my word for it."
Roger breathed more freely, for he understood that the Captain was
on his side. But he was a shrewd lad and he felt certain that he had
fallen in with what was politely termed a gentleman adventurer and his
company, otherwise a band of pirates, and he wondered greatly whether
he would ever see his home again.
A life of hardships, such as he had never dreamed of, now began for
the squire's heir. Instead of being waited on, he was at the beck and
call of every one, kicked and cuffed by the sailors, badly fed and
overworked. His clothes were soon in rags, and his face and hands
tanned a deep brown. His worst enemy was Patch who seemed to bear him a
special grudge.
The "Morning Star" had a treacherous trick of flying whatever colours
seemed best at the time, and it was under cover of the French flag that
it seized a merchant ship sailing from Rouen, and plundered it. The
French captain and all the sailors were made to "walk the plank," and
Patch, dragging Roger maliciously to the side made him watch them leap,
one after another, into the swirling waters below. They died like brave
men, shouting. "Vive la France!" but Roger, after that sight, had no
mind any more for the joys of a pirate's life, of which he had so often
dreamed at home.
[Illustration]
Time wore on, and still Roger found no way of escaping from his
bondage. The "Morning Star" only put into port at out-of-the-way
places, and even then, a strict guard was kept and he had no chance of
getting away. And how could he hope that their vessel might be seized
by some other, since, if taken, he would certainly be hanged with the
rest, as the Captain declared?
Captain Firebrace seemed made of different stuff to Patch, Long Andrew,
and the others. He was, in fact, a gentleman adventurer, and dominated
his lawless crew by virtue of a stern will and reckless courage. Openly
he showed the "ship's boy" no favour, Roger felt nevertheless that the
Captain was his friend. Once, when nearly all the men were sleeping
after a carousal, he called the boy into his cabin, and plied him with
questions about his home and the folks of Paignton.
A year passed, and his own mother would hardly have recognised Roger in
the ragged, sunburnt lad who swabbed the decks and helped the cook. One
small ray of hope lingered in his mind: the Captain had once whispered
in his ear. "Keep up a good heart, lad: thou'lt see Paignton yet." But
the time seemed far off, for now the "Morning Star" was cruising in
Spanish waters, having had news of a galleon laden with treasure. This
put the crew in high spirits, but their chief was plainly uneasy.
"There is a storm brewing," he cried, and presently Roger heard him
roar out the order, "Furl all sails!"
"We shall get it hot and strong directly," said Long Andrew, as he went
aloft. A white sheet of foam enveloped the waves, the wind shrieked in
the rigging, and the men could not secure the flapping canvas to the
yards. A furious squall struck the ship; there came a loud crash, and
the top-mast snapped and fell with its spars into the sea.
Roger crawled up from below, and saw that Captain Firebrace was at the
helm. The waves rose to a terrific height, and it seemed to the boy
that every minute would see them engulfed.
They were not far from the shore, which bristled with dangerous rocks,
and in spite of the Captain's efforts, it was evident that the "Morning
Star" was drifting towards them. One of the crew, a Spaniard, Pedro by
name, was acquainted with the coast, and a look at his anxious face was
enough to show Roger that their danger was great.
[Illustration]
They were so near the land now that they could see a white sandy beach,
with a high barrier-reef against which the waves were furiously dashing.
"See, there is a passage between those two rocks," yelled Pedro,
"yonder lies St. Diego, and if we can get through we may be saved."
The next minute the "Morning Star" was racing towards the rocks.
Roger could distinguish people standing on the shore. A sudden shock
was felt, the ship, striking on a rock, quivered, stopped short for
a brief instant, then heeled over, and was sucked into the depths
below. Roger was swept away on the crest of a huge wave; but he felt an
arm clutching him, and in the moment before he lost all knowledge of
things, saw the Captain's pale, dauntless face close to his own. They
were whirled on together by the torrent of heaving water, which closed
over their heads.
After long ages, so it seemed to the boy, he woke again, coming back to
life slowly. A Spanish woman was looking at him earnestly, and by her
side stood Long Andrew. When Roger was sufficiently recovered to hear
what had happened, he found that he and Andrew were the only ones who
had been saved. Some of the fishermen had rushed into the surf, and
dragged out himself and Captain Firebrace, who had been swept through
the opening between the rocks, fast locked together. But the pirate
Captain had been battered against the rock, and when they drew him out,
he was dead.
It would take too long to relate Roger's adventures before he reached
his home, which he eventually did. Long Andrew kept to himself the fact
that the wrecked ship was the redoubtable "Morning Star," and when
he took service again, it was in a more honest way. One thing Roger
learned from him, namely that Firebrace was an assumed name, not the
pirate captain's true one.
"He was Devonshire born, same as you and me," said Andrew, "and I
believe he hailed from Paignton. Otherwise, my lad, likely you'd ha'
been given a berth in Davy Jones's locker, 'stead of on the 'Morning
Star.'"
Sheila Braine.
How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment
by G. A. Henty
[Illustration: HOW A DRUMMER BOY SAVED A REGIMENT.
By G. A. Henty.]