Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 886. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE PRINCESS IN HER GARDEN.
BY EVELYN SHARP.
The Princess was walking in her garden. It was a very beautiful garden,
full of many-colored flowers and rare exotics; but the Princess was not
fond of flowers, and she walked down the path without looking at them at
all, and she felt dreadfully dull. For she had quarrelled with her
yesterday's lover, and had just sent him away, so she had no one left to
tease, and was therefore without an occupation.
"We are very beautiful," whispered the flowers on each side of her.
"Won't you look at us?"
"Only look at our exquisite coloring," simpered the scarlet begonias.
"Surely you must admire us."
"I," said a particularly ugly shrub with a foreign accent, "am unique. I
am surprised that you should pass _me_ over."
But the Princess wandered on listlessly until she came to the high
prickly hedge at the end of her garden, and here she stopped because the
path ended and she could go no further. She was feeling so dull,
however, that she actually scratched her white hands in making a hole in
the hedge so that she could look through and see what was on the other
side. She had always been told that nothing outside the palace was at
all amusing, but she felt sure that anything would be better than her
secluded garden path and her beautiful, uninteresting flowers. So she
yawned lazily, and held on her crown with both hands, and peeped through
the hedge. To her surprise she saw nothing but potatoes growing, acres
and acres of potatoes, stretching as far as her eye could reach, and in
the middle of them all a tall man digging.
"Oh!" said the Princess, in a disappointed tone, "only potatoes! How
dull!"
"Nonsense!" said the tall man, without turning round; "they are only
grown for you to eat. If you don't want to see them growing, you must
not expect to eat them."
"But I don't eat your potatoes," said the Princess, "because I have a
garden of my own."
"There are no potatoes in your garden," answered the tall man, just as
roughly as before; "there is nothing but flowers there for you to look
at. But here in our garden we have no flowers to look at. We have to
live in an ugly place, and do ugly work all day long, so that you should
have your potatoes to eat."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Princess; "I never met such a rude man before.
Does he know I am the Princess, I wonder?" And she walked back hastily
to the palace.
"We are very beautiful," said the flowers again, as her dress brushed
against them. "Won't you look at us?"
But the Princess passed them by as before.
"Where do potatoes come from?" she asked, suddenly, at dinner-time.
There was great consternation all round the table, for no one at the
palace was ever supposed to know anything so common or useful as that.
At last a strange and needy courtier, who had just come to apply for the
post of Lord High Treasurer or anything else that was vacant, made a
very good guess, as soon as he was quite certain that no one else knew
anything whatever about it.
"They are washed up on the sea-shore at certain periods of the year," he
said, and the King nodded at him gratefully, and felt that he would make
a very useful foreign ambassador. But the Princess suggested that he
should be offered the post of head gardener instead, as it was a pity so
much useful learning should be wasted on a foreign ambassador. And the
needy courtier, who had no sense of humor, gratefully accepted the post.
The next morning the Princess sent her page secretly to the hole in the
hedge, and told him to bring the tall man back to speak with her. But
the tall man sent her a message that he was too busy to come, and that
the Princess must go to him if she had anything to say.
The little page trembled very much as he delivered this message.
"Shall I order him to be beheaded, your Highness?" he asked. The
Princess's cheeks were smarting, but she merely smiled at the little
page with a royal indifference.
"No," she said, "only Princes are beheaded." And when the little page
was safely playing marbles with all the other pages in the anteroom, she
opened her window and stepped out on the fresh dewy grass, and ran down
the garden path as fast as she could. The flowers were silent this
morning, and did not call out to her as she passed; but she noticed
their silence no more than she had noticed their words the day before,
for she had never understood their language.
The tall man was digging busily when she looked through the hole in the
hedge, and now that the full light of day was on him she saw that he was
very, very ugly, and had the wrinkled, tired face of an old man,
although he was as straight and vigorous as a youth.
"I have come back," said the Princess, for she could not think of
anything wiser to say. The tall man glanced round at her, and then went
on digging.
"_That_ doesn't make any difference to anybody," he said.
"Why," she exclaimed, "do you know who I am?"
"Not in the least," said the tall man. "Who are you?"
She drew a long breath of astonishment. "I am the Princess," she said.
The man stopped digging, and looked at her for a moment.
"Is that all? No name?" he asked.
"Of course there's a name!" said the Princess, almost crying. "My real
name is Gyldea, but Princess is enough for most people. Is it possible
that you did not know who I was? Can't you see I am standing in my own
garden?"
"Oh yes," said the tall man. "But you might have been the gardener's
daughter, or one of the ladies-in-waiting, mightn't you?" And he
returned to his digging.
"Did you get my message?" asked the Princess, fighting to keep back her
angry tears.
"Let me see, there was a message of some sort," answered the tall man.
"You sent for me, didn't you?"
"Yes," said the Princess, haughtily, "and you said I was to come and see
you instead. It is positively shameful!"
"But you needn't have come, need you?" said the tall man.
Then the Princess stamped her tiny foot, and went away again up the
garden path. And as she went she thought unconsciously of her
yesterday's lover, the first one who had ever interested her at all; and
she almost wished she had not sent him away, just because he did not
dance well. It struck her now, for the first time, that perhaps there
was something else he could do, such as digging potatoes, for instance.
"No, not digging potatoes!" she corrected herself, angrily, "that is a
horrid, vulgar occupation. But something else, perhaps; for I dare say
there are some people who do things that I have never heard of. I wonder
what it feels like to do things of that description? Oh dear! I wish
King Marigold would come back again!"
Her yesterday's lover had been a young King with a serious face, and the
Princess could never bear people who looked serious; for, clearly, no
one had any right to do that, unless he happened to be a beggar or a
Prime Minister. All the same, she had wanted him back again ever since
the tall man had been rude to her.
That evening there was a great ball at the palace. And the Princess was
dressed for it by her eleven maids of honor; and they took three hours
and a half over it, and only had twenty minutes left in which to dress
themselves. When they came back again, the Princess Gyldea was gone, and
no one knew where she was. The little page guessed, but he did not say
anything, because he did not want to go down the garden path by
moonlight, when the fairies were about, and might turn him into a frog
or something unpleasant. Besides, the dew was falling, and he had his
best dancing-shoes on, with real diamond buckles.
Sure enough, at the bottom of the garden, the Princess was again looking
through the hole in the hedge.
"Are you still digging potatoes?" she asked.
"The potatoes have still to be dug," answered the tall man.
"I want you to come and dance instead," said the Princess, imperiously.
"Then who will dig your potatoes?" he asked.
"Some one else will dig them," said the Princess, who always found that
when she wanted anything done it came to pass without any trouble.
"There is no one else," said the tall man. "Go away and dance."
"There is some one else!" cried the Princess. "_I_ will dig the
potatoes, and you shall go and dance!"
"You are being an absurd child," laughed the tall man. "Why, you are on
the wrong side of the hedge, to begin with."
"But you could help me to get over the hedge," said the Princess,
eagerly. "I want to do something new. I am _so_ tired of being a
Princess. You really don't know how dull it is to be a Princess always."
"No," said the tall man, "I only know how dull it is to dig potatoes
always, for some one else to eat. Go away and dance, you foolish child.
Do you suppose you could dig potatoes in a dress like that?"
And the Princess looked down at her fine silken robes, and she went away
up the garden path, more sadly than before.
"I have been walking in my garden," she said, when she found the King
and the Queen and all the courtiers waiting for her, in the ballroom.
"She is so fond of flowers, the sweet child," said the Queen, trying to
hide that she had been seriously alarmed; for the guests were beginning
to arrive, and it would never do for them to suspect that anything
unusual was happening.
"That is all very well," grumbled the King, who was not fond of balls;
"but we must have the garden brought into the house or something, if she
wants to do those things. I have been standing at the open door in my
court suit for half an hour."
The next morning the Princess set to work to find a dress in which she
could dig potatoes. But none of her own were simple enough; and when she
asked her maids of honor if they had any old clothes, they were quite
offended, and said they had never had such a thing in their lives. So
she called her little page, who was teaching the cat to stand on its
head in the anteroom; and she promised him a real sword in a gold sheath
if he would find her an old dress to wear. But the little page came back
again, in an hour's time, and said there was not an old dress to be had
in the palace.
"What am I to do?" said the Princess, who had never been thwarted in her
life before. "How do dresses grow old, I wonder, and why has no one in
the palace got an old dress that I can wear?"
"Please your Highness, I think it is because none of the ladies in the
palace slide down the balusters," said the little page. "That is the way
I tear my coats and make them old. But I have heard, your Highness, that
there are some people outside the palace gates who wear old clothes
sometimes, only his Majesty does not like us to mix with such people,
and I do not know where they live, your Highness."
"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed the Princess. "I wonder how long it would
take to wear out my dress and make it old enough to dig potatoes in?"
The little page shook his head.
"I do not think it will ever be an old dress, please your Highness," he
said; "but perhaps the White Witch of the Waterfall could help you to
find one."
"Who is the White Witch of the Waterfall?" asked Princess Gyldea.
"She lives by the waterfall in the wood that skirts the edge of your
garden," said the little page; "and she appears to those who call her
name three times, and grants them but one wish. At least that is what
folk say, but I have never dared to seek her myself, your Highness."
So Princess Gyldea sent her page back to play with the other pages in
the anteroom, and she slipped out of the palace, and hastened across to
the wood, away from the high prickly hedge with the hole in it, and
arrived at last before the shimmering, glistening waterfall. Then she
raised her voice and called three times for the White Witch. And out of
the rushing, dancing water came a white mist, and out of the white mist,
stepped a wonderful, tall witch-woman, who looked as though the rivers
and the dew and the sunshine had all helped one another to make her.
"Only one wish I can grant you, Princess, so think well before you ask,"
she said.
But the Princess Gyldea answered at once, without thinking at all.
"Turn my silk robes into an old dress so that I can go and dig
potatoes," she begged.
"As you like," answered the White Witch; "but for that you must give me
one of three gifts."
"Tell me," said the Princess, "is it my crown, or my jewels, or my
wealth? You may have them all if you care for them, only give me an old
dress quickly."
"I must have either your beauty or your strength or your happiness,"
said the White Witch, with a smile. "That is my price for an old dress."
"Will not all my wealth do as well?" she asked.
"No," said the witch-woman, "for that is of no use to me, nor is it
yours to give. I must have something that is your very own."
"I cannot let my beauty go," thought the Princess, as she looked at her
reflection in the clear mantle of the White Witch; "and if I lose my
strength I shall never be able to dig potatoes at all. No, it must be my
happiness; for, after all, I am very dull, and it will not be a big gift
to give."
So she gave the White Witch her happiness; and the wonderful witch-woman
laughed like the trickling of water over stones; and her laugh mingled
with the rush of the waterfall; and she stepped back into the white mist
again and was gone. And Princess Gyldea looked down at her dress, and it
was no longer woven of silk and covered with precious jewels, nor was it
plain and clean, as she had fancied an old dress would be; but it was
soiled and ugly and torn; and she shivered with cold as she stood in it,
and put her hands over her eyes to shut out the ugliness of it. And she
walked back into her garden very slowly, and went down the path with her
head bent, for she felt heavy-hearted and downcast. The little page ran
across her path just behind her as she went, and he stopped and stared
after her.
"What fun!" he cried. "Here is an old beggar-woman in the Princess's
garden!" and he took up a stone and threw it at her. But a red rose bush
caught the stone and stopped it, and the little page went singing back
to the palace, while the Princess crept sobbing towards the hole in the
hedge.
"Look at us, Princess," whispered the flowers, "for we are very
beautiful."
And the Princess stooped and picked a handful, and fastened them in her
torn, ragged dress.
"Help me over. I'm so unhappy," she said, through the hedge, and
stretched out her hands to the tall man. And the tall man dropped his
spade and came and lifted her right over; and there she stood before
him, a woe-begone, tear-stained little figure in a ragged gown.
"What have you come for?" he asked, and smiled at her.
"I knew you would only laugh," she said, indignantly, "and now I can't
get back again."
"So you want to go back again already? I suppose it is a nice new game
to wear an old dress and pretend to dig potatoes," said the tall man.
"It is not a game," said the Princess, humbly. "I gave the White Witch
my happiness for an old dress so that I might come and dig potatoes and
you could go and learn to dance, and now you only laugh at me!"
"So you have been to the White Witch too?" said the tall man. "Then you
shall come, if you like, and dig potatoes while I go and learn to
dance."
So she took the spade and dug all day until the night-time, and then she
lay down under the high prickly hedge and went to sleep in the
starlight. And in the morning the tall man came back again and spoke
with her.
"Are you tired of your new game yet?" he asked.
"It is not a game," she said, and looked at the blisters and the
scratches on her soft white hands.
Then the tall man took up the potatoes she had dug and went away for
another day.
And every morning he came and asked the same question, and every morning
the Princess gave him the same answer; and after that he took away the
potatoes she had dug.
At the end of a month the Princess was so tired with digging all day,
and her hands were so sore with holding the heavy spade, that she felt
she could do no more.
"I am sure I must be going to die," she said, as she looked up at the
stars. But she did not die, and the next morning the tall man came as
before.
"But you have dug no potatoes since yesterday, Gyldea," he said to her.
"I am too tired; look at my hands," she said, and held them out to him.
Then the tall man knelt down beside her and kissed her two hands, and as
he kissed them all the sore places were suddenly healed, and the ugly
scars vanished, and they grew white and soft again.
"I shall be able to dig now," she said, joyfully.
"There are no more potatoes to dig," said the tall man.
Then she looked round and saw that all the potatoes were gone, and that
everything was covered with flowers, instead, as far as she could see.
"Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed, and then looked down at her rags.
"Everything is beautiful except me."
"And me," added the tall man.
"Yet you look different somehow," she said, wonderingly, and put her
hand on his face where the wrinkles had been a month ago.
"I have been learning to dance for a whole month, you see," he said, and
laughed merrily. "It is my turn to work again now, and you shall go back
to the palace."
The Princess did not look at all pleased at that.
"I don't want to go back a bit," she said, "and besides, I can't go to
the palace in this ragged dress, can I?"
"The White Witch will give you back your fine clothes," he said.
"Oh no! because, you see, I have cheated the White Witch out of her
gift," cried Gyldea, laughing.
"How?" he asked.
"Because I gave her my happiness, and you have made it come back to me,"
said the Princess, and laughed again.
"I have cheated her too," said the tall man.
"How?" she asked.
"I gave her my good looks so that I could come and work near you, and
you have made them come back again," he said, and kissed her.
"Let us go to the palace," she said, presently.
"Just as we are?" he asked.
She was uncertain just for one minute.
"Yes," she said, and took his hand.
So he lifted her over the hedge again, and they walked up the garden
path to the palace.
"How beautiful the flowers are!" said the Princess, and the flowers felt
immensely proud of themselves.
"Who allowed these dreadfully ragged people in here?" exclaimed the
Queen, who was taking a stroll with the King, in the hopes of getting an
appetite for lunch.
"I have come back," said the Princess, standing in front of her parents.
"So have I," added the tall man.
"Preposterous!" exclaimed the King. "They actually have the impudence to
confess that they have been here before!"
"Is it possible?" said all the courtiers.
"At last there will be an execution!" gasped the little page in delight,
and he ran round to get a better view.
"Why, it is our Princess!" he screamed, and he waved his hat, and forgot
he was in the royal presence, and stood on his head with delight. For no
one had given him any sweets since the Princess Gyldea had disappeared.
Every one who had an eye-glass put it on at once, and said that the
little page was quite right; and those who only had their own eyes to
depend upon believed what the others told them, and were all dumb with
amazement.
The Queen was so astonished that she said the first thing that came into
her head, which, of course, was a thing she never did as a rule.
"Then we need not have gone into mourning at all," she exclaimed. She
remembered herself the next moment, however, and held out her arms
affectionately. "Come and kiss me, my sweet child, and then go and
change your clothes _at once_!"
But the Princess led up the tall man.
"I have brought back a lover too," she said.
There was a great sensation among the courtiers.
"This must be looked into," said the Queen, ceasing to be affectionate;
and she trod on the King's toe.
"Of course, of course, at once," added the King, hastily.
"To have our daughter in rags is bad enough," continued the Queen, "but
a ragged son-in-law is really too much."
"In fact, he must be beheaded at once. Let us go in to lunch," said the
King, with great presence of mind.
"So, after all, there _will_ be an execution," said the little page to
all the other pages; but none of them were in the least bit excited,
because they had all seen as many executions in their day as any page
could possibly wish.
Then a very wonderful thing happened. A white mist began to rise slowly
out of the ground, and it rolled all round the two ragged lovers, and
grew thicker and thicker, until no one could see them at all.
"It is the White Witch of the Waterfall," whispered the little page.
"I shall catch a bad cold," said the Queen, sneezing. "What a lot of
uncomfortable things seem to be happening this morning!"
"And so near lunch-time too," added the King. "Do you suppose it would
be any good to turn on the garden hose or fire a few cannons?"
Then the mist began to roll away again, and the two ragged lovers were
no longer there, but in their place stood the Princess Gyldea in her
court robes, looking ten times more beautiful than she had ever looked
before, and by her side--King Marigold himself.
"Now I know why I fell in love with you when I saw you digging
potatoes," said the Princess. "But why did you disguise yourself in that
horrible way?"
"I did it for both of us. We both had to be taught. Don't you
understand?" said the young King with the serious face.
And the Princess thought she did at last.
"But you can dance well now?" she said, anxiously.
"Ah yes. And I know how to laugh, too," he replied.
The Queen came up with her face covered with smiles.
"I am delighted," she said, "and you may both kiss my hand."
"I thought I saw a resemblance all the time," said the King, "and if
there are going to be no more mists, supposing we go in to lunch."
All the courtiers, of course, had also known King Marigold all the time,
but had not liked to say so; and the Princess kissed the little page on
both cheeks, and they really did go in to lunch at last.
And every year, in the far-away country where King Marigold and his
Queen are still ruling over a nation of happy people, a very curious
thing happens. For just about the time when most people go to the
sea-side for a holiday the King and Queen come down from their throne
and go out into the fields, and all the courtiers go with them; and
there they spend a whole month digging potatoes among the peasants.
And there is no one in the whole kingdom who does not know how to dance.
THE CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.
In the early days of New England, not very many years after the arrival
of the Pilgrim fathers, a man named John Sears invented a method for
getting the salt out of the sea-water. The colonists did not have many
facilities for furnishing themselves with even the necessaries of life,
and much of their daily work was given to inventing ways and means for
providing themselves with food, clothing, and houses. One would think,
however, that they must have such a common necessity as salt sent to
them from the mother-country, but the distance was a long one then by
the only means of transportation, which were the small ships in Great
Britain, and the arrivals of these boats were few and far between.
It became a necessity, therefore, for the colonists to provide
themselves with salt, as with other things; and John Sears, who lived in
the town of Dennis, on Cape Cod, hit upon the plan of abstracting the
salt from salt water, refining it, and putting it on the market. The
plan is a simple one, and not many years ago these queer-looking
salt-works anywhere on the coast of Massachusetts were common sights to
the residents there. They are now fast disappearing, and but few of them
remain, as cheaper processes have made this method too expensive to keep
up. It has therefore died a natural death.
The plan was to put certain amounts of ordinary sea-water into large
flat wooden basins in such small quantities that there was a depth of
only about two or three inches. Each one of these basins had a cover,
which could be rolled aside on wheels and runners, and which looked much
like the roof of a small square house. In the daytime, when the sun was
shining, the cover was rolled back and the sun allowed to dry up the
water. During rainy weather, and even sometimes at night, the covers
were rolled over the basins, thus preventing the rain itself or the
heavy dews from getting into the salt water and delaying the action of
the aim in drying it up. As the water was evaporated by the sun the hard
salt was left on the bottom of the basin, and this could be used.
Of course salt thus made was very coarse and full of impurities, but
after a time the process was refined more and more, so that instead of
using one basin for stated quantities of water, a series of three or
four--one a little lower than another--were used. It was found that
after a certain amount of evaporation had gone on, some of the
substances had settled in the bottom or attached themselves to the sides
of the basin. The remainder of the liquid could then be drawn off into
the next basin and evaporated there, thus allowing the evaporation
process to go on. This was again stopped after a time, and the liquid
drawn off into the third basin. Each time certain sediments from the
salt water were left in the basin, and thus, instead of having salt with
all its impurities, after the drawing process was over certain
impurities were extracted from the pure salt, and in the end the salt
itself was of a far more refined character than before.
[Illustration: SALT-WORKS.]
These salt-works became so profitable that large marshes along Cape Cod
up towards Boston and in other parts of the northeast Atlantic coast
were given up to this process. Acres were often covered with these low
foreign-looking huts, which consisted mostly of roofs. They were built
in long rows, and often required the care of several men, whose homes
were close to the works, and who might be seen going about pushing the
roofs or covers over or back from the basins, as the weather demanded.
Salt was sent from Cape Cod not only through Massachusetts, but through
other colonies, and afterwards States in the Union, and it was not
until, as has been said, the making of salt by chemical processes, or
the using of rock-salt itself, became so cheap, that this primitive
method was abandoned.
[Illustration: THE WINDMILLS FOR CAPE COD SALT-WORKS.]
Among the most striking features of these salt-works were the huge
wooden windmills built along the row of basins nearest the sea, which
were used for pumping the water from the ocean into the salt-works
themselves. They were raised on wooden staging some fifty or sixty feet
above the level of the ground, and were like the ordinary grinding
windmill of the time, with four wings, sometimes of frame-work stretched
with canvas, and sometimes with huge slats, after the manner of the
ordinary house-blind. If you go to-day through Barnstable County, and
further down the Cape through Yarmouth, Dennis, Worcester, and Orleans,
you may see some of these salt-works--not now in operation, but resting
quietly there until they drop to pieces from old age. Some of the
windmills still stand, in part if not in whole, and they with the
strange-looking squatty salt basins make the country look like some
foreign land. It might either be a bit of Holland or some East-Indian or
African scene, were it not for the stiff, severe white New England
meeting-house that is sure to be not far away.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XIX.
The news brought by George confirmed all the fears of the war which was
presently to begin and to last for seven years. The Governor immediately
called together his council, laid before them Major Washington's report,
and for once acted with promptitude. It was determined to raise a force
of several hundred men to take possession of the disputed territory, and
without a single opposing voice the command was offered to Major
Washington, with the additional rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.
George said little, but his gratification was deeper than he could
express. He wrote to his mother at once, and also to Betty, and Betty
answered: "Our mother is very resigned, for she knows, dear George, that
when one has a son or a brother who is _a great military genius_, and
who everybody knows must one day be _a great man_, one must give him up
to his country." At which George laughed very much, for he did not think
himself either a genius or a great man.
After receiving the Governor's instructions, and paying a flying visit
to Ferry Farm, George went to Mount Vernon, as all the preparations for
the campaign were to be made at Alexandria, which was the rendezvous.
His days were now spent in the most arduous labor. He knew what was
before him, and he was full of care. He was very anxious to enlist men
from the mountain districts, as being better able to withstand the
hardships of a mountain campaign. He wrote to Lord Fairfax, who was
Lieutenant of the county of Frederick, and a recruiting station was
opened at Greenway Court. At last, in April, he was ready to march on
his first campaign. His force consisted of about four hundred Virginia
troops, with nine swivels mounted on carriages. He expected to be joined
by other troops from Maryland and Pennsylvania, but he was doomed to be
cruelly disappointed. The morning of the 15th of April, 1754, was bright
and warm, and at eight o'clock the soldiers marched out, to the music of
the fife and drum, from the town of Alexandria, with Colonel Washington
at their head.
They were a fine-looking body of men, but, as always, Colonel Washington
was the finest figure present. He rode a superb chestnut horse,
handsomely caparisoned. In his splendid new uniform his elegant figure
showed to the greatest advantage. All the windows of the streets through
which they marched were filled with spectators. At one Colonel
Washington removed his chapeau, and bowed as if to royalty, for from it
his mother and Betty were watching him. His mother raised her hands in
blessing, while Betty held out her hands as if to clasp him. And when he
had passed the two fond creatures fell into each other's arms and cried
together very heartily.
Captain Vanbraam commanded the first company. In one of the
baggage-wagons sat a familiar figure. It was Billy--not left behind this
time, but taken as George's body-servant.
On the 20th Will's Creek was reached. A small party of men under Captain
Trench had been sent forward by the Governor to the Ohio River, with
orders to build a fort at what is now Pittsburg, and there await Colonel
Washington. But while the Virginia troops were marching through the
forest, before sighting the creek, an officer on a horse was seen
approaching. He rode up to George, and, saluting, said:
"I am Ensign Ward, sir, of Captain Trench's company."
"From the fort at the meeting of the Alleghany and Monongahela?" asked
George.
"Ah, sir," cried the young officer, with tears in his eyes, "the fort is
no longer ours. A French force, consisting of nearly a thousand men,
appeared while we were at work on it, and opened fire on us. We were but
forty-one, and we were forced to hoist the white flag without firing a
shot."
This was indeed dreadful news. It showed that the French were fully
alive to the situation, if not beforehand, with the English. Even a
small detachment of the French force could cut off and destroy this
little band of four companies. George's mind was hard at work while
young Ward gave the details of the surrender. His only comment was:
"We must push on to a point I have marked on the Monongahela, and there
build the fort, instead of at the junction of the rivers."
After passing Will's Creek they were in the heart of the wilderness. The
transportation of the guns, ammunition, and baggage was so difficult,
owing to the wildness of the country, that they were fourteen days in
making fourteen miles. But the men, animated by their commander, toiled
uncomplainingly at work most distasteful to soldiers--cutting down
trees, making bridges, and dragging the guns over rocks when wheels
could not turn. Even Billy worked for the first time in his life. One
night, after three weeks of this labor, an Indian stalked up to the camp
and demanded to see the commander. George happened to be passing on his
nightly round of inspection, and in a moment recognized his old friend
Tanacharison. "Welcome!" cried the chief in the Indian tongue, and
calling George by his Indian name of "Young White Warrior."
"Welcome to you," answered George, more than pleased to see his ally.
"This is no time for much talk," said the Indian. "Fifty French soldiers
with Captain Jumonville are concealed in a glen six miles away. They are
spies for the main body--for the French have three men to your one--and
if they find you here you will be cut to pieces. But if you can catch
the French spies, the main body will not know where you are; and," he
added, with a crafty smile, "if they should meet Tanacharison, he will
send them a hundred miles in the wrong direction."
George saw in a moment the excellence of the old chief's advice.
Tanacharison knew the road, which was comparatively easy, and offered to
guide them, and to assist with several of his braves. It was then nine
o'clock, and rain had begun to fall in torrents. George retired to his
rude shelter of boughs, called together his officers, and announced his
intention of attacking this party of fifty Frenchmen. He made a list of
forty picked men, and at midnight he caused them to be wakened quietly,
and set off without arousing the whole camp.
The wind roared and the rain changed to hail, but still the Virginians,
with Washington at their head, kept on through the woods. Sometimes they
sank up to their knees in quagmires--again they cut their feet against
sharp stones; but they never halted. At daybreak they entered the glen
in two files, the Indians on one side, the Virginians on the other,
George leading. It was a wild place, surrounded by rocks, with only one
narrow cleft for entrance. Just as the last man had entered the alarm
was given, and firing began from both parties at the same time. The
French resisted bravely, headed by Captain Jumonville, who was the first
man to fall; but a quarter of an hour's sharp fighting decided the
skirmish, and the French called for quarter. This was George's baptism
of fire, and it was the beginning of war between France and England,
which was to last, with but a few years' intermission, for more than
fifty years.
The prisoners were at once taken back to the American camp, and then
sent, under guard, back to Virginia. This little success raised the
spirits of the troops very much, but George, with a prophetic eye, knew
that as soon as the story of Jumonville's defeat and death reached the
French, a formidable force would be sent out against him. He had brave
and active spies, who penetrated almost as far as Fort Duquesne, as the
French had named Trench's fort, but none of them equalled old
Tanacharison. One night, the last of June, he and three other scouts
brought the news that the French were advancing, nine hundred strong,
and were near at hand. A council of war was called, and it was
determined to retreat to Great Meadows, where a better stand could be
made, and where it was thought provisions and re-enforcements would meet
them. Accordingly at daybreak a start was made. The horses had become so
weak from insufficient food that they could no longer drag the light
swivels, and the men were forced to haul them. George himself set the
example of the officers walking, and, dismounting, loaded his horse with
public stores, while he engaged the men, for liberal pay, to carry his
own small baggage. It very much disgusted Billy to be thrown out of his
comfortable seat in the baggage-wagon, but he was forced to leg it like
his betters.
Two days' slow and painful marching brought them to Great Meadows, but,
to their intense disappointment, not a man was found, nor provisions of
any sort. The men were disheartened, but unmurmuring.
George immediately set them to work felling trees and making such
breastworks of earth and rocks as they could manage with their few
tools.
"I shall call this place Fort Necessity," he said to his officers; "for
it is necessity, not choice, that made me retreat here."
Every hour in the day and night he expected to be attacked, but no
attack would have caught him unprepared to resist as best he could with
his feeble force. His ceaseless vigilance surprised even those who knew
how tireless he was.
At last, on the morning of the 3d of July, just as George had finished
making the round of the sentries, he heard, across the camp, a shot,
followed by the sudden shriek of a wounded man. The French skirmishers
were on the ground, and one of them, being seen stealing along in the
underbrush, had been challenged by the sentry, and had fired in reply
and winged his man. The alarm was given, and by nine o'clock it was
known that a French force of nine hundred men, with artillery, was
approaching rapidly. By eleven o'clock the gleam of their muskets could
be seen through the trees as they advanced to the attack. Meanwhile not
a moment since the first alarm had been lost in the American camp.
George seemed to be everywhere at once, animating his men, and seeing
that every possible preparation was made. He had posted his little force
in the best possible manner, and had instructed his officers to fight
where they were, and not to be drawn from their position into the woods,
where the French could slaughter them at will.
The French began their fire at six hundred yards, but the Americans did
not return a shot until the enemy was within range, when George, himself
sighting a swivel, sent a shot screeching into the midst of them. He
fully expected an assault, but the French were wary, and, knowing their
superiority in force, as well as the longer range of their artillery,
withdrew farther into the woods, and began to play their guns on the
Americans, who could not fire an effective shot. The French
sharp-shooters, too, posting themselves behind trees, picked off the
Americans, and especially aimed at the horses, which they destroyed one
by one. All during the hot July day this continued. The Americans showed
an admirable spirit, and this young commander, with the fortitude of a
veteran, encouraged them to resist, but he was too good a soldier not to
see that there could be but one issue to it. At every volley from the
French some of the Americans dropped, and this going on, hour after
hour, under a burning sun, by weary, half-starved men, would have tried
the courage of the best soldiers in the world. But the men and their
young commander were animated by the same spirit--they must stubbornly
defend every inch of ground and die in the last ditch.
Captain Vanbraam, who was second in command, was a man of much coolness,
and knew the smell of burning powder well. During the day, standing near
him, he said quietly to George:
"I see, Colonel Washington, that you practise the tactics of all great
soldiers: if you cannot win, you will at least make the enemy pay dearly
for his victory."
George turned a pale but determined face upon him. "I must never let the
Frenchman think that Americans are easily beaten. They outnumber us
three to one, but we must fight for honor when we can no longer fight
for victory. Nor can I acknowledge myself beaten before the Frenchman
thinks so, and he must sound the parley first. The braver our defence
the better will be the terms offered us."
Captain Vanbraam gazed with admiration at the commanding officer of
twenty-three--so cool, so determined in the face of certain disaster.
George, in all his life, had never seen so many dead and wounded as on
that July day, but he bore the sight unflinchingly.
About sunset on this terrible day a furious thunder-storm arose. Within
ten minutes the sky, that had gleamed all day like a dome of heated
brass, grew black. The clouds rushed from all points of the compass, and
formed a dense black pall overhead. It seemed to touch the very tops of
the tall pines, that rocked and swayed fearfully as a wind fierce and
sudden swept through them. A crash of thunder like two worlds coming
together followed a flash of lightning which rent the heavens. As tree
after tree was struck in the forest, and came down the sharp crash was
heard. Then the heavens were opened and floods descended. At the
beginning of the tempest George had promptly ordered the men to
withdraw, with the wounded, inside the rude fort. He worked alongside
with the private soldiers in trying to make the wounded men more
comfortable, and lifted many of them with his own arms into the
best-protected spots. It was impossible to secure them from the rain,
however, or to keep the powder dry, and George saw, with an anguish that
nearly broke his heart, that he had fired his last shot.
For two hours the storm raged, and then died away as suddenly as it
rose. A pallid moon came out in the heavens, and a solemn and awful
silence succeeded the uproar of tempest and battle. About nine o'clock,
by the dim light of a few lanterns, the Americans saw a party
approaching bearing a white flag, and with a drummer beating the parley.
George, who was the first to see them, turned to Captain Vanbraam.
"You will meet them, Captain, but by no means allow them to enter the
fort so they can see our desperate situation."
Captain Vanbraam, accompanied by two other officers, met the Frenchmen
outside the breastworks, where they received a letter from the French
commander to Colonel Washington. George read it by the light of a pine
torch which Captain Vanbraam held for him. It ran:
"SIR,--Desirous to avoid the useless effusion of blood, and to save
the lives of gallant enemies like yourself and the men under your
command, I propose a parley to arrange the terms of surrender of
your forces to me as the representative of his most Christian
Majesty. Captain Du Val, the bearer of this, is empowered to make
terms with you or your representative, according to conditions
which I have given him in writing, of which the first is that your
command be permitted to march out with all the honors of war, drums
beating and colors flying. I have the honor to be, sir, with the
highest respect,
"Your obedient, humble servant,
"DUCHAINE."
As George finished reading this letter, for one moment his calmness
deserted him, and with a groan he covered his face with his hands. But
it was only for a moment; the next he had recovered a manly composure.
With a drum head for a table and a log of wood for a seat he called his
officers about him, and quietly discussed the proposed terms, Captain
Vanbraam translating to those who did not understand French. The
conditions were highly honorable. The Frenchman knew what he was about,
and the stubborn resistance of the Americans had earned them not only
the respect, but the substantial consideration of the French. They were
to be paroled on delivering up their prisoners, and were to retain their
side-arms and baggage.
The men knew what was going on, as orders had been given to cease
firing, and having built camp-fires, sat about them, gloomy and
despondent. But no word of murmuring escaped them. When at last, in
about an hour, the preliminaries were arranged, signed, and sent to the
French commander, George assembled round him the remnant of men left.
"My men," he said, in a choked voice, "to-morrow morning at nine o'clock
we shall march out of Fort Necessity beaten but not disgraced. Every man
here has done his whole duty, but we were outnumbered three to one; and
our fight this day has been for our honor, not for victory, because
victory was impossible. We are accorded all the honors of war, which
shows that we are fighting men as honorable as ourselves. I thank you
every one, officers and soldiers, for the manly defence you have made.
This is our first fight, but it is not our last, and the time will come,
I hope, when we can wipe out this day's record by a victory gained not
by superior force, but by superior gallantry."
A cheer broke from the men who had listened to him. They were soldiers,
and they knew that they had been well commanded, and that the unequal
battle had been very nobly fought; and George Washington was one of the
few men in the world's history who could always command in defeat the
confidence that other men can only secure in success.
[Illustration: WITH DRUMS BEATING AND COLORS FLYING.]
Next morning--by a strange coincidence the Fourth of July, then an
unmarked day in the calendar--at nine o'clock the Americans marched out
of camp. The French were drawn up in parallel lines in front of the
intrenchment. Knowing that the American officers would be afoot, the
French officers sent their horses to the rear. As the Americans marched
out, with George Washington at their head, the French commander,
Duchaine, turned to his officers and said, smiling:
"Look at that beautiful boy commander! Are not such provincials worth
conquering?"
The Americans halted, and George advanced to thank the French commander
for the extreme courtesy shown the Americans, for it was the policy of
the French to conciliate the Americans, and to profess to think them
driven into the war by England.
Before George could speak, the Frenchman, saluting, said:
"Colonel Washington, I had heard that you were young, but not until
this moment did I fully realize it. All day yesterday I thought I was
fighting a man as old in war as I am, and I have been a soldier for more
than thirty years."
George could only say a few words in reply, but to the core of his heart
he felt the cordial respect given to him by his enemies.
But his thoughts were bitter on that homeward march. He had been sent
out to do great things, and he came back a defeated man. By the
watch-fires at night he prepared his account to be submitted to Governor
Dinwiddie, and it was the most painful work of his life. After two
weeks' travel, the latter part of it in advance of his command, he
reached Williamsburg. The House of Burgesses was in session, and this
gave him a painful kind of satisfaction. He would know at once what was
thought of his conduct.
On the day of his arrival he presented himself before Governor
Dinwiddie, who received him kindly.
"We know, Colonel Washington," he said, "that you surrendered three
hundred men to nine hundred. But we also know that you gave them a
tussle for it. Remain here until I have communicated with the House of
Burgesses, when you will, no doubt, be sent for."
George remained in his rooms at the Raleigh Tavern, seeing no one. He
knew the Governor perfectly well--a man of good heart but weak head--and
he set more value on the verdict of his own countrymen, assembled as
Burgesses, than on the Governor's approval. He did not have to wait
long. The House of Burgesses received his report, read it, and expressed
a high sense of Colonel Washington's courage and ability, although, in
spite of both, he had been unfortunate, and declared a continuation of
their confidence in him. Not so Governor Dinwiddie. His heart was right,
but whenever he thought for himself he always thought wrong. The fact
that he had to report to the home government the failure of this
inadequate expedition set him to contriving, as all weak men will, some
one or some circumstance on which to shift the responsibility. It
occurred to him at once: the Virginia troops were only provincial
troops, Colonel Washington was a provincial officer. What was needed,
this wise Governor concluded, were regular troops and regular officers.
This he urged strongly in his report to the home government, and next
day he sent for George.
"Colonel Washington," he said, suddenly, "I believe nothing can be
accomplished without the aid of regular troops from England, and I have
asked for at least two regiments for the next campaign. Meanwhile I have
determined to raise ten companies to assist the regular force which is
promised us in the spring, for it is now too late in the season for
military operations. I offer you the command of one of those companies.
Your former officers will be similarly provided for; but I will state
frankly that when the campaign opens, the officers of the same rank in
his Majesty's regular troops will outrank those in the provincial army."
George listened to this remarkable speech with the red slowly mounting
into his face. His temper, brought under control only by the most
determined will, showed in his eyes, which literally blazed with anger.
"Sir," he said, after a moment, "as I understand, you offer me a
Captain's commission in exchange for that which I now bear of
Lieutenant-Colonel, and I am to be made the equal of men whom I have
commanded, and all of us are to be outranked by the regular force."