CHAPTER IV

ON THE MAINLAND

TO understand the Prince's proceedings for the next few weeks it is

necessary to have a clear idea of the country which was the scene of his

wanderings. From Loch Hourn (which opens opposite Sleat in Skye) on the

north down to Loch Shiel on the south a little group of wild and rugged

peninsulas run out into the Atlantic, called respectively Knoydart,

Morar, Arisaig, and Moidart. Between these deep narrow lochs run far

inland. Loch Nevis lies between Knoydart and Morar; Loch Morar, a

freshwater loch, cuts off the peninsula of the same name from Arisaig,

and this again is separated from Moidart by Lochs Nanuagh and Aylort,

and Loch Shiel separates the whole group from Ardnamurchan in the south.

The wild, inaccessible nature of the country, the deep valleys and many

rocky hollows in the hills offered many hiding-places; but a glance at

the map will show that a vigilant enemy by stationing men-of-war in all

the lochs and drawing a cordon of soldiers from the head of Loch Hourn

to the head of Loch Shiel, could draw the net so tightly that escape

would be nearly impossible.

In these first days of July, however, the search was still chiefly

confined to the Long Island and Skye, and Charles got a clear start of

his enemies. On July 5, in the early morning, he and his faithful

Mackinnons landed at a place named Mallach on Loch Nevis, and spent the

next three days in the open. They were in a good deal of perplexity as

to their next movements, and when Charles learned that old Clanranald

was staying in the neighbourhood, at the home of his kinsman Scothouse,

he sent to ask his advice and help, expecting confidently to find the

old faithful kindness that had helped him in Uist. But the old gentleman

had had enough of danger and suffering in the Prince's cause; his son

was a fugitive, his brother a prisoner, he himself was in hiding. The

sudden appearance of Mackinnon startled him into a state of nervous

terror, and he declared querulously that he could do no more nor knew

anyone else who could give any help. Mackinnon returned indignant and

mortified, but the Prince received the news philosophically, 'Well, Mr.

Mackinnon, we must do the best we can for ourselves.'

It was the first rebuff he had met with; but a day or two later he found

the same lukewarm spirit in Mr. Macdonald of Morar, a former friend. The

poor man had had his house burnt over his head and was living with his

family in a wretched hut, and probably thought that he had suffered

enough for the cause. This desertion cut the Prince to the quick. 'I

hope, Mackinnon,' he cried, addressing John, 'that you will not desert

me too.' The old chief thought that the words were addressed to him. 'I

will never leave your Royal Highness in the hour of danger,' he

declared, with tears, and John's reply was no less fervent.

There was one house in the neighbourhood where the Prince could always

count on a welcome whether he came at midnight, at cockcrow, or at noon,

whether as a Prince on his way to win a crown or as a beggar with

neither home nor hope. The hospitable house of Borodale was a mass of

blackened ruins, but the laird--'my kind old landlord,' as the Prince

fondly called him--and his two sons had still strong hands, shrewd

heads, and warm hearts ready for the Prince's service.

From Morar the Prince and the two Mackinnons walked through the summer

night over the wildest mountain track and arrived at Borodale in the

early morning. Old Angus was still in bed when they knocked at the door

of the bothy where the family was living. He came to the door, wrapt in

his blanket. When Mackinnon explained who it was that desired his

hospitality, the old man's welcome came prompt and unhesitating. '_I_

have brought him here,' said Mackinnon, 'and will commit him to _your_

charge. I have done my duty, do you do yours.'

'I am glad of it,' said Angus, 'and shall not fail to take care of him.

I shall lodge him so securely that all the forces in Great Britain shall

not find him.'

[Illustration]

So John Mackinnon, having done all he could, parted from the Prince with

the same affectionate sorrow that had marked the farewells of all his

faithful Highlanders. He was caught on his return to Skye, by the cruel

Captain Scott, and five days later was brought back to Lochnanuagh, a

prisoner on board an English man-of-war. Opposite the place where the

ship cast anchor was a fissure in the rock, and halfway up was what

looked like a mere grassy bank. In reality it was a small hut roofed

with sods, so contrived that no one unless he were in the secret would

have suspected it of being anything but a grassy slope. Here the Prince

had spent the preceding night, but as soon as the ship entered the loch

he betook himself to the hills. He was accompanied by old Borodale and

his son John--the young man who had been supposed to have died at

Culloden. A cousin of Borodale's, Macdonald of Glenaladale, had always

been a special friend of the Prince's. He joined him now in the wilds,

resolved to share all his worst dangers, though he had to leave his wife

and 'five weak pretty children' unprotected and living in a bothy, the

only home the English soldiers had left them. The first plan these brave

men concerted together was to carry the Prince into Lochiel's country,

where young Clanranald had promised to provide him a hiding-place. On

their way, however, they heard that a body of soldiers were approaching

from Loch Arkaig, which completely blocked their way on that side. That

same night old Borodale learnt that General Campbell with several ships

was in Loch Nevis, Captain Scott was still in Lochnanuagh, and parties

from these ships were searching every foot of ground in their

neighbourhoods. At the same time troops had been landed at the head of

Loch Hourn, and others simultaneously at the head of Loch Shiel. Between

these two points the distance as the crow flies must be some twenty or

five-and-twenty miles, but the wild mountainous nature of the country

makes the actual distance far greater. In spite of all difficulties the

Government troops in a few days had drawn a complete cordon from one

point to the other. This cordon consisted of single sentinels planted

within sight of each other who permitted no one to pass unchallenged. At

night large fires were lighted, and every quarter of an hour patrolling

parties passed from one to the other to see that all the sentinels were

on the alert.

Charles's case was almost desperate. For several days he and his

companions lived like hunted animals on the mountain-tops. They were

frequently within sight of some camp of the enemy; more than once they

had to go precipitately down one side of a hill because the soldiers

were coming up the other. They changed their quarters at night,

sometimes marching long miles merely to reach some mountain which having

been searched the day before was less likely to be visited again. In the

daytime the Prince could snatch a few hours of troubled sleep in some

rocky hollow while the rest of the party kept guard. News of the enemy's

movements was brought them occasionally by secret friends under cover of

darkness, but even their approach was full of terror for the fugitives.

Worst of all was their suffering from hunger. The soldiers devoured and

destroyed what meagre stores the country could boast, and in spite of

the generosity of the poorer clansmen no food could be had. For four

days the whole party lived on a few handfuls of dry meal and some

butter. On one occasion soldiers passed below their lair driving cattle.

The Prince, who was starving, proposed to follow them, and 'lift' some

of the cattle in the night. His companions remonstrated, but he led the

party himself, and secured the beef.[8] The guide, and indeed the leader

of the little band, was a farmer, Donald Cameron of Glenpean. But for

this man's daring courage and his intimate knowledge of the country the

Prince must sooner or later have fallen into the hands of his enemies.

The circle was daily being drawn more closely round the prey, and daily

the fear of starvation stared them in the face. Should they wait to die

like driven deer or make one desperate effort to break through the toils

that surrounded them, and either escape or die like men? For brave men

there could only be one answer to such a question. On the night of July

25 they determined to force their way through the cordon.

All that day the Prince had lain in closest hiding on a hill on the

confines of Knoydart, not a mile from the chain of sentinels. He had

slept some hours while two of the party had kept watch and the other two

had gone and foraged for food, bringing back two dry cheeses as the

result. (Old Borodale had gone back at this time; the party consisted of

his son John, Glenaladale and his brother, and Cameron of Glenpean.) All

day parties of soldiers had been searching the neighbourhood, and now

the sentinel fires were alight all along the line of defence. At

nightfall the little band started, walking silently and rapidly up a

mountain called Drumnachosi. The way was very steep, and the night very

dark. Once crossing a little stream the Prince's foot slipped, he

stumbled, and would have fallen down over a cliff had not Cameron caught

one arm and Glenaladale the other and pulled him up. From the top of the

hill they could see the sentinel fires close in front of them, and were

near enough to hear the voices of the soldiers quite distinctly. Under

cover of the friendly darkness they crept up another hill and came out

opposite another fire. At a point midway between these two posts a

mountain torrent had made a deep fissure on the side of a hill on the

further side. Could they break through the line and reach this river-bed

the overhanging banks, aided by the darkness of night, would conceal

their figures, and following the stream they could cross over into wild

broken country, where they could hide themselves. Donald Cameron, with

a fine Highland gallantry, undertook to make trial of the way first. If

he could reach the spot and return again to report 'all safe,' the rest

of the party might make the attempt. It had all to be done in a quarter

of an hour, for that was the interval at which the patrolling parties

succeeded each other.

In dead silence they waited till the sentinels had past; then as

stealthily and rapidly as a cat Cameron slipped down the hillside and

disappeared into the darkness. The rest stood breathless, straining

every nerve for the faintest sound; no footfall or falling pebble broke

the stillness, and in a few long, heavily-weighted minutes Cameron

returned and whispered that all was well. It was two o'clock now and the

darkness was growing thinner. They waited till the sentries had crossed

again and had now their backs to the passage, then they all moved

forward in perfect silence. Reaching the torrent, they sank on all fours

and one after the other crept up the rocky bed without a sound. The

dreaded cordon was passed, and in a short time they reached a place

where they were completely hidden and could take a little much-needed

rest.

Once clear of this chain of their enemies they turned northward to the

Glenelg country. Their plan was to go through the Mackenzie's country to

Poole Ewe, where they hoped to find a French vessel. But the next day

they learned from a wayfaring man that the only French ship which had

been there had left the coast. Seeing that that plan was fruitless,

their next idea was to move eastward into the wilds of Inverness and

wait there till the way should be clear for the Prince's joining Lochiel

in Badenoch.

[Illustration]

In Glen Sheil they parted with Cameron of Glenpean, and here too they

had a curious adventure which might have proved seriously inconvenient

to them. They had spent a whole hot August day hiding behind some rocks

on a bare hillside, the midges had tormented them, and they were

oppressed with thirst, but had not ventured from their hiding-place even

to look for water. At sunset a boy appeared bringing quarts of goat's

milk; he was the son of a certain Macraw, a staunch though secret friend

in the neighbourhood. Glenaladale at this time carried the fortune of

the little party--some forty gold louis and a few shillings--in his

sporran. He paid the lad for the milk, and in his hurry did not notice

that he had dropped his purse. They had hardly gone an English mile

before the loss was discovered, and Glenaladale insisted at all risks on

going back to look for the purse. He and his cousin did indeed find it

lying at the expected place, but though some shillings remained the

louis were gone. It was midnight before the indignant pair reached

Macraw's house, and the family were all asleep. They roused the master,

however, and fairly told him what had happened. No shadow of doubt seems

to have crossed the father's mind, no word of expostulation rose to his

lips. 'Without a moment's delay he returned to the house, got hold of a

rope hanging there, and gripped his son by the arm in great passion,

saying, "You damned scoundrel, this instant get these poor gentlemen's

money, or by the heavens I'll hang you to that very tree you see there."

The boy, shivering with fear, went instantly for the money, which he had

buried underground thirty yards from his father's house.' This accident

turned out most luckily for the Prince. He and Glenaladale's brother

while awaiting the other two had hidden behind some rocks; shortly after

they were hidden they saw an officer and two soldiers _coming along the

very path they had intended to take_. But for the delay caused by their

companions going back they must have fallen into the hands of their

enemies.

They now turned eastward, and after a long night's march found

themselves in the wild tract of country called the Braes of

Glenmoriston.

Here Charles was to find a new set of friends, different indeed from the

chivalrous Kingsburgh and the high-bred Lady Margaret, but men who were

as staunch and incorruptible as any of his former friends. These were

the famous 'Seven Men of Glenmoriston,' men who had served in the

Prince's army, and who now lived a wild, lawless life among the

mountains, at feud with everything that represented the existing law and

order. They have been described as a robber band, but that title is

misleading. They were rather a small remnant of irreconcilable rebels

who had vowed undying enmity and revenge against Cumberland and his

soldiers. And indeed there was ample excuse for their hatred and

violence in the cruelties they saw practised all round them. Sixty of

their clansmen after surrendering themselves had been shipped off to the

colonies, all their own possessions and those of their neighbours had

been seized, and friends and kinsfolk had been brutally put to death.

Swooping down like mountain eagles on detached bands of soldiers, these

seven men wreaked instant vengeance on oppressors and informers, and

carried off arms and baggage in the face of larger bodies of the enemy.

To these men, ignorant, reckless, and lawless, Charles unhesitatingly

confided his person, a person on whose head a sum of thirty thousand

pounds was set.

Four of these men were in a cave, Coraghoth, in the Braes of

Glenmoriston, when Glenaladale brought Charles to see them. They had

expected to see young Clanranald, and as soon as they saw the Prince one

of their number recognised him, but had the presence of mind to address

him as an old acquaintance by the name of 'MacCullony.' When the four

knew who their guest really was, they bound themselves to be faithful to

him by the dreadful Highland oath, praying 'that their backs might be to

God, and their faces to the devil, and that all the curses the

Scriptures do pronounce might come upon them and their posterity if they

did not stand firm to the Prince in the greatest danger.'

For about three weeks Charles shared the life of these outlaws, sleeping

in caves and holes of the earth, living on the wild deer of their

shooting and the secret gifts of the peasantry. They did not understand

his English, but the Prince was beginning to pick up a little Gaelic. He

was able at least to improve their cooking and reprove their swearing,

two services they liked afterwards to recall. Here too, as elsewhere on

his wanderings, the Prince gained the hearts of all his followers by his

gracious gaiety and plucky endurance of hardships. In the beginning of

August his hopes had again turned to Poole Ewe, but learning for a

second time that no French ship could land on the closely guarded coast,

he and his friends determined to remain in the northern straths of

Inverness-shire till the Government troops should withdraw from the

Great Glen--the chain of lakes which now forms the Caledonian Canal--and

thus leave the way clear into Badenoch, where Lochiel and Macpherson of

Cluny were hiding.

A curious incident is supposed to have helped the Prince at this time.

There had been among his Life Guards a handsome youth named Roderick

Mackenzie, son of a jeweller in Edinburgh, who in face and figure was

startlingly like the Prince. This lad was actually 'skulking' among the

Braes of Glenmoriston at the time when the Prince was surrounded in

Knoydart. A party of soldiers tracked him to a hut, which they

surrounded. Flight was impossible, and the poor boy stood at bay. As he

fell beneath their sword-thrusts he cried out, 'Villains, ye have slain

your King.' Whether these words were a curious last flash of vanity, or

whether he intended to serve the Prince by a generous act of imposture,

can never be known. The soldiers at any rate believed that they had

secured the prize. They carried off Mackenzie's head with them to Fort

Augustus, and the authorities seem for some time to have been under the

impression that it was indeed that of the Prince. Possibly it was owing

to this that in the middle of August the Government rather relaxed their

vigilance along the Great Glen. Charles was eager to press at once into

Badenoch, but the wary outlaws would only consent to taking him to the

Lochiel country, between Loch Arkaig, Loch Lochy, and Loch Garry. They

travelled chiefly by night; the season was very wet, and the rivers were

in flood, and they had to cross the River Garry Highland fashion in a

line, with each man's arm on his neighbour's shoulder, for the water was

running breast-high.

At this time the Prince's condition was as bad as at any period of his

wanderings. His clothes were of the coarsest, and _they_ were in rags.

Lady Clanranald's six good shirts had long since disappeared; it was as

much as he could do to have a clean shirt once a fortnight. The

provisions they carried were reduced to one peck of meal. In this state

did the Prince arrive in the familiar country round Loch Arkaig. It was

a year almost to the day since he had passed through that very country

elate and hopeful at the head of his brave Macdonalds and Camerons. He

was now a fugitive, ill-fed, ill-clad, with a price on his head; the

only thing that was unchanged was the faithful devotion of his

Highlanders.

Cameron of Clunes and Macdonald of Lochgarry, or Lochgarie, though they

were themselves 'skulking,' received the Prince with the utmost kindness

and found a hiding-place for him in a hut in a wood at the south side of

Loch Arkaig. Here the outlaws left him; only one of their number,

Patrick Grant, remained till the Prince should be supplied with money to

reward their faithful service. From this place, also, John Macdonald and

Glenaladale's brother returned to the coast, where they were to keep a

careful look-out and to send the Prince news of any French ship which

might appear.

Glenaladale still remained, but the Prince's thoughts were turning more

and more towards Badenoch, where his friend Lochiel was in comparatively

secure hiding.

Among all the gallant gentlemen who risked life and estate in this

rising there is no figure more attractive than that of the 'Gentle

Lochiel.' He had for years before the rebellion been the mainstay of the

Jacobite party. No man in the Highlands carried so much weight as he,

partly from his position, but more from his talents and the charm of his

character. 'Wise' and 'gentle' are the words that were applied to him,

and with all the qualities of a high-bred gentleman he combined the

simpler virtues of the Highland clansman--faithfulness, courage, and a

jealous sense of personal honour. From the very beginning he had seen

the folly of the rising. But when he had failed to convince Charles of

its hopelessness, he had thrown himself into the movement as if it had

been of his own devising. Never did he afterwards reproach Charles by

word or look for the ill-fated result.

He and his cousin, Macpherson of Cluny, were at this time hiding among

the recesses of Benalder. The road to Inverness ran by within a few

miles, and at a little distance lay Lord Loudoun's camp, but so great

was the devotion of the clansmen, so admirable their caution and

secrecy, that the English commander had not the slightest suspicion that

the two most important Jacobite fugitives had for three months been in

hiding so near to him. Lochiel had been wounded in the feet at

Culloden, and his lameness as well as his dangerous position prevented

his going to look for the Prince. He had two brothers, one a doctor and

the other a clergyman, both accomplished and bold men, who had also been

involved in the Jacobite rebellion. Towards the end of August, news

having come to Benalder that the Prince was living near Auchnacarry

under the protection of Cameron of Clunes, the two Cameron brothers set

off secretly for that country. The Prince with a son of Clunes and the

faithful outlaw Patrick Grant were at this time living in a hut in a

wood close to Loch Arkaig. It was early on the morning of August 25, the

Prince and young Clunes were asleep in the hut, while Patrick Grant kept

watch. He must have got drowsy, for waking with a start he saw a party

of men approaching. He rushed into the hut and roused the Prince and his

companion. Charles had long lived in expectation of such moments. He

kept his presence of mind completely, decided that it was too late to

fly, and prepared to defend himself. The fowling-pieces were loaded and

got into position, and they very nearly received their friends with a

volley. Dr. Cameron in his narrative describes the Prince's appearance

thus: 'He was barefoot; had an old black kilt coat on and philibeg and

waistcoat, a dirty shirt and a long red beard, a gun in his hand and a

pistol and dirk at his side; still he was very cheerful and in good

health.'

Another week they all waited in the neighbourhood of Auchnacarry (the

ruined home of the Lochiels). At last a message reached them from

Benalder that the passes were free and that they might safely try to

join Lochiel. Having parted with his devoted friend Glenaladale, who

returned to the coast, the Prince, with Dr. Cameron and Lochgarry,

arrived on August 30 at Mellaneuir, at the foot of Benalder. People in

hiding have no means of discriminating their friends from their enemies

at a little distance. Lochiel seeing a considerable party approaching

believed that he was discovered and determined to make a good fight for

it. He as narrowly missed shooting Charles as Charles had missed

shooting Dr. Cameron the week before. When, however, he recognised the

figure in the coarse brown coat, the shabby kilt, and the rough red

beard, he hobbled to the door and wanted to receive the Prince on his

knees. 'My dear Lochiel,' remonstrated Charles as he embraced him, 'you

don't know who may be looking down from these hills.'

In the hut there was a sufficiency of mutton, beef sausages, bacon,

butter, cheese, &c., and an anker of whisky, and the Prince was almost

overwhelmed by such an excess of luxury. 'Now, gentlemen,' he said with

a cheerful air, 'now I _live like a Prince_.' Charles's wardrobe was as

usual most dilapidated, and Cluny's three sisters set at once to work to

make him a set of six shirts with their own fair hands, doubtless sewing

the most passionate loyalty and infinite regret into their 'seams.'

The hiding-place where the Prince was now concealed was a very curious

hut contrived by Cluny in one of the inmost recesses of the hills. It

was called 'The Cage,' and was placed in a little thicket on the rocky

slope of a hill. The walls were formed by actual growing trees with

stakes planted between them, the whole woven together by ropes of

heather and birch. Till you were close to the hut it looked merely like

a thick clump of trees and bushes. The smoke escaped along the rocks,

and the stone being of a bluish colour it could easily pass unnoticed.

This hut could only hold six persons at a time, so the party generally

divided in this way: one man cooked the food, four played cards, and the

last man looked on at the others and possibly smoked!

Probably they played cards and talked and jested over the daily needs

and hardships, and spoke little of the disastrous times that lay behind

them, or the doubtful hopes that lay before them. Fearing lest the

Prince might have to remain in hiding all winter the ingenious Cluny

began to fit up a subterranean dwelling, thickly boarded up, where the

party would have been in safety and shelter. But in the meantime no

efforts were lacking to find a means of escape. Lochiel's brother, the

clergyman, a man of great prudence, went secretly to Edinburgh, and

there procured a ship and sent it round to a port on the East coast to

await the Prince. Succour, however, had come from another quarter; it

was known to the Prince and his followers that a certain Colonel Warren

was fitting out a couple of ships in France for the purpose of bringing

off the Prince, and daily they expected news of their arrival. On

September 6 two ships, _L'Heureux_ and _La Princesse_, appeared at

Lochnanuagh. Old Borodale and his two sons immediately fled to the

hills, leaving a faithful servant to find out and report to them who the

strangers might be. After nightfall, twelve French officers came to the

hut where they were hiding and told their errand. Information was at

once sent to Glenaladale, who undertook to go to Auchnacarry and send on

the news through Cameron of Clunes, he himself not knowing where the

Prince was hiding. Any delay, even of a few hours, might be fatal, as

the presence of the French ships must sooner or later become known to

the authorities at Fort Augustus. To his dismay Glenaladale failed to

find Clunes, and only by an accident met with an old woman, who directed

him to the place where the latter was hiding. A messenger was at once

despatched, and he, happening by a curious chance to meet with Cluny and

Dr. Cameron on a dark night in Badenoch, gave them his message, and an

express was at once sent to the Cage. On September 13, at one in the

morning, the party--which now included Cluny, Lochiel, Macpherson of

Breakachie, and some others of the Prince's more important

followers--set off for the coast. They travelled by night, remaining in

concealment by day, but so lonely was the country, so recklessly high

were the Prince's spirits, that one whole day he amused himself by

flinging up caps into the air and shooting at them.

[Illustration]

Again he passed through the well-known country round Loch Arkaig, past

Auchnacarry, the home of the Lochiels, which was lying in ruins, over

the rugged hills where he had been hunted like a wild creature a few

weeks before, down to the familiar waters of Lochnanuagh, back to the

warm-hearted household of Borodale.

A considerable number of Jacobite gentlemen who had lain for months in

hiding had been drawn to Lochnanuagh by the report of the landing of the

French ships; amongst these were young Clanranald, Glenaladale, and

Macdonald of Daleby. On the Prince's ship there sailed with him

Lochgarry, John Roy Stuart, Dr. Cameron, and Lochiel. 'The gentlemen as

well as commons were seen to weep, though they boasted of being soon

back with an irresistible force,' says the newspaper of the day. For the

greater part they never came back, never saw again the homes they loved

so well. Most were to spend a life of hope deferred and of desperate

longings for home, as dependents on a foreign Court. Dr. Cameron was ten

years later taken prisoner in London and executed, the last man who

suffered as a rebel; Lochiel died two years after he left Scotland, a

heart-broken exile. 'Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but

weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see

his native country.'[9]

FOOTNOTES:

[5] 'I had three sons, who now hae nane,

I bred them toiling sarely,

And I wad bare them a' again

And lose them a' for Charlie!'

[6] In this he resembled his father, who, on leaving Scotland after the

failure of 1715, sent money to Argyll to compensate the country folk

whose cottages had been burned in the war; an act without precedent or

imitation.

[7] Charles, about 1743, introduced golf into Italy, according to Lord

Elcho.

[8] The authority for this is an unpublished anecdote in Bishop Forbes's

MS., _The Lyon in Mourning_.

[9] The authorities are Chambers's _Jacobite Memoirs_, selected from the

MS. _Lyon in Mourning_; Chambers's _History of the Rising of 1745_;

Macdonald of Glenaladale's manuscript, published in _Blackwood's

Magazine_; Ewald's _History of Prince Charles Edward_, and the

contemporary pamphlets anonymously published by Dr. Burton on

information derived from Bishop Forbes, who collected it at first hand.

Fastened on the interior of the cover of the _Lyon in Mourning_ is a

shred of the flowered calico worn by the Prince in disguise.

_TWO GREAT MATCHES_

THE University matches, between the elevens of Oxford and Cambridge, are

the most exciting that are played at Lord's. The elevens have been so

equal that neither University is ever more than one or two victories

ahead of its opponent. The players are at their best for activity and

strength, and the fielding is usually the finest that can anywhere be

seen. But, of all University matches, the most famous are those of 1870

and of 1875, for these were the most closely contested.

In 1870 Cambridge had won for three years running. They had on their

side Mr. Yardley, one among the three best gentlemen bats who ever

played, the others being Dr. Grace and Mr. Alan Steel. In 1869, when

Cambridge won by 58 runs, Mr. Yardley had only made 19 and 0. Mr. Dale

and Mr. Money were the other pillars of Cambridge batting: they had Mr.

Thornton too, the hardest of hitters, who hit over the pavilion (with a

bat which did not drive!) when he played for Eton against Harrow. On the

Oxford side were Mr. Tylecote (E. F. S.), a splendid bat, Mr. Ottaway,

one of the most finished bats of his day, and Mr. Pauncefote. The Oxford

team was unlucky in its bowling, as Mr. Butler had strained his arm. In

one University match, Mr. Butler took all ten wickets in one innings. He

was fast, with a high delivery, and wickets were not so good then as

they are now. Mr. Francis was also an excellent bowler, not so fast as

Mr. Butler; and Mr. Belcher, who bowled with great energy, but did not

excel as a bat, was a useful man. For Cambridge, Mr. Cobden bowled fast,

Mr. Ward was an excellent medium pace bowler, Mr. Money's slows were

sometimes fortunate, and Mr. Bourne bowled slow round. Cambridge went in

first, and only got 147. Mr. Yardley fell for 2, being caught by Mr.

Butler off Mr. Francis. Mr. Scott's 45 was the largest score, and Mr.

Thornton contributed 17, while Mr. Francis and Mr. Belcher divided the

wickets. Oxford was only 28 runs better than Cambridge, so that you

might call it anybody's match. A good stand was made for the first

wicket, Mr. Fortescue getting 35, and Mr. Hadow 17, but there was no

high scoring. Mr. Butler got 18, which is not a bad score for a bowler,

but Mr. Stewart and Mr. Belcher, who followed him, got ducks, and

clearly the tail was not strong in batting. The beginning of the

Cambridge second innings was most flattering to Oxford. When the fifth

wicket fell, Cambridge had but 40 runs, or twelve 'on.'

[Illustration]

Tobin and Money, Fryer and Scott had made but 8 among them, but Dale was

in, and Yardley joined him. Mr. Dale was playing in perfect style, and

he needed to do so, for Mr. Francis was bowling his best. Then came an

hour and a half, or so, of sorrow for Oxford. Mr. Butler was tried, and

bowled eight overs for 8 runs, but his arm was hurt, and he had to go

off. He got Mr. Thornton's wicket, but Oxford were playing, as Tom

Sayers fought, with a broken arm. Seven bowlers were put on, but the end

of it was that, after making the first 100 recorded in these matches,

Mr. Yardley sent a hard hit to Mr. Francis, who caught and bowled him.

Mr. Dale was splendidly caught at leg by Mr. Ottaway, off Mr. Francis,

with one hand over the ropes. He got 67; there was but one other double

figure, Mr. Thornton's 11.

Oxford had to make 178 to win, and 178 is never easy to get, especially

in a University match, where _so much depends on it_, and men are often

nervous, as you shall see. Mr. Hadow came to grief, but Mr. Ottaway and

Mr. Fortescue were not nervous bats. Mr. Ward bowled beautifully, but

they got 44 and 69; it was 72 for one wicket, and Oxford were buoyant.

At 86, however, the second wicket fell, and E. F. S. joined Mr. Ottaway.

He put on 29, and Ottaway's defence was like a stone wall. Finally Mr.

Ward bowled Mr. Tylecote; 25 to get and seven wickets to get them. It

seemed all over but shouting. Another wicket fell for 1; 24 to get, and

six wickets to fall. Mr. Hill came in, and played like a printed book,

while Mr. Ottaway was always there. He played a ball to short leg, and

Mr. Fryer held it so low down that Mr. Ottaway appealed. I dare say

Oxford men in the pavilion distinctly saw that ball touch the ground,

but the umpire did not; 17 to get, and four wickets to fall; but the

last two wickets had scored exactly nothing in the first innings. But

Mr. Francis could bat, and he stayed while Mr. Hill made 12, when he was

l. b. w. to Ward, for a single. Four runs to get, and three wickets to

fall! 'Mr. Charles Marsham's face wore a look that his friends know

well.' Mr. Butler came in; he scored well in the first innings, and he

could hit. Then came a bye. Four to get and three wickets to fall. Mr.

Hill hit the next square, good for a 4, but Mr. Bourne got at it, and

only a single was run. Three to get and three wickets to fall. _We did

not get them!_ Mr. Cobden, who had not done much, took the ball. Mr.

Hill made a single to cover point. The next ball, to Mr. Butler, was

well up on the off stump. Mr. Butler drove at it, Mr. Bourne caught it,

and Mr. Belcher walked in, 'rather pale,' says Mr. Lyttelton, and if so,

it was unusual. Mr. Belcher was of a ruddy countenance. He was yorked!

he took a yorker for a half volley. Let us pity Mr. Stewart. If he could

escape that one ball, the odds were that Mr. Hill would make the runs

next over. Mr. Pauncefote had told Mr. Stewart to keep his bat immovable

in the block-hole, but--he did not. Cobden scattered his bails to the

breezes, 'and smash went Mr. Charles Marsham's umbrella against the

pavilion brickwork.' Cambridge had won by two.

This is called Cobden's year, and will be so called while cricket is

played. But, in fact, Mr. Ward had taken six wickets for 29, and these

were all the best bats.

[Illustration: THE BALL HIT THE MIDDLE STUMP]

Mr. Butler's revenge came next year. He took fifteen wickets, and made

the winning hit. Oxford's revenge came in 1875. In 1874 Cambridge was

terribly beaten. They went in on a good wicket. Mr. Tabor, first man in,

got 52, when a shower came. The first ball after the shower, Mr. Tabor

hit at a dropping ball of Mr. Lang's, and was bowled. The whole side

were then demolished by Mr. Lang and Mr. Ridley, for 109, and 64 second

innings, while Oxford got 265 first innings. In 1876 Oxford had Mr.

Webbe, an admirable bat, as he is still; Mr. Lang, who had been known to

score; Mr. Ridley, a cricketer of the first class; Mr. Royle, the finest

field, with Mr. Jardine, ever seen; Mr. Game, who had not quite come

into his powers as a hitter; and Mr. Grey Tylecote, a good all-round

man; also Mr. Pulman, a sterling cricketer, and Mr. Buckland, a very

useful player all round. Cambridge had Mr. George Longman, who could

play anything but Mr. Ridley's slows; Mr. Edward Lyttelton, one of the

prettiest and most spirited bats in the world; Mr. A. P. Lucas, whom it

were superfluous to praise; Mr. Sims, a hard hitter; Mr. W. J.

Patterson, a renowned bat, and others. In bowling, Oxford had Mr.

Ridley, whose slows were rather fast and near the ground. Being as tall

as Mr. Spofforth, and following his ball far up the pitch, Mr. Ridley

was alarming to the nervous batsman. He fielded his own bowling

beautifully. Mr. Lang was a slow round-arm bowler with a very high

delivery, and a valuable twist from either side. Mr. Buckland was

afterwards better known as a bowler; Mr. Royle could also deliver a

dangerous ball; the fast bowler was Mr. Foord Kelcey, but he, again, was

lame, through an accident to his foot. For Cambridge Mr. Sharpe and Mr.

Sims bowled. Lang and Webbe went to the wicket for Oxford, and made a

masterly stand, the ball being cut and driven to the ropes in all

directions. Mr. Webbe got 55, Mr. Lang 45, while Mr. Ridley contributed

21, Mr. Pulman 25, and Mr. Buckland 22. The whole score was 200, 86 for

the first wicket. Mr. Longman's 40 was the best score for Cambridge, and

Mr. Edward Lyttelton got 23; total 163. Mr. Lang got five wickets for

35, Mr. Ridley, Mr. Buckland, and Mr. Foord Kelcey divided the other

four. In the second Oxford innings Mr. Sharpe got six wickets for 66,

and the whole score was but 137, in which Mr. Pulman's 30 was very

useful; Mr. Royle, Mr. Game, and Mr. Webbe got 21, 22, and 21, and Mr.

Grey Tylecote, not out, contributed an invaluable 12. The tail of the

Cambridge side made 14 among them in the first innings, not an

assortment of duck's eggs. Cambridge went in, with 175 to get, much like

Oxford in 1870. An over was bowled before seven o'clock, and resulted in

a four to leg. Sharpe and Hamilton, who went in last, first innings,

went in first in the second, to avoid losing a good bat in the five

minutes before drawing stumps. One doubts if it was worth Mr. Ridley's

while to insist on that one over, but such is the letter of the law. The

two victims, in any case, played rarely, Mr. Sharpe making 29 and Mr.

Hamilton 11. Mr. Lucas, however, was bowled by Mr. Buckland for 5. Two

for 26. Mr. Longman came in and drove off Mr. Lang and Mr. Ridley. Mr.

Royle then took the ball, a fast change-bowler. He bowled three maidens,

and then settled Mr. Sharpe (at 65), Mr. Blacker (at 67), and Mr.

Longman at 76 (for 23), with a fine breaking shooter such as you seldom

see now. Twenty years ago a large percentage of balls shot dead. Mr.

Greenfield and Mr. Edward Lyttelton stuck together.

At 97, an awful yell went up; mid-on had missed Mr. Lyttelton, a low

hard catch, but one which he would have taken nine times in ten. At 101,

Mr. Campbell caught Mr. Greenfield off Mr. Royle, six down and 70 to

get. Then Mr. Sims came in, and another yell was heard. Mid-on had given

Mr. Lyttelton another let-off, an easy thing he might have held in his

mouth. Mid-on wished that the earth would open and swallow him.

Presently Mr. Lyttelton hit Mr. Buckland a beautiful skimming smack to

square leg. Mr. Webbe was standing deeper, but, running at full speed

along the ropes, sideways to the catch, he held it low down--a

repetition of what he did unto Mr. Lyttelton when they played for Harrow

and Eton. Mr. Lyttelton had scored 20, but not in his best manner. There

were now three wickets to fall for 60; Oxford seemed to have the

advantage. Sims and Patterson had added 14 (40 to win), when a heavy

shower came down, lasted for an hour and a half, and left Oxford with a

wet ball and a slippery ground. The rain, which favoured Oxford in 1874,

when Cambridge collapsed, was now on the Cambridge side. Mr. Sims was

determined to knock the runs off by a forcing game, and these were the

right tactics. Then Ridley went on, and his first slow bowled Mr.

Patterson clean. Mr. Macan came in, and got a single (13 to win). Then

Mr. Sims hit Mr. Ridley over his head to the ropes for 4 (9 to win). Mr.

Lang went on for Mr. Royle, a leg bye followed, and then a no-ball (7 to

win). Mr. Lang then, in a moment of despair, as unusual measures were

needed, bowled a full pitch right at Mr. Sims's head. Mr. Sims,

naturally concluding that two more hits would finish the match, hit at

it as hard as he could. Mr. Pulman was standing by the ropes 'in the

country' and the ball soared towards him; would it cross the ropes?

would Pulman reach it; he had a long way to run? He reached it, he held

it, and back went Mr. Sims. There remained Mr. Smith, in the same

historical position as Mr. Belcher. There were six runs to get, and Mr.

Macan, his companion, a good bat, was not yet settled. Some one in the

pavilion said, 'His legs are trembling, Oxford wins.' Mr. Smith, unlike

Mr. Belcher, stopped two of Mr. Ridley's slows, but not with enthusiasm.

To the third he played slowly forward, the ball hit the middle stump,

and Oxford won by six runs.

There was also a very good match in 1891. Cambridge was far the better

team, and went in, second innings, for a small score. But Mr. Berkeley

(left-hand medium) bowled so admirably that there were only two wickets

to fall for the last run. Mr. Woods, however, was not nervous, and hit

the first ball he received for 4 to the ropes. Still, I am inclined to

think that, in these three matches, the bowling of Mr. Berkeley was the

best, for he had very little encouragement, whereas, with 178 or so to

get, a bowler has a good chance, and is on his mettle.

The moral is, don't poke about in your block-hole, but hit, and, when

you bowl in an emergency, aim at getting wickets by any means, rather

than at keeping down runs.

_THE STORY OF KASPAR HAUSER_

ON May 28, 1828, the town of Nuremberg, in Bavaria, presented a

singularly deserted appearance, as it was Whit-Monday, and most of the

inhabitants were spending their holiday in the country. A cobbler, who

lived in Umschlitt Square, was an exception to the general rule, but

towards four o'clock he, too, thought that he would take a stroll

outside the city walls. When he came out of his door his curiosity was

excited by a strange figure, which was leaning, as if unable to support

itself, against a wall near, and uttering a moaning sound. The figure

was that of a young man of about seventeen, dressed in a grey riding

suit, and wearing a pair of dilapidated boots; he held a letter in one

hand.

[Illustration]

The cobbler's curiosity led him to approach the strange figure, which

moaned some incoherent sounds, and held out the letter in its hand. This

was addressed 'To the Captain of the 4th squadron of the 6th regiment

of dragoons now stationed at Nuremberg'; and, as he lived quite near,

the cobbler thought the surest way of gratifying his own curiosity was

to take the stranger there. The poor creature stumbled and shuffled

along behind his guide, and reached the captain's house quite worn out.

The captain was not at home, but his servant, pitying the sufferings of

the stranger, gave him a sack of straw to lie on in the stable, and

brought him some bread and meat and beer. The meat and the beer he would

not touch, but ate the bread greedily and drank some water; he then fell

fast asleep. Towards eight o'clock the captain came home, and was told

of his strange visitor, and of the letter he had brought with him. This

letter was written in a feigned hand, and said that the writer, a poor

labourer with ten children, had received the boy in 1812, and had kept

him shut up in his house for sixteen years, not allowing him to see or

know anything; that he could keep him no longer, and so sent him to the

captain, who could make a soldier of him, hang him, or put him up the

chimney, just as he chose. He added that the boy knew nothing and could

tell nothing, but was quick at learning. Enclosed was a letter giving

the date of the boy's birth (April 30, 1812), and purporting to be

written by the mother; but the writing, paper, and ink all showed that

the two letters were by the same person.

The captain could make nothing of this mysterious letter, but went to

the stable, where he found the stranger still asleep. After many pushes,

kicks, and thumps he awoke. When asked his name and where he came from,

he made some sounds, which were at last understood to be, 'Want to be a

soldier, as father was;' 'Don't know;' and 'Horse home.' These sentences

he repeated over and over again like a parrot, and at last the captain

decided to send his new recruit to the police office. Here he was asked

his name, where he came from, &c., &c., but the result of the police

inspector's questioning was the same: the stranger repeated his three

sentences, and at last, in despair of getting any sensible reply from

him, he was put into a cell in the west tower of the prison where

vagrants were kept. This cell he shared with another prisoner, a butcher

boy, who was ordered to watch him carefully, as the police naturally

suspected him of being an impostor. He slept soundly through the night

and woke at sunrise. He spent the greater part of the day sitting on the

floor taking no notice of anything, but at last the gaoler gave him a

sheet of paper and a pencil to play with. These he seized with pleasure

and carried them off to a seat; nor did he stop writing until he had

covered the paper with letters and syllables, arranged just as they

would be in a copy-book. Among the letters were three complete words,

'Kaspar Hauser,' and 'reiter' (horse soldier). 'Kaspar Hauser' was

evidently his name, though he did not recognise it when called by it.

[Illustration]

The news of the strange arrival spread through the city. The

guard-house, where he spent part of the day, was thronged by a curious

crowd, anxious to see this strange creature, who looked at things

without seeing them, who could not bear a strong light, who loathed any

food but bread and water, and who, parrot-like, repeated a couple of

phrases which he evidently did not understand, and one word, 'horse,' to

which he seemed to attach some meaning. What they saw was a youth of

about seventeen, with fair hair and blue eyes, the lower part of his

face slightly projecting like a monkey's. He was four feet nine inches

in height, broad-shouldered, with tiny hands and delicate little feet,

which had never worn shoes nor been put to their natural use, for the

soles were as soft as a baby's. He was dressed in grey riding-breeches,

a round jacket, which had been made out of a frock-coat by cutting off

the skirts, and wore a round felt hat bound with red leather. In his

pockets were some rags, some tracts, a rosary, and a paper of gold sand.

Everyone who saw him and watched him came to the same conclusion, that

his mind was that of a child of two or three, while his body was nearly

grown up; and yet he was not half-witted, because he immediately began

to pick up words and phrases, had a wonderful memory, and never forgot a

face he had once seen, or the name which belonged to it. During the next

two or three weeks he spent part of every day in the guard-room; part

with the family of the gaoler, whose children taught him to talk and to

walk as they did their own baby sister. He was not afraid of anything;

swords were whirled round his head without his paying any attention to

them; he stretched out his hand to the flame of a lighted candle, and

cried when it burnt him, and when he saw his face in a looking-glass,

looked behind it for the other person. He was particularly pleased when

anything bright or glittering was given to him. Whenever this happened

he called out 'Horse, horse,' and made signs as if he wanted to hang it

on to the neck of something. At last one of the policemen gave him a

wooden horse, when his happiness was complete, and he spent hours

sitting on the floor playing with this horse and the dozens of horses

which were given to him by his visitors as soon as they heard of his

liking for them.

Six or seven weeks passed in this way, and all this time the town

council were discussing what they would do with him. At last they

decided to adopt him as the 'Child of Nuremberg,' and to have him

properly cared for and taught, so that, if possible, something of his

past might be learned. He was taken away from the prison and put under

the charge of Professor Daumer, whose interest in the youth led him to

undertake the difficult task of developing his mind so that it might fit

his body. The burgomaster issued a notice to the inhabitants that in

future they would not be allowed to see Kaspar Hauser at all hours of

the day, and that the police had orders to interfere if the curiosity of

visitors led them to annoy Dr. Daumer and his household. He entered Dr.

Daumer's house on July 18, 1828, and during the next five months made

such astonishing progress that the delight of his teacher knew no

bounds. In order to satisfy public curiosity the burgomaster published,

in July, a short account of Hauser's previous life, gleaned from him by

careful questioning. It was to this effect:--

'He neither knows who he is nor where he came from, for it was only at

Nuremberg that he came into the world. He always lived in a hole, where

he sat on straw on the ground; he never heard a sound, nor saw any vivid

light. He awoke and he slept, and awoke again; when he awoke he found a

loaf of bread and a pitcher of water beside him. Sometimes the water

tasted nasty and then he fell asleep again, and when he woke up found he

had a clean shirt on; he never saw the face of the man who came to him.

He had two wooden horses and some ribbons to play with; was never ill,

never unhappy in his hole; once only the man struck him with a stick for

making too much noise with his horses. One day the man came into his

room and put a table over his feet; something white lay on the table,

and on this the man made black marks with a pencil which he put into his

fingers. This the man did several times, and when he was gone Kaspar

imitated what he had done. At last he taught him to stand and to walk,

and finally carried him out of his hole. Of what happened next Kaspar

had no very clear idea, until he found himself in Nuremberg with the

letter in his hand.'

At first sight this story seems quite impossible, but it is borne out by

two or three things. Kaspar's legs were deformed in just such a way as

would happen in the case of a person who had spent years sitting on the

ground; he never walked properly to the end, and had great difficulty in

getting upstairs. His feet showed no signs of use, except the blisters

made by his boots and his walk to Nuremberg; he could see in the dark

easily and disliked light; and finally, for several months after he came

to Nuremberg, he refused to eat anything but bread and water, and was,

in fact, made quite ill by the smell of meat, beer, wine, or milk.

For the first four months of his stay with Daumer, his senses of sight,

taste, hearing, and smell were very acute. He had got past the stage in

which he disliked light, and could now see much further than most people

by day, without, however, losing his power of seeing in the dark; at

the same time he could not distinguish between a thing and a picture of

that thing, and could not for a long time judge distances at all, for he

saw everything flat. His favourite colours were red and yellow; black

and green he particularly disliked; everything ugly was called green. He

could not be persuaded that a ball did not roll because it wished to do

so, or that his top did not spin of its own accord. For a long time he

saw no reason why animals should not behave like human beings, and was

much annoyed because the cat refused to sit up at table and to eat with

its paws, blaming its disobedience in not doing as it was told. He

further thought that a cow which had lain down in the road would do well

to go home to bed if it were tired. His sense of smell was very keen,

painfully so, in fact, for he was made quite ill by the smell of the dye

in his clothes, the smell of paper, and of many other things which other

people do not notice at all; while the smell of a sweep a hundred yards

off on the other side of the road upset him for a week. On the other

hand, he could distinguish the leaves of trees by their smell.

By November he had made sufficient progress to make it possible for Dr.

Daumer to teach him other things besides the use of his senses: he was

encouraged to write letters and essays, to use his hands in every way,

to draw, to make paper-models, to dig in the garden, where he had a

little plot of ground with his name in mustard and cress; in fact, to

use his lately acquired knowledge. The great difficulty was to persuade

him to eat anything but bread and water, but by slow degrees he learned

to eat different forms of farinaceous food, gruel, bread and milk, rice,

&c., into which a little gravy and meat was gradually introduced. By the

following May he could eat meat without being made ill by it, but never

drank anything but water, except at breakfast, when he had chocolate.

For the next eleven months he lived a happy, simple life with his friend

and tutor, who mentions, however, that the intense acuteness of his

senses was gradually passing away, but that he had still the charming,

obedient, child-like nature which had won all hearts. In the summer,

public interest was aroused by the news that Kaspar Hauser was writing

his life, and the paper was eagerly looked forward to. All went well

until October 17, when Kaspar was discovered senseless in a cellar under

Dr. Daumer's house, with a wound in his forehead. He was carried

upstairs and put to bed, when he kept on moaning, 'Man! man!--tell

mother (Mrs. Daumer)--tell professor--man beat me--black sweep.' For

some days he was too ill to give any account of his wound, but at last

said, that he had gone downstairs and was suddenly attacked by a man

with a black face,[10] who hit him on the head; that he fell down, and

when he got up the man was gone; that he went to look for Mrs. Daumer,

and, as he could not find her, finally hid in the cellar to be quite

safe. After this murderous attack it was no longer safe to leave him in

Dr. Daumer's house, so when well again he was removed to the house of

one of the magistrates, and constantly guarded by two policemen, without

whom he never went out. He was not very happy here, and after some

months was put under the charge of Herr von Tucher (June 1830), with

whom he remained for eighteen months. At first the arrangement answered

admirably; he was happy in his new home, his only trouble being that he

was sent to the grammar school and put into one of the upper forms,

where he had to learn Latin, a task which proved too hard for his brain.

By this time his face had quite lost the brutish character it had when

he came to Nuremberg, and its expression was pleasant, though rather

sad. Unfortunately for himself, he was one of the sights of Nuremberg,

was always introduced to any stranger of distinction who came to the

town, and attracted even more attention than the kangaroo; so that even

his warmest friends were obliged to admit that he was rather spoiled.

At the beginning of 1831, an Englishman, Lord Stanhope, came to

Nuremberg, saw the foundling, was curiously interested in him, and

wished to adopt him. Kaspar was very much flattered, and drew

unfavourable comparisons between this Englishman who thought nothing too

good for him, and his guardians, who were thinking of apprenticing him

to a bookbinder. Lord Stanhope's kindness turned his head, and Herr von

Tucher, after repeated remonstrances, resigned his guardianship in

December 1831. With the full consent of the town council of Nuremberg,

Lord Stanhope removed Kaspar to Ausbach, and placed him under the care

of Dr. Mayer. It was generally supposed that this was only preparatory

to taking him to England. Ample funds were provided for his maintenance,

but the journey to England was again and again put off; and at last

there were signs that Lord Stanhope was not quite satisfied with his new

plaything. So much had been said about Kaspar's cleverness, that his new

teachers were disappointed to find that his acquirements were about

those of a boy of eight. They accused him of laziness and of deceit; and

he, finding himself suspected and closely questioned as to everything

he did, took refuge in falsehood. At last a government clerkship of the

lowest class was procured for him, but great complaints were made of his

inattention to his duties (mainly copying); he was unhappy, and, when on

a visit to Nuremberg in the summer, made plans for the happy time when

he should be able to come back and live with his friends there. For the

people of Ausbach, though making him one of the shows of the place, do

not seem to have had that perfect belief in him shown by his earlier

friends; while his new guardians expected a great deal too much from

him. His chief friend in Ausbach was the clergyman who had prepared him

for confirmation, who noticed, in November 1833, that he was very much

depressed; but this passed away. On the afternoon of December 14, Kaspar

came to call on the clergyman's wife, and was particularly happy and

bright. Three hours afterwards he staggered into his tutor's house,

holding his hand to his side, gasping out 'Garden--man--stabbed--give

purse--let it drop--come--' and dragged the astonished Dr. Mayer off to

a public garden, where a little purse was found on the ground. In it was

a piece of paper, on which was written backwards in pencil these lines:

'I come from the Bavarian frontier. I will even tell you my name, "M. L.

O."'

Kaspar was taken home and put to bed, when it was discovered that there

was a deep stab in his left side. For some hours he was too ill to be

questioned, but on the 15th he was able to tell his story. On the 14th,

as he was coming out of the government buildings to go home to dinner,

he was accosted by a man who promised to tell him who his parents were,

if he would come to a spot in the public gardens. He refused, as he was

going home to dinner, but made an appointment for that afternoon. After

dinner he called on the clergyman's wife, and then went to the gardens,

where he found the man waiting for him. The man led him to the Uz

monument, which was at a little distance from the main path, and shut in

by trees. Here he made him take a solemn oath of secrecy and handed him

the little purse, which Kaspar, in his hurry to seize it, let drop. As

he stooped to pick it up he was stabbed, and when he lifted himself up

the stranger was gone. Then he ran home.

For two days he was not supposed to be in any danger, but fever set in;

the doctors gave no hope of his recovery, and on the 17th he died.

His death caused great excitement, not only in Ausbach and Nuremberg,

but throughout all Germany. The question as to whether he was an

impostor or not was hotly debated; those who favoured the former theory

insisting that he had killed himself accidentally when he only meant to

wound himself and so excite sympathy. Some of the doctors declared,

however, that that was quite impossible, for the wound was meant to

kill, and could only have been self-inflicted by a left-handed person of

great strength, for it had pierced through a padded coat. A large reward

(1,200_l._) was offered for the capture of the assassin, but in vain;

and the spot of the murder was marked by an inscription in Latin:

HIC

OCCULTUS

OCCULTO

OCCISUS EST

(Here the Mystery was mysteriously murdered).

The same idea is repeated on his tombstone. 'Here lies K. H., the riddle

of the age. His birth was unknown, his death mysterious.'

His death was the signal for a violent paper-war between his friends and

his enemies. It raged hotly for years; but his friends have never

succeeded in proving who he was; why, after having been shut up for so

long, he was at last set free; or why his death was, after all,

necessary; while his enemies have utterly failed to prove that he was an

impostor.[11]

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Probably the man had tied a piece of black crape over his face as a

mask.

[11] This is rather a picturesque than a critical story of Kaspar

Hauser. The evidence of the men who first met him shows that he could

then speak quite rationally. The curious will find a brief but useful

account of him in the Duchess of Cleveland's 'Kaspar Hauser'

(Macmillans, 1893.)

_AN ARTIST'S ADVENTURE_

NEARLY four hundred years ago, a boy was born in Italy who grew up to be

one of the most accomplished artists of his own or any other age.

Besides excelling as a sculptor, modeller, and medallist, he was a

musician, an author, and an admirable swordsman; and popes, kings, and

other great princes eagerly employed him, and vied with each other to

secure his services. His name was Benvenuto Cellini.

Under Pope Clement VII. he took part in the defence of the Castle of St.

Angelo, when it was besieged by the Constable de Bourbon, and the Pope

reposed such confidence in Cellini that he was entrusted with the task

of removing all the gems in the treasury from their settings, and

concealing the stones in the thick folds of his clothing. However, I am

not going to enlarge on Benvenuto's many talents, but to tell you of a

wonderful adventure which befell him in the very Castle of St. Angelo he

had helped to defend.

Those were lawless days, and Cellini was a man of fiery temper, to whom

blows came more naturally than patience and forbearance. So it came to

pass that, being told that a certain goldsmith named Pompeo had been

spreading false reports about him, Benvenuto fell upon him one fine day

in the very midst of Rome, and promptly stabbed him to death.

This might possibly have been overlooked, but a workman, jealous of

Cellini's success and reputation, accused the artist to the reigning

Pope, Paul III., of having purloined some of the jewels entrusted to his

care during the siege, and Paul was not to be trifled with where the

affairs of the treasury were concerned. Moreover, a near relation of the

Pope's was Cellini's sworn enemy, and this sufficed to seal his fate.

So, when taking a walk one morning, Benvenuto suddenly found himself

face to face with Crespino, the sheriff, attended by his band of

constables. Crespino advanced, saying, 'You are the Pope's prisoner.'

'Crespino,' exclaimed Benvenuto, 'you must take me for some one else.'

'No, no,' replied Crespino, 'I know you perfectly, Benvenuto, and I have

orders to carry you to the Castle of St. Angelo, where great nobles and

men of talent like yourself are sent.'

Then he politely begged Benvenuto to give up his sword, and led him off

to the Castle, where he was locked up in a room above the keep.

It was easy enough for Benvenuto to refute the accusations brought

against him; nevertheless he was kept prisoner, in spite of the

intervention of the French ambassador, who demanded his liberty in the

name of Francis I.

The governor of the Castle was, like Cellini, a Florentine, and at first

showed himself full of kind attentions towards his countryman, allowing

him a certain amount of liberty on parole, within the Castle walls.

Growing suspicious later, he kept his prisoner closer, but after a time

he restored him to comparative liberty.

When Benvenuto found how changeable the governor's humour was, he set

himself to think over matters seriously. 'For,' he reflected, 'should a

fresh fit of anger or suspicion cause him to confine me more strictly, I

should feel myself released from my word, and it may be as well to be

prepared.'

Accordingly he ordered some new coarse linen sheets to be brought him,

but when soiled he did not send them back. When his servants asked for

the sheets so as to have them washed he bade them say no more, as he had

given them to one of the poor soldiers on guard, who would be sure to

get into trouble if the matter were known. By degrees he emptied the

straw out of his mattress, burning a little of it at a time in his

fireplace, and replacing it with the sheets, which he cut into strips

some inches wide. As soon as he thought these strips were long enough

for his purpose, he told his servants that he had given all the sheets

away, and that in future they had better bring him finer linen, which he

would be sure to return.

Now it so happened that every year the governor was subject to a most

distressing illness, which, for the time being, entirely deprived him of

his reason. When it began to come on, he would talk and chatter

incessantly. Each year he had some fresh hallucination, at one time

fancying himself an oil-jar, at another a frog, and skipping about like

one. Again, another time, he declared he was dead, and wished to be

buried; and so, year by year, he was the victim of some new delusion.

This year he imagined he was a bat, and as he walked about he uttered

little half-smothered cries like a bat, and flapped his hands and moved

his body as though about to fly. His faithful old servants and his

doctors noticed this, and, thinking change of ideas and variety of

conversation might do him good, they frequently fetched Benvenuto to

entertain him.

One day the governor asked Benvenuto whether it had ever occurred to him

to desire to fly, and; on being answered in the affirmative, he inquired

further how he should set about it.

Benvenuto replied that the only flying creature it would be at all

possible to imitate artificially was the bat, on which the poor man

cried out, 'True, true, that's it, that's the thing.' Then turning round

he said, 'Benvenuto, if you had everything you required for it, do you

think you could fly?'

'Oh, yes,' said the artist; 'if you will only leave me free to do it, I

will engage to make a pair of wings of fine waxed cloth, and to fly from

here to Prati with them.'

'And I, too,' exclaimed the governor; 'I could do it too, but the Pope

has ordered me to keep you like the apple of his eye, and as I strongly

suspect you're a cunning fellow, I shall lock you well up and give you

no chance of flying.'

Thereupon, and in spite of all Benvenuto's entreaties and protestations,

the governor ordered him to be taken back to prison and more carefully

guarded than ever.

Seeing he could not help himself, Cellini exclaimed before the officers

and attendants: 'Very well! lock me up and keep me safe, for I give you

due warning I mean to escape in spite of everything.'

No sooner was he shut up in his cell than he fell to turning over in his

mind how this escape could be made, and began minutely examining his

prison, and, after discovering what he thought would be a sure way of

getting out, he considered how best he might let himself down from the

top of this enormous donjon tower, which went by the name of 'Il

Mastio.' He began by measuring the length of the linen strips, which he

had cut and joined firmly together so as to form a sort of rope, and he

thought there would be enough for his purpose. Next, he armed himself

with a pair of pincers which he had taken from one of his guards who was

fond of carpentering, and who, amongst his tools, had a particularly

large and strong pair of pincers, which appeared so useful to Benvenuto

that he abstracted them, and hid them in his mattress.

As soon as he thought himself safe from interruption, he began to feel

about for the nails in the ironwork of the door, but owing to its

immense thickness they were by no means easy to get at. However, he

managed at length to extract the first nail. Then came the question, how

to conceal the hole left behind. This he contrived by making a paste of

rusty scrapings and wax, which he modelled into an exact representation

of the head of a nail, and in this way he replaced each nail he drew by

a facsimile of its head in wax.

Great care was required to leave just a sufficient number of nails to

keep the ironwork and hinges in their places. But Benvenuto managed this

by first drawing the nails, cutting them as short as he dared, and then

replacing them in such a way as to keep things together, and yet to

allow of their being easily drawn out at the last moment.

All this was by no means easy to contrive, for the governor was

constantly sending some one to make sure that his prisoner was safe.

The two men who were specially charged with this duty were rough and

rude, and one of them in particular took pains to inspect the whole room

carefully every evening, paying special attention to the locks and

hinges.

Cellini lived in constant terror lest it should occur to them to examine

his bedding, where, besides the pincers, he had hidden a long sharp

dagger and some other instruments, as well as his long strips of linen.

Each morning he swept out and dusted his room and carefully made his

bed, ornamenting it with flowers which he got the soldier from whom he

had taken the pincers to bring him. When his two warders appeared he

desired them on no account to go near or touch his bed, for fear of

soiling or disturbing it. Sometimes, in order to tease him, they would

touch it, and then he would shout: 'Ah! you dirty rascals! Just let me

get at one of your swords and see how I'll punish you! How dare you

touch the bed of such a man as I am? Little care I about risking my own

life, for I should be certain to take yours. Leave me in peace with my

grief and trouble, or I will show you what a man can do when driven to

desperation!'

These words were repeated to the governor, who forbade the gaolers

touching Cellini's bed, or entering his room armed. The bed once safe,

he felt as if all else must go right.

[Illustration: HE PREPARED TO ATTACK THE SENTRY]

One night the governor had a worse attack than ever, and in a fit of

madness kept repeating that he certainly was a bat, and that, should

they hear of Benvenuto's escape, they must let him fly off too, as he

was sure he could fly better at night and would overtake the fugitive.

'Benvenuto,' said he, 'is but a sham bat, but as I am a real bat, and he

has been given into my keeping, I shall soon catch him again, depend on

it.'

This bad attack lasted several nights, and the Savoyard soldier, who

took an interest in Benvenuto, reported to him that the servants were

quite worn out watching their sick master. Hearing this, Cellini

resolved to attempt his escape at once, and set hard to work to complete

his preparations. He worked all night, and about two hours before dawn

he, with much care and trouble, removed the hinges from the door. The

casing and bolts prevented his opening it wide, so he chipped away the

woodwork, till at length he was able to slip through, taking with him

his linen ropes, which he had wound on two pieces of wood like two great

reels of thread.

Having passed the door he turned to the right of the tower, and having

removed a couple of tiles, he easily got out on the roof. He wore a

white doublet and breeches and white boots, into one of which he had

slipped his dagger. Taking one end of his linen rope, he now proceeded

to hook it carefully over an antique piece of tile which was firmly

cemented into the wall. This tile projected barely four fingers'

breadth, and the band hooked over it as on a stirrup. When he had made

it firm he prayed thus: 'O Lord, my God, come now to my aid, for Thou

knowest that my cause is righteous, and that I am aiding myself.' Then

he gently let himself slide down the rope till he reached the ground.

There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and once down he gazed up at

the tower from which he had made so bold a descent, and went off in high

spirits, thinking himself at liberty, which indeed was by no means the

case.

On this side of the Castle the governor had had two high walls built to

inclose his stables and his poultry-yard, and these walls had gates

securely bolted and barred on the outside.

In despair at these obstacles Benvenuto roamed about at random, cursing

his bad luck, when suddenly he hit his foot against a long pole which

lay hidden in the straw. With a good deal of effort he managed to raise

it against the wall and to scramble up to the top. Here he found a

sharply sloping coping stone which made it impossible to draw the pole

up after him, but he fastened a portion of the second linen band to

it, and by this means let himself down as he had done outside the donjon

tower.

By this time Benvenuto was much exhausted, and his hands were all cut

and bleeding; however, after a short rest he climbed the last inclosure,

and was just in the act of fastening his rope to a battlement, when, to

his horror, he saw a sentinel close to him. Desperate at this

interruption, and at the thought of the risk he ran, he prepared to

attack the sentry, who, however, seeing a man advance on him with a

drawn dagger and determined air, promptly took to his heels, and

Benvenuto returned to his rope. Another guard was near, but, hoping not

to have been observed, the fugitive secured his band and hastily slid

down it. Whether it was fatigue, or that he thought himself nearer the

ground than he really was, it is impossible to say, but he loosened his

hold, and fell, hitting his head, and lay stretched on the ground for

more than an hour.

The sharp freshness of the air just before sunrise revived him, but his

memory did not return immediately, and he fancied his head had been cut

off and that he was in purgatory. By degrees, as his senses returned, he

realised that he was no longer in the Castle, and remembered what he had

done. He put his hands to his head and withdrew them covered with blood,

but on carefully examining himself he found he had no serious wound,

though on attempting to move he discovered that his right leg was

broken. Nothing daunted, he drew from his boot his poniard with its

sheath, which had a large ball at the end; the pressure of this ball on

the bone had caused the fracture. He threw away the sheath, and cutting

off a piece of the remaining linen band with his dagger, he bound up his

leg as best he could, and then, dagger in hand, proceeded to drag

himself along on his knees towards the gate of the town. It was still

closed, but seeing one stone near the bottom, which did not look very

huge, he tried to displace it. After repeated efforts it shook, and at

length yielded to his efforts, so, forcing it out, he squeezed himself

through.

He had barely entered Rome when he was attacked by a band of savage

dogs, who bit and worried him cruelly. He fought desperately with his

dagger, and gave one dog such a stab that it fled howling, followed by

the rest of the pack, leaving Benvenuto free to drag himself as best he

could towards St. Peter's.

By this time it was broad daylight, and there was much risk of

discovery; so, seeing a water-carrier passing with his train of asses

laden with jars full of water, Benvenuto hailed him and begged he would

carry him as far as the steps of St. Peter's.

'I am a poor fellow,' said he, 'who have broken my leg trying to get out

of the window of a house where I went to see my lady-love. As the house

belongs to a great family, I much fear I shall be cut to pieces if I am

found here; so pray help me off and you shall have a gold crown for your

pains,' and Benvenuto put his hand to his purse, which was well filled.

The water-carrier readily consented, and carried him to St. Peter's,

where he left him on the steps, from whence Benvenuto began to crawl

towards the palace of Duke Ottavio, whose wife, a daughter of the

emperor's, had brought many of Cellini's friends from Florence to Rome

in her train. She was well disposed towards the great artist, and he

felt that beneath her roof he would be in safety. Unluckily, as he

struggled along, he was seen and recognised by a servant of Cardinal

Cornaro's, who had apartments in the Vatican. The man hurried to his

master's room, woke him up, and cried: 'Most reverend lord, Benvenuto is

below; he must have escaped from the Castle, and is all bleeding and

wounded. He appears to have broken his leg, and we have no idea where he

is going.'

'Run at once,' exclaimed the Cardinal, 'and fetch him here, to my room.'

When Benvenuto appeared the Cardinal assured him he need have no fears,

and sent off for the first surgeons in Rome to attend to him. Then he

shut him up in a secret room, and went off to try and obtain his pardon

from the Pope.

Meantime a great commotion arose in Rome, for the linen ropes dangling

from the great tower had attracted notice, and all the town was running

out to see the strange sight. At the Vatican Cardinal Cornaro met a

friend, to whom he related all the details of Benvenuto's escape, and

how he was at that very moment hidden in a secret chamber. Then they

both went to the Pope, who, as they threw themselves at his feet, cried,

'I know what you want with me.'

'Holy Father,' said the Cardinal's friend, 'we entreat you to grant us

the life of this poor man. His genius deserves some consideration; and

he has just shown an almost superhuman amount of courage and dexterity.

We do not know what may be the crimes for which your Holiness has seen

fit to imprison him, but if they are pardonable we implore you to

forgive him.'

The Pope, looking somewhat abashed, replied that he had imprisoned

Benvenuto for being too presumptuous; 'however,' he added, 'I am well

aware of his talents and am anxious to keep him near me, and am resolved

to treat him so well that he shall have no desire to return to France. I

am sorry he is ill; bid him recover quickly, and we will make him forget

his past sufferings.'

I am sorry to say the Pope was not so good as his words, for Benvenuto's

enemies plotted against him, and after a time he was once more shut up

in his former prison, from which, however, he was eventually delivered

at the urgent request of the King of France, who warmly welcomed the

great artist to his Court, where he spent some years in high honour.

_THE TALE OF ISANDHLWANA AND RORKE'S DRIFT_

[Illustration: A]LTHOUGH but fourteen years have gone by since 1879,

perhaps some people, if they chance to be young, have forgotten about

the Zulus, and the story of our war with them; so, before beginning the

tale of Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift, it may be worth while to tell of

these matters in a few words.

The Zulus live in South-Eastern Africa. Originally they were not one

tribe but many, though the same blood was in them all. Nobody knows

whence they came or who were their forefathers; but they seem to have

sprung from an Arab or Semitic stock, and many of their customs, such as

the annual feast of the first fruits, resemble those of the Jews. At the

beginning of this century there arose a warrior king, called Chaka, who

gathered up the scattered tribes of the Zulus as a woodman gathers

sticks, and as of the frail brushwood the woodman makes a stout faggot,

that none can break, so of these tribes Chaka fashioned a nation so

powerful that no other black people could conquer it.

The deeds of Chaka are too many to write of here. Seldom has there been

a monarch, black or white, so terrible or so absolute, and never perhaps

has a man lived more wicked or more clever. Out of 'nothing,' as the

Kafirs say, he made the Amazulu, or the 'people of heaven,' so

powerful, that before he died he could send out an army of a hundred

thousand men to destroy those whom he feared or hated or whose cattle he

coveted. These soldiers were never beaten; if they dared to turn their

back upon an enemy, however numerous, they were killed when the battle

was done, so that soon they learned to choose death with honour before

the foe in preference to death with shame at the hands of the

executioner. Where Chaka's armies went they conquered, till the country

was swept of people for hundreds of miles in every direction. At length,

after he had killed or been the cause of the violent death of more than

a million human beings, in the year 1828 Chaka's own hour came; for, as

the Zulu proverb says, 'the swimmer is at last borne away by the

stream.' He was murdered by the princes of his house and his body

servant Umbopo or Mopo. But as he lay dying beneath their spear thrusts,

it is said that the great king prophesied of the coming of white men who

should conquer the land that he had won.

'What,' he said, 'do you slay me, my brothers--dogs of mine own house

whom I have fed, thinking to possess the land? I tell you that I hear

the sound of running feet, the feet of a great white people, and they

shall stamp you flat, children of my father.'

After the death of Chaka his brother Dingaan reigned who had murdered

him. In due course he was murdered also, and his brother Panda succeeded

to the throne. Panda was a man of peace, and the only one of the four

Zulu kings who died a natural death; for though it is not commonly

known, the last of these kings, our enemy Cetywayo, is believed to have

met his end by poison. In 1873, Cetywayo was crowned king of Zululand in

succession to his father Panda on behalf of the English Government by

Sir Theophilus Shepstone. He remained a firm friend to the British till

Sir Bartle Frere declared war on him in 1879. Sir Bartle Frere made war

upon the Zulus because he was afraid of their power, and the Zulus

accepted the challenge because we annexed the Transvaal and would not

allow them to fight the Boers or the Swazis. They made a brave

resistance, and it was not until there were nearly as many English

soldiers in their country armed with breech-loading rifles as they had

effective warriors left alive in it, for the most part armed with spears

only, that at length we conquered them. But their heart was never in the

war; they defended their country against invasion indeed, but by

Cetywayo's orders they never attacked ours. Had they wished to do so,

there was nothing to prevent them from sweeping the outlying districts

of Natal and the Transvaal after our first great defeat at Isandhlwana,

but they spared us.

And now I have done with dull explanations, and will go on to tell of

the disaster at Isandhlwana or the 'place of the Little Hand,' and of

the noble defence of Rorke's Drift.

On the 20th of January, 1879, one of the British columns that were

invading Zululand broke its camp on the left bank of the Buffalo river,

and marched by the road that ran from Rorke's Drift to the Indeni

forest, encamping that evening under the shadow of a steep-cliffed and

lonely mountain, called Isandhlwana. This force was known as number 3

column, and with it went Lord Chelmsford, the general in command of the

troops. The buildings at Rorke's Drift were left in charge of sixty men

of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment under the late Colonel Bromhead, then

a lieutenant, and some volunteers and others, the whole garrison being

commanded, on the occasion of the attack, by Lieutenant Chard, R.E.

On January 21, Colonel, then Major, Dartnell, the officer in command of

the Natal Mounted Police and volunteers, who had been sent out to effect

a reconnaissance of the country beyond Isandhlwana, reported that the

Zulus were in great strength in front of him. Thereupon Lord Chelmsford

ordered six companies of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment, together with

four guns and the Mounted Infantry, to advance to his support. This

force, under the command of Colonel Glyn, and accompanied by Lord

Chelmsford himself, left Isandhlwana at dawn on the 22nd, a despatch

having first been sent to Lieut.-Colonel Durnford, R.E., who was in

command of some five hundred friendly Natal Zulus, about half of whom

were mounted and armed with breech-loaders, to move up from Rorke's

Drift and strengthen the camp, which was now in charge of Lieut.-Colonel

Pulleine of the 1st battalion 24th regiment. Orders were given to

Colonel Pulleine by the general that he was to 'defend' the camp.

About ten o'clock that morning Colonel Durnford arrived at Isandhlwana

and took over the command of the camp, which was then garrisoned by

seven hundred and seventy-two European and eight hundred and fifty-one

native troops, in all one thousand six hundred and twenty-three men,

with two guns. Little did Lord Chelmsford and those with him guess in

what state they would find that camp when they returned to it some

eighteen hours later, or that of those sixteen hundred men the great

majority would then be dead!

Meanwhile a Zulu 'impi' or army, numbering about twenty thousand men, or

something more than one-third of King Cetywayo's entire strength, had

moved from the Upindo Hill on the night of January 21, and taken up its

position on a stony plain, a mile and a half to the east of Isandhlwana.

The impi was made up of the Undi regiment, about three thousand strong,

that formed its breast, or centre, the Nokenke and Umcityu regiments,

seven thousand strong, that formed its right wing or horn, and the

Imbonanbi and Nkobamikosi regiments, ten thousand strong, forming its

left horn or wing. That night the impi slept upon its spears and watched

in silence, lighting no fires. The king had reviewed it three days

previously, and his orders to it were that it should attack number 3

column, and drive it back over the Buffalo, but it had no intention of

giving battle on the 22nd, for the state of the moon was not propitious,

so said the 'doctors'; moreover, the soldiers had not been 'moutied,'

that is, sprinkled with medicines to 'put a great heart' into them and

ensure their victory. The intention of the generals was to attack the

camp at dawn on the 23rd; and the actual engagement was brought about by

an accident.

Before I tell of this or of the fight, however, it may be as well to

describe how these splendid savages were armed and disciplined. To begin

with, every corps had a particular head-dress and fighting shields of

one colour, just as in our army each regiment has its own facings on the

tunics. These shields are cut from the hides of oxen, and it is easy to

imagine what a splendid sight was presented by a Zulu impi twenty

thousand strong, divided into several regiments, one with snow-white

shields and tall cranes' feathers on their heads, one with coal-black

shields and black plumes, and others with red and mottled shields, and

bands of fur upon their foreheads. In their war with the English many of

the Zulus were armed with muzzle-loading guns and rifles of the worst

description, of which they could make little use, for few of them were

trained to handle firearms. A much more terrible weapon in their hands,

and one that did nearly all the execution at Isandhlwana, was the

broad-bladed short-shafted stabbing assegai. This shape of spear was

introduced by the great king Chaka, and if a warrior cast it at an

enemy, or even chanced to lose it in a fight, he was killed when the

fray was over. Before Chaka's day the Zulu tribes used light assegais,

which they threw at the enemy from a distance, and thus their ammunition

was sometimes spent before they came to close quarters with the foe.

Among the Zulus every able-bodied man was enrolled in one or other of

the regiments--even the girls and boys were made into regiments or

attached to them, and though these did not fight, they carried the mats

and cooking pots of the army, and drove the cattle for the soldiers to

eat when on the march. Thus it will be seen that this people differed

from any other in the world in modern days, for whereas even the most

courageous and martial of mankind look upon war as an exceptional state

of affairs and an evil only to be undertaken in self-defence, or perhaps

for purposes of revenge and aggrandisement, the Zulus looked on peace as

the exceptional state, and on warfare as the natural employment of man.

Chaka taught them that lesson, and they had learnt it well, and so it

came about that Cetywayo was forced to allow the army to fight with us

when Sir Bartle Frere gave them an opportunity of doing so, since their

hearts were sick with peace, and for years they had clamoured to be

allowed to 'wash their spears,' saying that they were no longer men, but

had become a people of women. Indeed, had the king not done so, they

would have fought with each other. It is a terrible thing to be obliged,

year after year, to keep quiet an army of some fifty or sixty thousand

men who are too proud to work and clamour daily to be led to battle that

they may die as their fathers died. We may be sure that the heart of

many a Zulu warrior beat high as in dead silence he marched that night

from the heights of Upindo towards the doomed camp of Isandhlwana, since

at last he was to satisfy the longing of his blood, and fight to the

death with a foe whom he knew to be worthy of him.

Doubtless, also, the hearts of the white men beat high that night as

they gathered round the fires of their camp, little knowing that

thousands of Zulu eyes were watching them from afar, or that the black

rock looming above them was destined to stand like some great tombstone

over their bones for ever. Englishmen also are a warlike race, and there

was honour and advancement to be won, and it would seem that but few of

those who marched into the Zulu country guessed how formidable was the

foe with whom they had to deal. A horde of half-naked savages armed with

spears did not strike English commanders, imperfectly acquainted with

the history and nature of those savages, as particularly dangerous

enemies. Some there were, indeed, who, having spent their lives in the

country, knew what was to be expected, but they were set down as

'croakers,' and their earnest warnings of disaster to come were

disregarded.

Now let us return to the camp. It will be remembered that Colonel Glyn's

force, accompanied by General Lord Chelmsford, had left at dawn. About

eight o'clock a picket placed some 1,500 yards distant reported that

Zulus were approaching from the north-east. This information was

despatched by mounted messengers to Colonel Glyn's column.

Lieut.-Colonel Durnford, with his mounted natives and a rocket battery

arriving from Rorke's Drift about 10 A.M., took over the command of the

camp from Colonel Pulleine. According to the evidence of Lieutenant

Cochrane given at the court of inquiry, Colonel Pulleine thereupon

stated to Colonel Durnford the orders that he had received, to 'defend

the camp,' and it would appear that either then or subsequently some

altercation took place between these two officers. In the issue,

however, Colonel Durnford advanced his mounted force to ascertain the

enemy's movements, and directed a company of the 1st battalion 24th

regiment to occupy a hill about 1,200 yards to the north of the camp.

Other companies of the 24th were stationed at various points at a

distance from the camp. It may be well to explain here, that to these

movements of troops, which, so far as can be ascertained, were made by

the direct orders of Colonel Durnford, must be attributed the terrible

disaster that followed. There are two ways of fighting a savage or

undisciplined enemy; the scientific way, such as is taught in staff

colleges, and the unscientific way that is to be learned in the sterner

school of experience. We English were not the first white men who had to

deal with the rush of the Zulu impis. The Boers had encountered them

before, at the battle of the Blood River, and armed only with

muzzle-loading 'roers,' or elephant guns, despite their desperate

valour, had worsted them, with fearful slaughter. But they did not

advance bodies of men to this point or to that, according to the

scientific method; they drew their ox waggons into a square, lashing

them together with 'reims' or hide-ropes, and from behind this rough

defence, with but trifling loss to themselves, rolled back charge after

charge of the warriors of Dingaan.

Had this method been followed by our troops at the battle of

Isandhlwana, who had ample waggons at hand to enable them to execute the

manoeuvre, had the soldiers even been collected in a square beneath

the cliff of the mountain, it cannot be doubted but that, armed as they

were with breech-loaders, they would have been able to drive back not

only the impi sent against them, but, if necessary, the entire Zulu

army. Indeed, that this would have been so is demonstrated by what

happened on the same day at Rorke's Drift, where a hundred and thirty

men repelled the desperate assaults of three or four thousand. Why,

then, it may be asked, did Colonel Durnford, a man of considerable

colonial experience, adopt the more risky, if the more scientific, mode

of dealing with the present danger, and this in spite of Colonel

Pulleine's direct intimation to him that his orders were 'to defend the

camp'? As it chances, the writer of this account, who knew Colonel

Durnford well, and has the greatest respect for the memory of that good

officer, and honourable gentleman, is able to suggest an answer to the

problem which at the time was freely offered by the Natal colonists. A

few years before, it happened that Colonel Durnford was engaged upon

some military operations against a rebellious native chief in Natal.

Coming into contact with the followers of this chief, in the hope that

matters might be arranged without bloodshed, Durnford ordered the white

volunteers under his command not to fire, with the result that the

rebels fired, killing several of his force and wounding him in the arm.

This incident gave rise to an irrational indignation in the colony, and

for a while he himself was designated by the ungenerous nickname of

'Don't fire Durnford.' It is alleged, none can know with what amount of

truth, that it was the memory of this undeserved insult which caused

Colonel Durnford to insist upon advancing the troops under his command

to engage the Zulus in the open, instead of withdrawing them to await

attack in the comparative safety of a 'laager.'

The events following the advance of the various British companies at

Isandhlwana are exceedingly difficult to describe in their proper order,

since the evidence of the survivors is confused.

[Illustration]

It would appear, however, that Durnford's mounted Basutos discovered and

fired on a portion of the Umcityu regiment, which, forgetting its

orders, sprang up and began to charge. Thereon, accepting the position,

the other Zulu regiments joined the movement. Very rapidly, and with the

most perfect order, the impi adopted the traditional Zulu ox-head

formation, namely, that of a centre and two horns, the centre

representing the skull of the ox. In this order they advanced towards

the English camp, slowly and without sound. Up to this time there had

been no particular alarm in the camp. The day was bright and lovely,

with a hot sun tempered by a gentle breeze that just stirred the tops of

the grasses, and many men seem to have been strolling about quite

unaware of their imminent danger, although orders were given to collect

the transport oxen, which were at graze outside the camp; not for the

purpose of inspanning the waggons, but to prevent them from being

captured by the enemy. One officer (Captain, now Colonel, Essex) reports

that after the company had been sent out, he retired to his tent to

write letters, till, about twelve o'clock, a sergeant came to tell him

that firing was to be heard behind a hill in face of the camp. He

mounted a horse and rode up the slope, to find the company firing on a

line of Zulus eight hundred paces away to their front. This line was

about a thousand yards long, and shaped like a horn, tapering towards

the point. It advanced slowly, taking shelter with great skill behind

rocks, and opened a quite ineffective fire on the soldiers. Meanwhile

the two guns were shelling the Zulu centre with great effect, the shells

cutting lanes through their dense ranks, which closed up over the dead

in perfect discipline and silence. The attack was now general, all the

impi taking part in it except a reserve regiment that sat down upon the

ground taking snuff, and never came into action, and the Undi corps,

which moved off to the right with the object of passing round the north

side of the Isandhlwana hill.

On came the Zulus in silence, and ever as they came the two horns crept

further and further ahead of the black breast of their array. Hundreds

of them fell beneath the fire of the breech-loaders, but they did not

pause in their attack. Ammunition began to fail the soldiers, and orders

having reached them--too late--to concentrate on the camp, they retired

slowly to that position. Captain Essex also rode back, and assisted the

quartermaster of the 24th to place boxes of ammunition in a mule cart,

till presently the quartermaster was shot dead at his side. Now the

horns or nippers of the foe were beginning to close on the doomed camp,

and the friendly natives, who knew well what this meant, though as yet

the white men had not understood their danger, began to steal away by

twos and threes, and then, breaking into open rout, they rushed through

the camp, seeking the waggon road to Rorke's Drift.

Then at last the Zulu generals saw that the points of the horns had met

behind the white men, and the moment was ripe. Abandoning its silence

and slow advance, the breast of the impi raised the war-cry and charged,

rolling down upon the red coats like a wave of steel. So swift and

sudden was this last charge, that many of the soldiers had no time to

fix bayonets. For a few moments the scattered companies held the impi

back, and the black stream flowed round them, then it flowed _over_

them, sweeping them along like human wreckage. In a minute the defence

had become an utter rout. Some of the defenders formed themselves into

groups and fought back to back till they fell where they stood, to be

found weeks afterwards mere huddled heaps of bones. Hundreds of others

fled for the waggon road, to find that the Undi regiment, passing round

the Isandhlwana mountain, had occupied it already. Back they rolled from

the hedge of Undi spears to fall upon the spears of the attacking

regiments. One path of retreat alone remained, a dry and precipitous

'donga' or watercourse, and into this plunged a rabble of men, white and

black, mules, horses, guns, and waggons.