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* * * * *
THE YEAR NINE.
_A Tale of the Tyrol._
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "MARY POWELL."
_Pro libertate victi, pro fama victores._
LONDON:
Printed for ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE, & CO.
25, _Paternoster Row_.
1858.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE THUNDER STORM 1
CHAPTER II.
THE INN KITCHEN 12
CHAPTER III.
THE SHOOTING MATCH 25
CHAPTER IV.
WOLFSTHRUN 40
CHAPTER V.
"'TIS TIME!" 47
CHAPTER VI.
THE FIRST SUCCESS 63
CHAPTER VII.
INNSBRUCK 78
CHAPTER VIII.
STILL SUCCESSFUL 92
CHAPTER IX.
HOME 103
CHAPTER X.
GUERILLA WARFARE 118
CHAPTER XI.
TYROLESE COURTSHIP 130
CHAPTER XII.
BERG ISEL 145
CHAPTER XIII.
THE LATTER END OF A FRAY, AND THE BEGINNING OF A
FEAST 159
CHAPTER XIV.
TROUBLED WATERS 171
CHAPTER XV.
THE GORGE OF THE EISACH 182
CHAPTER XVI.
THE THIRD VICTORY OF BERG ISEL 195
CHAPTER XVII.
REVERSES 210
CHAPTER XVIII.
DANGER 224
CHAPTER XIX.
WINTER ON THE MOUNTAINS 239
CHAPTER XX.
THE CHÂLET 253
CHAPTER XXI.
TYRANNY RAMPANT, GRACE TRIUMPHANT 266
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THE YEAR NINE.
CHAPTER I.
THE THUNDER STORM.
It was dusk; and the mountains were reverberating with loud
thunder-claps, while the rain helped to swell a turbid river that swept
through the valley, and past the door of a small _wirth-haus_ or inn,
known less by its sign of "The Crown," than as "am Sand," by reason of
the strip of sand on which it was built.
A cheerful looking, comely woman, clad in a superabundance of
woollen petticoats, was busy at the stove, cooking the supper of a
foot-traveller who read a crumpled newspaper at the window; while
surrounding the kitchen-table, three or four peasants, who had been
driven in by the rain, were hungrily supping milk-porridge from a
large bowl common to them all. A pretty girl of sixteen, after adding
to their meal a basket of coarse rye-cakes, spread a small table for
the stranger, who, as soon as his supper was served, fell upon it with
avidity. His hostess, meanwhile, retired to the end of the kitchen,
where there was a great meal-bin, and began to set the bread for the
morrow's baking, closely watched, all the time, by two little girls
with long braids of hair hanging down their backs.
"The thunder still rumbles," said a man who was quietly smoking near
the stove. He was about forty years of age; his person was strong and
manly, with slightly rounded shoulders; his full, dark eyes beamed
with gentleness; his clustering, deep brown hair fell low on his
broad forehead, and continued round his face in a beard that became
coal-black towards the chin. He looked kind and enduring rather than
impetuous, and not unaptly represented the image of strength in repose.
He wore a close-fitting grass-green coat over a scarlet waistcoat, on
which hung a rosary and crucifix between his green, embroidered braces;
black knee-breeches, scarlet stockings, and laced half-boots. The quiet
self-possession of his manner bespoke him the _wirth_, or master of the
inn.
"The thunder still rumbles," said he.
"Aye aye, Sandwirth," answered one of the peasants, grinning; "better
to be under cover than half-way between this and St. Martin's."
"Father," said a lad, running into the house, "two men are coming
hither. And I think," added he eagerly, under his breath, "the tallest
of them is Joseph Speckbacher."
"Hist!" said his father, laying aside his pipe, while he glanced
furtively at the stranger.
At the same time, the rustics, having finished their supper, departed,
without caring for the skirt of the storm, which they pronounced
clearing off, though large drops continued to fall heavily.
"Those labourers seem content with homely fare," said the traveller,
pushing aside his plate.
"They don't taste meat once a fortnight," said the Sandwirth, "and yet
you see what strong, active fellows they are. Shall you take a bed
here, sir, to-night?"
"No, I would sooner go on, if it were not for the storm."
"It will soon blow over," said the Wirth.
"Perhaps you have a book to lend me, meanwhile?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl Theresa, bringing him one with alacrity.
"This? Hum! the 'South German Plutarch,'" muttered the traveller--"I
doubt if I shall not drop asleep over it."
And, laying his legs up on a wooden stool, he began to turn over the
leaves.
Two men here came in, panting and laughing. "What a storm!" cried one,
laying his conical hat with its drenched feather on the table. "How are
you, Anderl?" extending his brown muscular hand to him.
"Well; praised be Jesus Christ!" said the Sandwirth, reverently; to
which the two others replied with seriousness--
"For ever and ever, Amen!"
It is the usual Tyrolese ejaculation, when a new comer enters the
house. There is something simple and solemn in it, when spoken
reverently, which it always is.
"How is your good Maria?" said the Sandwirth's wife, coming forward.
"And your little boy, Anderl's namesake?"
"Well, both of them, thanks to God; though Maria has now three
youngsters on her hands. But, Sandwirth, have you heard the news? The
Archduke--"
"Hist!" again said the Sandwirth softly, laying his hand on the other's
breast; and indicating by a wary glance of his eye, the presence of the
stranger. The other replied by a look. His companion, a younger man,
gave a gesture of impatience, and whispered, "Is he going to stay?"
"All in good time," said the Sandwirth cheerily. "We are just going to
sup, and you will join us. One thing at a time will last the longer."
"Aye, Anderl, that is always your word," said his wife,
good-humouredly, as she placed about four pounds of boiled bacon on the
table. "You never could bear to season eating with business."
"Have you a good horse to sell, just now, Sandwirth?" said the younger
and shorter of the newly arrived, by way of general conversation.
"How should I have a horse to sell?" returned the Wirth, dragging
a heavy wooden bench towards the table. "I know no more of selling
horses, Franz, than you do of selling brandy."
At which they all laughed, as a capital joke. The family and their two
friends then sat down to their homely meal.
"So you are going to give us a shooting-match on Sunday," said the
young man whom the Wirth had called Franz.
"Ye--s," said the Sandwirth reluctantly; "but I don't altogether like
it."
"You don't? And why not, Sandwirth?"
"I doubt it's being quite right."
"Why, it brings you plenty of custom!"
"Aye, Franz; and, in your eyes, that settles the question; but I doubt
if it be a good way of spending the Sabbath. If I were a maker of laws,
which I'm never likely to be, I'd put down Sabbath-breaking."
"But, Sandwirth," said the taller man, in a peculiarly full, rich,
earnest voice, "the Sandwirths, your ancestors, used to give Sabbath
shooting-matches on this very spot. Look at the glorious old targets
hanging like trophies on your wall. I remember, the first time I ever
came in sight of this house was on a Sunday afternoon, and the sharp,
quick, rattling reports of the rifles echoed among the hills. You
yourself stood umpire among a knot of young fellows in green jackets
and red sashes; and your grey-headed father sat at a long table covered
with hammers, screw-drivers, powder-flasks, ramrods, and everything
that could be wanted."
"He did so, Speckbacher. You bring the scene before me." And the
Wirth's deep-set, large dark eyes seemed dwelling on some far-off
picture.
"You yourself hit the bull's eye twice, Anderl!"
"I did so, Joseph. 'Twas the day that I told old Gasper, who called me
a beardless boy, that if he lived long enough, he should see my beard
reach my girdle; and he laughed and said, when that day came, he would
give me two oxen."
"So that's the reason you wear a beard!" cried Franz. "But, Sandwirth,
surely such a match as that we have been speaking of, was fine sport!
I call it play, not work; and therefore no breaking of the Sabbath."
The Sandwirth, however, would not retract.
"Play like that," said he, thoughtfully and impressively, as though he
weighed every word before he spoke it, "is often as fatiguing as work;
and it sometimes leads to quarrels, and to taking God's holy name in
vain. Anyhow, it is not _rest_; and God bade us _rest_, mind you, on
the Sabbath-day."
"Pleasure _is_ rest," said Franz.
"No, pleasure is often the hardest of work," said the Sandwirth.
"That's true, too," said Speckbacher, as if a sudden light streamed in
upon him.
"Well, I know, to lie on my back with nothing to do but twiddle my
thumbs, would to me be the hardest work of all," said Franz.
"I wonder," said Speckbacher, after a short pause, "if such are your
views, that you mean to have a Sunday shooting-match at all."
"I've a purpose," said the Wirth in a low voice; and then, in a louder
key, as he rose and went towards the door, "I am going forth to look at
the weather, sir," said he. "The storm has, I think, overblown; but if
not, and you like to pass the night here, my wife shall prepare you a
bed."
"By no means; if the weather is really clearing up," said the
traveller, "I shall yet push on; for it is not late."
"The clouds have rolled off, and the valley is sparkling in the last
sun-gleam," said the Wirth.
"Very well. How much to pay?"
"Fifty kreutzers," said the hostess.
"Can you change me this zwanziger?"
While the good woman was mustering change, the traveller rested his
chin on his knuckles, and attentively surveyed Speckbacher.
He was undeniably one of Nature's chieftains. His height was uncommon,
and his lofty carriage of the neck and head, when excited, worthy of
one of the old Greeks. But often that gallant head drooped, and a look
of deep depression shaded his countenance. There was something intrepid
in his mien; he was one from whom you would never expect to hear a lie,
or a sentiment that was base. His language was homely, but energetic;
his features were good, his hair and eyes coal-black. His age might be
thirty-five.
Franz was full ten years younger, and had tolerable features, but a
kind of rakish, good-for-nothing air that was rather repelling.
"Why won't you have anything to say to me?" he was asking Theresa. "You
seem to be knitting all your wits into that blue worsted stocking. If
Rudolf, now, were here, you'd brighten up directly."
"But as he isn't, there's no occasion for it," said Theresa,
carelessly, and continuing to knit with all her might.
"What a pleasant voice you have, Theresa! I wish you would sing us a
song."
"That's likely, isn't it?" said the girl.
"Come now, do."
"Thank you, I am going to take my little sisters to bed." And she moved
away from him. He looked after her with a mixture of admiration and
pique.
Just as the traveller, after some inquiries about the roads, was about
to depart, two more men hastily entered. The first was a Capuchin
friar, of stalwart make, with the hood of his brown woollen gown pulled
so forward that nothing could readily be made out of him but a thick,
flowing beard of the hue that partial mothers are apt to call auburn,
though others often pronounce it red.
"The peace of God rest on this house, through Jesus Christ our Lord!"
said he.
"For ever and ever!" meekly responded the rest.
The Capuchin's companion was a light, active young mountaineer of
three-and-twenty, brown as a nut, and well becoming the picturesque
national costume. As soon as Theresa, who was just leaving the kitchen,
saw him, she reddened very much, and hastily withdrew.
"How the Passeyr is swollen already!" said the Capuchin.
"Is the water out?" cried the traveller, suddenly. "Then I don't know
that I've any mind to go on."
"Pooh, pooh!" said the Sandwirth, rather impatiently, "the river
cannot have overflowed its banks. You see it has not hindered these
foot-travellers. However, sir," changing his tone to one more
conciliatory, "if you will oblige us with your company, you shall have
as good and clean a bed as any in the Tyrol, though I cannot promise
you a flounced pillow and satin damask coverlet, such as you might get
at Botzen."
"No, no, I'll take my chance," said the man of indecision. "Is there
any one here that will see me through the valley?"
"You cannot well miss your road, sir; but my boy Johann shall start you
on it, if you will."
"Thank you; I will give him a few kreutzers."
"No need, sir, thank you."
And the Sandwirth saw him out, and gave him some encouragement about
the weather, and watched him off; and then returned laughing. The
others laughed too.
"Gone at last!" exclaimed Franz. "I thought he never would make up his
mind."
"Now for business," said Speckbacher, looking eager.
"I have hardly spoken to Father Joachim yet," said the Sandwirth,
approaching the Capuchin, and kneeling. "Your blessing, father!"
The Capuchin, before blessing him, threw back his hood, thereby
revealing a frank, determined, intelligent countenance. He was by no
means an old man; probably a few years younger, even, than Speckbacher,
and apparently his equal in strength.
"Anna, is there still any supper left?" said the Sandwirth, rather
apprehensively.
"Certainly," replied his wife; "I hope Father Joachim will never find
our larder quite empty. Johann caught a trout weighing three pounds,
this morning."
"Draw in, Rudolf," said the Sandwirth cheerfully to the young
mountaineer; "and don't sit at that awful distance, my lad, as if you
were not one of us."
Rudolf bashfully obeyed. At the same time, Theresa, who had tucked
up her little sisters with considerable expedition, re-entered, and
began sedulously to assist her mother in preparing Father Joachim's
supper. She had not been absent many minutes, yet had contrived to slip
on clean white full sleeves under her trim violet velvet bodice--a
circumstance which did not escape the vigilant eye of Franz.
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