Meanwhile the last act of the tragedy was being played on the field of

death. With a humming sound such as might be made by millions of bees,

the Zulu swarms fell upon those of the soldiers who remained alive, and,

after a desperate resistance, stabbed them. Wherever the eye looked, men

were falling and spears flashing in the sunshine, while the ear was

filled with groans of the dying and the savage _S'gee S'gee_ of the Zulu

warriors as they passed their assegais through and through the bodies of

the fallen. Many a deed of valour was done there as white men and black

grappled in the death-struggle, but their bones alone remained to tell

the tale of them. Shortly after the disaster, one of the survivors told

the present writer of a duel which he witnessed between a Zulu and an

officer of the 24th regiment. The officer having emptied his revolver,

set his back against the wheel of a waggon and drew his sword. Then the

Zulu came at him with his shield up, turning and springing from side to

side as he advanced. Presently he lowered the shield, exposing his head,

and the white man falling into the trap aimed a fierce blow at it. As it

fell the shield was raised again, and the sword sank deep into its edge,

remaining fixed in the tough ox-hide. This was what the Zulu desired;

with a twist of his strong arm he wrenched the sword from his opponent's

hand, and in another instant the unfortunate officer was down with an

assegai through his breast.

In a few minutes it was done, all resistance had been overpowered, the

wounded had been murdered--for the Zulu on the war-path has no

mercy--and the dead mutilated and cut open to satisfy the horrible

native superstition. Then those regiments that remained upon the field

began the work of plunder. Most of the bodies they stripped naked,

clothing themselves in the uniforms of the dead soldiers. They stabbed

the poor oxen that remained fastened to the 'trek-tows' of the waggons,

and they drank all the spirits that they could find, some of them, it is

said, perishing through the accidental consumption of the medical

stores. Then, when the sun grew low, they retreated, laden with

plunder, taking with them the most of their dead, of whom there are

believed to have been about fifteen hundred, for the Martinis did their

work well, and our soldiers had not died unavenged.

* * * * *

All this while Lord Chelmsford and the division which he accompanied

were in ignorance of what had happened within a few miles of them,

though rumours had reached them that a Zulu force was threatening the

camp. The first to discover the dreadful truth was Commandant Lonsdale

of the Natal Native Contingent. This officer had been ill, and was

returning to camp alone, a fact that shows how little anything serious

was expected. He reached it about the middle of the afternoon, and there

was nothing to reveal to the casual observer that more than three

thousand human beings had perished there that day. The sun shone, on the

white tents and on the ox waggons, around and about which groups of

red-coated men were walking, sitting, and lying. It did not chance to

occur to him that those who were moving were Zulus wearing the coats of

English soldiers, and those lying down, soldiers whom the Zulus had

killed. As Commandant Lonsdale rode, a gun was fired, and he heard a

bullet whizz past his head. Looking in the direction of the sound, he

saw a native with a smoking rifle in his hand, and concluding that it

was one of the men under his command who had discharged his piece

accidentally, he took no more notice of the matter. Forward he rode,

till he was within ten yards of what had been the headquarter tents,

when suddenly out of one of them there stalked a great Zulu, bearing in

his hand a broad assegai from which blood was dripping. Then his

intelligence awoke, and he understood. The camp was in the possession of

the enemy, and those who lay here and there upon the grass like holiday

makers in a London park on a Sunday in summer, were English soldiers

indeed, not living but dead.

Turning his horse, Commandant Lonsdale fled as swiftly as it could carry

him. More than a hundred rifle-shots were fired after him, but the Zulu

marksmanship was poor, and he escaped untouched. A while afterwards, a

solitary horseman met Lord Chelmsford and his staff returning: he

saluted, and said, '_The camp is in the possession of the enemy, sir!_'

None who heard those words will forget them, and few men can have

experienced a more terrible shock than that which fell upon the English

general in this hour.

[Illustration]

Slowly, and with all military precaution, Lord Chelmsford and his force

moved onward, till at length, when darkness had fallen, they encamped

beneath the fatal hill of Isandhlwana. Here, momentarily expecting to be

attacked, they remained all night amid the wreck, the ruin, and the

dead, but not till the following dawn did they learn the magnitude of

the disaster that had overtaken our arms. Then they saw, and in silence

marched from that fatal field, heading for Rorke's Drift, and leaving

its mutilated dead to the vulture and the jackal.

* * * * *

Now let us follow the fate of the mob of fugitives, who, driven back

from the waggon road by the Undi, plunged desperately into the donga

near it, the sole avenue of retreat which had not been besieged by the

foe, in the hope that they might escape the slaughter by following the

friendly natives who were mixed up with them. How many entered on that

terrible race for life is not known, but it is certain that very few won

through. Indeed, it is said that, with the exception of some natives, no

single man who was not mounted lived to pass the Buffalo River. For five

miles or more they rode and ran over paths that a goat would have found

it difficult to keep his footing on, while by them, and mixed up with

them, went the destroying Zulus. Very soon the guns became fixed among

the boulders, and one by one the artillerymen were assegaied. On went

the survivors, hopeless yet hoping. Now a savage sprang on this man, and

now on that; the assegai flashed up, a cry of agony echoed among the

rocks, and a corpse fell heavily to the red earth. Still, those whom it

pleased Providence to protect struggled forward, clinging to their

horses' manes as they leaped from boulder to boulder, till at length

they came to a cliff, beneath which the Buffalo rolled in flood. Down

this cliff they slid and stumbled, few of them can tell how; then,

driven to it by the pitiless spears, they plunged into the raging river.

Many were drowned in its waters, some were shot in the stream, some were

stabbed upon the banks, yet a few, clinging to the manes and tails of

their horses, gained the opposite shore in safety.

Among these were two men whose memory their country will not willingly

let die, who, indeed (it is the first time in our military history),

have been decreed the Victoria Cross although they were already dead:

Lieutenants Coghill and Melvill of the 24th regiment. One of these,

Lieutenant Coghill, the writer of this sketch had the good fortune to

know well. A kindlier-hearted and merrier young English gentleman never

lived. Melvill and Coghill were swept away upon the tide of flight, down

the dreadful path that led to Fugitives' Drift, but Melvill bore with

him the colours of the 24th regiment that were in his charge as

adjutant, not tied round his waist, as has been reported, but upon the

pole to which they were attached. He arrived in safety at the river,

but, owing to the loss of his horse, was unable to cross it, and took

refuge upon a rock in mid-stream, still holding the colours in his hand.

Coghill, whose knee was disabled by an accident and who had reached the

Natal bank already, saw the terrible position of his friend and brother

officer, and, though spears flashed about him and bullets beat the water

like hail, with a courage that has rarely been equalled, he turned his

horse and swam back to his assistance. The worst was over; safety lay

before him, there behind him in the river was almost certain death; but

this gallant gentleman heeded none of these things, for there also were

the colours of his regiment and his drowning friend. Back he swam to the

rock through the boiling current. Soon his horse was shot dead beneath

him, yet, though none knows how, the two of them came safe to shore. The

colours were lost indeed, for they could no longer carry them and live,

but these never fell into the hands of their savage foes: days

afterwards they were searched for and found in the bed of the river.

Breathless, desperate, lamed, and utterly outworn, the two friends

struggled up the bank and the hill beyond. But Zulus had crossed that

stream as well as the fugitive Englishmen. They staggered forward for a

few hundred yards, then, unable to go further, the friends stood back to

back and the foe closed in upon them. There they stood, and there,

fighting desperately, the heroes died. Peace be with them in that land

to which they have journeyed, and among men, immortal honour to their

names!

They sold their lives dearly, for several Zulus were found lying about

their bodies.

About forty white men lived to cross the river at Fugitives' Drift, and

these, almost the only English survivors of the force at Isandhlwana,

rode on, still followed by Zulus, to the provision depot at Helpmakaar

some fifteen miles away, where they mustered and entrenched themselves

as best they were able, expecting to be attacked at any moment. But no

attack was delivered, the Zulus being busily employed elsewhere.

* * * * *

Some little distance from the banks of the Buffalo, and on the Natal

side near to a mountain called Tyana, stood two buildings erected by the

Rev. Mr. Witt; Rorke's Drift, from which No. 3 column had advanced,

being immediately in front of them. One of these buildings had been

utilised as a storehouse and hospital, and in it were thirty-five sick

men. The other was occupied by a company of the 2nd 24th regiment, under

the command of the late Lieut. Bromhead.[12]

On January 22, the ponts at Rorke's Drift were left in charge of Lieut.

Chard, R.E., with a few men. About a quarter-past three on that day an

officer of Lonsdale's regiment, Lieut. Adendorff, and a carbineer, were

seen galloping wildly towards the ponts. On coming to the bank of the

river, they shouted to Lieut. Chard to take them across, and so soon as

he reached them, they communicated to him the terrifying news that the

general's camp had been captured and destroyed by a Zulu impi. A few

minutes later a message arrived from Lieut. Bromhead, who also had

learned the tidings of disaster, requesting Lieut. Chard to join him at

the commissariat store. Mounting his horse he rode thither, to find

Lieut. Bromhead, assisted by Mr. Dolton, of the commissariat, and the

entire force at his command, amounting to about 130, inclusive of the

sick and the chaplain, Mr. Smith, a Norfolk man, actively engaged in

loopholing and barricading the house and hospital (both of which

buildings were thatched), and in connecting them by means of a

fortification of mealie bags and waggons. Having ridden round the

position, Lieut. Chard returned to the Drift. Sergeant Milne and Mr.

Daniells, who managed the ponts, offered to moor them in the middle of

the stream, and with the assistance of a few men to defend them from

their decks. This gallant suggestion being rejected as impracticable,

Lieut. Chard withdrew to the buildings with the waggon and those under

his command.

They arrived there about 3.30, and shortly afterwards an officer of

Durnford's native horse rode up, accompanied by about 100 mounted men,

and asked for orders. He was requested to send out outposts in the

direction of the enemy, and, having checked their advance as much as

possible, to fall back, when forced so to do, upon the buildings and

assist in their defence. Posts were then assigned to each man in the

little garrison, and, this done, the defensive preparations went on, all

doing their utmost, for they felt that the life of every one of them was

at stake. Three-quarters of an hour went by, and the officer of

Durnford's horse rode up, reporting that the Zulus were advancing in

masses, and that his men were deserting in the direction of Helpmakaar.

At this time some natives of the Natal contingent under the command of

Capt. Stephenson also retired, an example which was followed by that

officer himself.

Lieuts. Chard and Bromhead now saw that their lines of defence were too

large for the number of men left to them, and at once began the erection

of an inner entrenchment formed of biscuit boxes taken from the stores.

When this wall was but two boxes high, suddenly there appeared five or

six hundred Zulus advancing at a run against the southern side of their

position. These were soldiers of the Undi regiment, the same that had

turned the Isandhlwana mountain, cutting off all possibility of retreat

by the waggon road, who, when they knew that the camp was taken, had

advanced to destroy the guard of Rorke's Drift. On they came, to be met

presently by a terrible and concentrated fire from the Martinis. Many

fell, but they did not stay till, when within 50 yards of the wall, the

cross fire from the store took them in flank. Their loss was now so

heavy that, checking their advance, some of them took cover among the

ovens, cookhouse, and outbuildings, whence they in turn opened fire upon

the garrison. Hundreds more rushing round the hospital came at full

speed against the north-west fortification of sacks filled with corn. In

vain did the Martinis pump a hail of lead into them: on they came

straight to the frail defence, striving to take it at the point of the

assegai. But here they were met by British bayonets and a fire so

terrible that even the courage of the Zulus could not prevail against

it, and they fell back, that is, those of them who were left alive.

By this time the main force of the Undi had arrived, two thousand of

them, perhaps, and having lined an overlooking ledge of rocks, took

possession of the garden of the station and the bush surrounding it,

from all of which the fire, though badly directed, was so continuous

that at length the little garrison of white men were forced back into

their inner entrenchment of biscuit boxes. Creeping up under cover of

the bush, the Zulus now delivered assault after assault upon the wall.

Each of these fierce rushes was repelled with the bayonets wielded by

the brave white men on its further side. The assegais clashed against

the rifle barrels, everywhere the musketry rang and rolled, the savage

war-cries and the cheers of the Englishmen rose together through the

din, while British soldier and Zulu warrior thrust and shot and tore at

each other across the narrow wall, that wall which all the Undi could

not climb.

Now it grew dark, for the night was closing in; the spears flashed

dimly, and in place of smoke long tongues of flame shot from the rifle

barrels, illumining the stern faces of those who held them as lightning

does. But soon there was to be light. If any had leisure to observe,

they may have seen flakes of fire flying upwards from the dim bush, and

wondered what they were. They were bunches of burning grass being thrown

on spears to fall in the thatch of the hospital roof. Presently

something could be seen on this roof that shone like a star. It grew

dim, then suddenly began to brighten and to increase till the star-like

spot was a flame, and a hoarse cry passed from man to man of: 'O God!

the hospital is on fire!'

The hospital was on fire, and in it were sick men, some of whom could

not move. It was defended by a garrison, a handful of men, and at one

and the same time these must bear away the sick to the store building,

and hold the burning place against the Zulus, who now were upon them.

They did it, but not all of it, for this was beyond the power of mortal

bravery and devotion. When the thatch blazed above them, room after room

did Privates Williams and Hook, R. and W. Jones, and some few others

hold with the white arm--for their ammunition was spent--against the

assegais of the Zulus, while their disabled comrades were borne away to

the store building beneath the shelter of the connecting wall. One of

them lost his life here, others were grievously wounded, but, dead or

alive, their names should always be remembered among their countrymen,

ay! and always will. Yet they could not save them every one; the fire

scorched overhead and the assegais bit deep in front, and ever, as foes

fell, fresh ones sprang into their places, and so, fighting furiously,

those few gallant men were thrust back, alas! leaving some helpless

comrades to die by fire and the spear.

It would be of little use to follow step by step all the events of that

night. All night long the firing went on, varied from time to time by

desperate assaults. All night long the little band of defenders held

back the foe. All were weary, some of them were dead and more wounded,

but they fought on by the light of the burning hospital, wasting no

single shot. To and fro went the bearded clergyman with prayers and

consolations upon his lips, and a bag of cartridges in his hands, and to

and fro also went Chard and Bromhead, directing all things. By degrees

the Englishmen were driven back, the hospital and its approaches were in

the hands of the foe, and now they must retire to the inner wall of the

cattle kraal. But they collected sacks of mealies and built two

redoubts, which gave them a second line of fire, and let the Zulus do

what they would, storm the place they could not, nor could they serve it

as they had served the hospital and destroy it by fire.

At length the attacks slackened, the firing dwindled and died, and the

dawn broke, that same dawn which showed to General Lord Chelmsford and

those with him all the horror of Isandhlwana's field. Here also at

Rorke's Drift it revealed death and to spare, but for the most part the

corpses were those of the foe, some four hundred of whom lay lost in

their last sleep around the burning hospital, in the bush, and beneath

the walls of corn-sacks; four hundred killed by one hundred and

thirty-nine white men all told, of whom thirty-five were sick when the

defence began. The little band had suffered, indeed, for fifteen of

them were dead, and twelve wounded, some mortally, but seeing what had

been done the loss was small. Had the Zulus once won an entrance over

the last entrenchment of biscuit boxes not a man would have remained

alive. Surely biscuits were never put to a nobler or a stranger use.

The daylight had come and the enemy vanished with the night, retreating

over a hill to the south-west. But, as the defenders of Rorke's Drift

guessed, he had no intention of abandoning his attack. Therefore they

knew that this was no time to be idle. Sallying out of their defences

they collected the arms of the dead Zulus, then returned, and began to

strip the roof of the store of its thatch, which was a constant source

of danger to them, seeing that fire is a deadlier foe even than the

assegai. They were thus engaged when again the Zulus appeared to make an

end of them. Once more the weary soldiers took up their positions, and a

while passed. Now they perceived that the Undi, which had been

advancing, slowly commenced to fall back, a movement that they were at a

loss to understand, till a shout from those who were engaged in

stripping the roof told the glad news that English troops were advancing

to their relief.

These were the remains of No. 3 column, moving down from Isandhlwana.

Little did the general and those with him expect to find a soul living

at Rorke's Drift, for they also had seen the sullen masses of the Undi

retreating from the post, and the columns of smoke rising from the

burning hospital confirmed their worst fears. What then was their joy

when they perceived a Union Jack flying amidst the smoke, and heard the

ring of a British cheer rising from the shattered walls and the defences

of sacks of corn! Forward galloped Col. Russell and his mounted men, and

in five minutes more those who remained of the garrison were safe, and

the defence of Rorke's Drift was a thing of the past; another glorious

page ready to be bound into that great book which is called 'The Deeds

of Englishmen.'

* * * * *

Nearly six months passed before all the dead at Isandhlwana were

reverently buried. Strange were the scenes that those saw whose task it

was to lay them to their rest. Here, hidden by the rank grass, in one

heap behind the officers' tents, lay the bodies of some seventy men, who

had made their last stand at this spot; lower down the hill lay sixty

more. Another band of about the same strength evidently had taken refuge

among the rocks of the mountains, and defended themselves there till

their ammunition was exhausted, and their ring broken by the assegai.

All about the plain lay Englishmen and Zulus, as they had died in the

dread struggle:--here side by side, amidst rusted rifles and bent

assegais, here their bony arms still locked in the last hug of death,

and yonder the Zulu with the white man's bayonet through his skull, the

soldier with the Zulu's assegai in what had been his heart. One man was

found, who, when his cartridges were spent, and his rifle was broken,

had defended himself to the end with a tent-hammer that lay among his

bones, and another was stretched beneath the precipice, from the crest

of which he had been hurled.

[Illustration]

Well, they buried them where they were discovered, and there they sleep

soundly beneath the shadow of Isandhlwana's cliff.

* * * * *

And now a few words more, and this true story will be finished. We

conquered the Zulus at last, at a battle called Ulundi, where they

hurled themselves in vain upon the bullets and bayonets of the British

square. To the end they fought bravely for their king and country, and

though they were savages, and, like all savages, cruel when at war, they

were also gallant enemies, and deserve our respect. The king himself,

Cetywayo, was hunted down, captured, and sent into captivity.

Afterwards, there was what is called a 'popular movement' on his behalf

in England, and he was sent back to Zululand, with permission to rule

half the country. Meanwhile, after the conclusion of the war, our

Government would not take the land, and a settlement was effected, under

which thirteen chiefs were put in authority over the country. As might

have been expected, these chiefs fought with each other, and many men

were killed. When Cetywayo returned the fighting became fiercer than

ever, since those who had tasted power refused to be dispossessed, until

at last he was finally defeated, and, it is believed, poisoned by his

own side, to whom he had ceased to be serviceable. Meanwhile also, the

Dutch Boers, taking advantage of the confusion, occupied a great part of

Zululand, which they still hold. Indeed, they would long ago have taken

it all, had not the English government, seeing the great misery to which

its ever-changing policy had reduced the unhappy Zulus, assumed

authority over the remainder of the country. From that day forward,

there has been no more killing or trouble in British Zululand, which is

ruled by Sir Melmoth Osborn, K.C.M.G., and the Queen has no more

contented subjects than the Zulus, nor any who pay their taxes with

greater regularity!

But the Zulus as a nation are dead, and never again will a great Impi,

such as swept away our troops at Isandhlwana, be seen rushing down to

war. Their story is but one scene in the vast drama which is being

enacted in this generation, and which some of you who read these lines

may live to see, not accomplished, indeed, but in the way of

accomplishment--the drama of the building up of a great Anglo-Saxon

empire in Africa--an empire that within the next few centuries may well

become one of the mightiest in the world. We have made many and many a

mistake, but still that empire grows; in spite of the errors of the Home

Government, the obstinacy of the Boers, the power of native chiefs, and

the hatred of Portuguese, still it grows. Already it is about as big as

Europe, and it is only a baby yet, a baby begotten by the genius and

courage of individual Englishmen.

When the child has become a giant--yes, even in those far-off ages when

it is a very old giant, a king among the nations--we may be sure that,

from generation to generation, men will show their sons the mountain

that was called Isandhlwana, or the place of the Little Hand, and a

certain spot on the banks of the Buffalo River, and tell the tale of how

beneath that hill the wild Zulus of the ancient times overwhelmed the

forces of the early English settlers; of how, for a long night through,

a few men of those forces held two grass-thatched sheds against their

foe's savage might; and of how some miles away two heroes named Melville

and Coghill died together whilst striving to save the colours of their

regiment from the grasp of the victorious 'Children of Heaven.'

* * * * *

Now it may interest you to know that these last words are written with a

pen that was found among the bones of the dead at Isandhlwana.

H. RIDER HAGGARD.

FOOTNOTE:

[12] Col. Bromhead died recently.

_HOW LEIF THE LUCKY FOUND VINELAND THE GOOD_

THIS is the story of the first finding of America by the Icelanders,

nearly five hundred years before Columbus. They landed on the coast, and

stayed for a short time; where they landed is uncertain. Thinking that

it was in New England, the people of Boston have erected a statue of

Leif in their town. The story was not written till long after Leif's

time, and it cannot _all_ be true. Dead men do not return and give

directions about their burial as we read here. We have omitted a silly

tale of a one-footed man. In the middle ages, people believed that

one-footed men lived in Africa; they thought Vineland was near Africa,

so they brought the fable into the Saga.

Hundreds of years before Columbus discovered America, there lived in

Iceland a man named Eric the Red. His father had slain a man in Norway,

and fled with his family to Iceland. Eric, too, was a dangerous man. His

servants did mischief on the farm of a neighbour, who slew them. Then

Eric slew the farmer, and also Holmgang Hrafn, a famous duellist, of

whom the country was well rid. Eric was banished from that place, and,

in his new home, had a new quarrel. He lent some furniture to a man who

refused to restore it. Eric, therefore, carried off his goods, and the

other pursued him. They fought, and Eric killed him. For this he was

made an outlaw, and went sailing to discover new countries. He found

one, where he settled, calling it Greenland, because, he said, people

would come there more readily if it had a good name.

One Thorbiorn, among others, sailed to Greenland, but came in an unlucky

time, for fish were scarce, and some settlers were drowned. At that day,

some of the new comers were Christians, some still worshipped the old

Gods, Thor and Woden, and practised magic. These sent for a prophetess

to tell them what the end of their new colony would be. It is curious to

know what a real witch was like, and how she behaved, so we shall copy

the story from the old Icelandic book.

[Illustration]

'When she came in the evening, with the man who had been sent to meet

her, she was clad in a dark-blue cloak, fastened with a strap, and set

with stones quite down to the hem. She wore glass beads around her neck,

and upon her head a black lambskin hood, lined with white catskin. In

her hands she carried a staff upon which there was a knob, which was

ornamented with brass, and set with stones up about the knob. Circling

her waist she wore a girdle of touchwood, and attached to it a great

skin pouch, in which she kept the charms which she used when she was

practising her sorcery. She wore upon her feet shaggy calfskin shoes,

with long, tough latchets, upon the ends of which there were large brass

buttons. She had catskin gloves upon her hands; the gloves were white

inside and lined with fur. When she entered, all of the folk felt it to

be their duty to offer her becoming greetings. She received the

salutations of each individual according as he pleased her. Yeoman

Thorkel took the sibyl by the hand, and led her to the seat which had

been made ready for her. Thorkel bade her run her eyes over man and

beast and home. She had little to say concerning all these. The tables

were brought forth in the evening, and it remains to be told what manner

of food was prepared for the prophetess. A porridge of goat's beestings

was made for her, and for meat there were dressed the hearts of every

kind of beast which could be obtained there. She had a brass spoon, and

a knife with a handle of walrus tusk, with a double hasp of brass around

the haft, and from this the point was broken. And when the tables were

removed, Yeoman Thorkel approaches the prophetess Thorbiorg, and asks

how she is pleased with the home, and the character of the folk, and how

speedily she would be likely to become aware of that concerning which he

had questioned her, and which the people were anxious to know. She

replied that she could not give an opinion in this matter before the

morrow, after that she had slept there through the night. And on the

morrow, when the day was far spent, such preparations were made as were

necessary to enable her to accomplish her soothsaying. She bade them

bring her those women who knew the incantation which she required to

work her spells, and which she called Warlocks; but such women were not

to be found. Thereupon a search was made throughout the house, to see

whether anyone knew this [incantation]. Then says Gudrid, Thorbiorn's

daughter: "Although I am neither skilled in the black art nor a sibyl,

yet my foster-mother, Halldis, taught me in Iceland that spell-song,

which she called Warlocks." Thorbiorg answered: "Then art thou wise in

season!" Gudrid replies; "This is an incantation and ceremony of such a

kind that I do not mean to lend it any aid, for that I am a Christian

woman." Thorbiorg answers: "It might so be that thou couldst give thy

help to the company here, and still be no worse woman than before;

however, I leave it with Thorkel to provide for my needs." Thorkel now

so urged Gudrid that she said she must needs comply with his wishes. The

women then made a ring round about, while Thorbiorg sat up on the

spell-dais. Gudrid then sang the song, so sweet and well, that no one

remembered ever before to have heard the melody sung with so fair a

voice as this. The sorceress thanked her for the song, and said: "She

has indeed lured many spirits hither, who think it pleasant to hear

this song, those who were wont to forsake us hitherto and refuse to

submit themselves to us. Many things are now revealed to me, which

hitherto have been hidden, both from me and from others. And I am able

to announce that this period of famine will not endure longer, but the

season will mend as spring approaches. The visitation of disease, which

has been so long upon you, will disappear sooner than expected."'

After this, Thorbiorn sailed to the part of Greenland where Eric the Red

lived, and there was received with open arms. Eric had two sons, one

called Thorstein, the other Leif the Lucky, and it was Leif who

afterwards discovered Vineland the Good, that is, the coast of America,

somewhere between Nova Scotia and New England. He found it by accident.

He had been in Norway, at the court of king Olaf, who bade him proclaim

Christianity in Greenland. As he was sailing thither, Leif was driven by

tempests out of his course, and came upon coasts which he had never

heard of, where wild vines grew, and hence he called that shore Vineland

the Good. The vine did not grow, of course, in Iceland. But Leif had

with him a German Tyrker, and one day, when they were on shore, Tyrker

was late in joining the rest. He was very much excited, and spoke in the

German tongue, saying 'I have found something new, vines and grapes.'

Then they filled their boat full of grapes, and sailed away. He also

brought away some men from a wreck, and with these, and the message of

the Gospel, he sailed back to Greenland, to his father, Eric the Red,

and from that day he was named Leif the Lucky. But Eric had no great

mind to become a Christian, he had been born to believe in Thor and his

own sword.

Next year Leif's brother, Thorstein, set out to find Vineland, and Eric,

first burying all his treasures, started with him, but he fell from his

horse, and broke his ribs, and his company came within sight of Ireland,

but Vineland they did not see, so they returned to Ericsfirth in

Greenland, and there passed the winter.

[Illustration]

There was much sickness, and one woman died. After her death she rose,

and they could only lay her by holding an axe before her breast.

Thorstein, Eric's son, died also, but in the night he arose again and

said that Christian burial should be given to men in consecrated ground.

For the manner had been to bury the dead in their farms with a long pole

driven through the earth till it touched the breast of the corpse.

Afterwards the priest came, and poured holy water through the hole, and

not till then, perhaps long after the death, was the funeral service

held. After Thorstein rose and spoke, Christian burial was always used

in Greenland. Next year came Karlsefni from Iceland, with two ships, and

Eric received him kindly, and gave all his crew winter quarters. In

summer nothing would serve Karlsefni but to search again for Vineland

the Good. They took three ships and one hundred and sixty men, and south

they sailed. They passed Flat Stone Land, where there were white foxes,

and Bear Island, where they saw a bear, and Forest Land, and a cape

where they found the keel of a wrecked ship, this they named Keelness.

Then they reached the Wonder Strands, long expanses of sandy shore. Now

Karlsefni had with him two Scotch or Irish savages, the swiftest of all

runners, whom King Olaf had given to Leif the Lucky, and they were

fleeter-footed than deer. They wore only a plaid and kilt all in one

piece, for the rest they were naked. Karlsefni landed them south of

Wonder Strands, and bade them run south and return on the third day to

report about the country. When they returned one carried a bunch of

grapes, the other ears of native wheat (maize?). Then they sailed on,

passed an isle covered with birds' eggs, and a firth, which they called

Streamfirth, from the tide in it.

Beyond Streamfirth they landed and established themselves there.

'There were mountains thereabouts. They occupied themselves exclusively

with the exploration of the country. They remained there during the

winter, and they had taken no thought for this during the summer. The

fishing began to fail, and they began to fall short of food. Then

Thorhall the Huntsman disappeared. They had already prayed to God for

food, but it did not come as promptly as their necessities seemed to

demand. They searched for Thorhall for three half-days, and found him on

a projecting crag. He was lying there, and looking up at the sky, with

mouth and nostrils agape, and mumbling something. They asked him why he

had gone thither; he replied, that this did not concern anyone. They

asked him then to go home with them, and he did so. Soon after this a

whale appeared there, and they captured it, and flensed it, and no one

could tell what manner of whale it was; and when the cooks had prepared

it, they ate of it, and were all made ill by it. Then Thorhall,

approaching them, says: "Did not the Red-beard (that is, Thor) prove

more helpful than your Christ? This is my reward for the verses which I

composed to Thor the Trustworthy; seldom has he failed me." When the

people heard this, they cast the whale down into the sea, and made their

appeals to God. The weather then improved, and they could now row out to

fish, and thenceforward they had no lack of provisions, for they could

hunt game on the land, gather eggs on the island, and catch fish from

the sea.'

Next spring Thorhall the heathen left them, laughing at the wine which

he had been promised, and sailed north. He and his crew were driven to

Ireland, where they were captured and sold as slaves, and that was all

Thorhall got by worshipping the Red Beard. Karlsefni sailed south and

reached a rich country of wild maize, where also was plenty of fish and

of game. Here they first met the natives, who came in a fleet of

skin-canoes. 'They were swarthy men and ill-looking, and the hair of

their heads was ugly. They had great eyes and were broad of cheek.'

The Icelanders held up a white shield in sign of peace, and the natives

withdrew. They may have been Eskimo or Red Indians.

The winter was mild and open, but spring had scarce returned, when the

bay was as full of native canoes 'as if ashes had been sprinkled over

it.' They only came to trade and exchanged furs for red cloth, nor did

they seem to care whether they got a broad piece of cloth or a narrow

one. They also wanted weapons, but these Karlsefni refused to sell. The

market was going on busily when a bull that Karlsefni had brought from

Greenland came out of the wood and began to bellow, whereon the

Skraelings (as they called the natives) ran! Three weeks passed when the

Skraelings returned in very great force, waving their clubs _against_

the course of the sun, whereas in peace they waved them with it.

Karlsefni showed a red shield, the token of war, and fighting began. It

is not easy to make out what happened, for there are two sagas, or

stories of these events, both written down long after they occurred. In

one we read that the Skraelings were good slingers, and also that they

used a machine which reminds one rather of gunpowder than of anything

else. They swung from a pole a great black ball, and it made a fearful

noise when it fell among Karlsefni's men. So frightened were they that

they saw Skraelings where there were none, and they were only rallied by

the courage of a woman named Freydis, who seized a dead man's sword and

faced the Skraelings, beating her bare breast with the flat of the

blade. On this the Skraelings ran to their canoes and paddled away. In

the other account Karlsefni had fortified his house with a palisade,

behind which the women waited. To one of them, Gudrid, the appearance of

a white woman came; her hair was of a light chestnut colour, she was

pale and had very large eyes. 'What is thy name?' she said to Gudrid.

'My name is Gudrid; but what is thine?' 'Gudrid!' says the strange

woman. Then came the sound of a great crash and the woman vanished. A

battle followed in which many Skraelings were slain.

It all reads like a dream. In the end Karlsefni sailed back to

Ericsfirth with a great treasure of furs. A great and prosperous family

in Iceland was descended from him at the time when the stories were

written down. But it is said that Freydis who frightened the Skraelings

committed many murders in Vineland among her own people.

The Icelanders never returned to Vineland the Good, though a bishop

named Eric is said to have started for the country in 1121. Now, in the

story of Cortes, you may read how the Mexicans believed in a God called

Quetzalcoatl, a white man in appearance, who dwelt among them and

departed mysteriously, saying that he would come again, and they at

first took Cortes and his men for the children of Quetzalcoatl. So we

may fancy if we please that Bishop Eric, or one of his descendants,

wandered from Vineland south and west across the continent and arrived

among the Aztecs, and by them was taken for a God.[13]

FOOTNOTE:

[13] The story is taken from the Saga of Eric the Red, and from the

Flatey Book in Mr. Reeves's _Finding of Wineland the Good_ (Clarendon

Press, 1890). The discovery of Vineland was made about the year 1000.

The saga of Eric the Red was written about 1300-1334, but two hundred

years before, about 1134, Ari the learned mentions Vineland as quite

familiar in his _Islandingabok_. There are other traces of Vineland,

earlier than the manuscript of the Saga of Eric the Red. Of course we do

not know when that saga was first written down. The oldest extant

manuscript of it belonged to one Hauk, who died in 1334.

_THE ESCAPES OF CERVANTES_

MOST people know of the terrible war, waged even down to the present

century, between the Christian ships cruising about the Mediterranean

and the dreaded Moors or Corsairs of the Barbary Coast. It was a war

that began in the name of religion, the Crescent against the Cross; but,

as far as we can learn from the records of both sides, there was little

to choose in the way that either party treated the captives. A large

number of these were chained to the oars of the galleys which were the

ships of battle of the middle ages, and sometimes the oars were so long

and heavy that they needed forty men to each. The rowers had food enough

to give them the strength necessary for their work, and that was all,

and the knowledge that they were exerting themselves for the downfall of

their fellow-Christians, often of their fellow-countrymen, must have

made their labour a toil indeed. Often it happened that a man's courage

gave way and he denied his faith and his country, and rose to great

honours in the service of the Sultan, the chief of the little kings who

swarmed on the African coasts. The records of the Corsairs bristle with

examples of these successful renegades, many of them captured as boys,

who were careless under what flag they served, as long as their lives

were lives of adventure.

All the captives were not, however, turned into galley slaves. Some were

taken to the towns and kept in prisons called _bagnios_, waiting till

their friends sent money to redeem them. If this was delayed, they were

set to public works, and treated with great severity, so that their

letters imploring deliverance might become yet more urgent. The others,

known as the king's captives, whose ransom might be promptly expected,

did no work and were kept apart from the rest.

It was on September 26, 1575, that Miguel Cervantes, the future author

of 'Don Quixote,' fell into the hands of a Greek renegade Dali Mami by

name, captain of a galley of twenty-two banks of oars. Cervantes, the

son of a poor but well-descended gentleman of Castile, had served with

great distinction under Don John of Austria at the battle of Lepanto

four years earlier, and was now returning with his brother Rodrigo to

Spain on leave, bearing with him letters from the commander-in-chief,

Don John, the Duke of Sesa, Viceroy of Sicily, and other distinguished

men, testifying to his qualities as a soldier, 'as valiant as he was

unlucky,' and recommending Philip II. to give him the command of a

Spanish company then being formed for Italian service. But all these

honours proved his bane. The Spanish squadron had not sailed many days

from Naples when it encountered a Corsair fleet, and after a sharp fight

Cervantes and his friends were carried captive into Algiers.

Of course the first thing done was to examine each man as to his

position in life, and the amount of ransom he might be expected to

bring, and the letters found upon Miguel Cervantes impressed them with

the notion that he was a person of consequence, and capable of

furnishing a large sum of money. They therefore took every means of

ensuring his safety, loading him with chains, appointing him guards, and

watching him day and night.

'Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage.'

Cervantes never lost heart a moment, but at once began to plan an escape

for himself and his fellow-captives. But the scheme broke down owing to

the treachery of the man in whom he had confided, and the Spaniards,

particularly Cervantes, were made to suffer a stricter confinement than

before. The following year the old Cervantes sent over what money he had

been able to raise on his own property and his daughters' marriage

portions for the ransom of his sons, by the hands of the Redemptorist

Fathers, an Order which had been founded for the sole purpose of

carrying on this charitable work. But when the sum was offered to Dali

Mami he declared it wholly insufficient for purchasing the freedom of

such a captive, though it was considered adequate as the ransom of the

younger brother Rodrigo. Accordingly, in August 1577, Rodrigo Cervantes

set sail for Spain, bearing secret orders from his brother Miguel to fit

out an armed frigate, and to send it by way of Valencia and Majorca to

rescue himself and his friends.

But even before the departure of Rodrigo, Cervantes had been laying

other plans. He had, somehow or other, managed to make acquaintance

with the Navarrese gardener of a Greek renegade named Azan, who had a

garden stretching down to the sea-shore, about three miles east of

Algiers, where Cervantes was then imprisoned. This gardener had

contrived to use a cave in Azan's garden as a hiding place for some

escaped Christians, and as far back as February 1577 about fifteen had

taken refuge there, under the direction of Cervantes. How they remained

for so many months undiscovered, and how they were all fed, no one can

tell; but this part of the duty had been undertaken by a captive

renegade called El Dorador, or the Gilder, to whom their secret had been

confided.

Meanwhile, Rodrigo had proved faithful to his trust. He had equipped a

frigate for sea, under the command of a tried soldier, Viana by name,

who was familiar with the Barbary coast. It set sail at the end of

September, and by the 28th had sighted Algiers. From motives of prudence

the boat kept to sea till nightfall, when it silently approached the

shore. The captives hailed it with joy, and were in the act of

embarking, when a fishing craft full of Moors passed by, and the rescue

vessel was forced to put to sea. Meanwhile, Cervantes and the fugitives

in the cave had to return disheartened into hiding, and await another

opportunity.

But once lost, the opportunity was gone for ever. Before any fresh

scheme could be concerted, El Dorador had betrayed the hiding place of

the Christians and their plan of escape to the cruel Dey or King Azan,

who saw in the information a means to satisfy his greed. According to

the law of the country, he was enabled to claim the escaped slaves as

his own property (except Cervantes, for whom he paid 500 crowns), and

with a company of armed men presented himself before the cave.

In this dreadful strait Cervantes' courage never faltered. He told the

trembling captives not to fear, as he would take upon himself the entire

responsibility of the plan. Then, addressing Azan's force, he proclaimed

himself the sole contriver of the scheme, and professed his willingness

to bear the punishment. The Turks were struck dumb at valour such as

this, in the presence of the most dreadful torments, and contented

themselves with ordering the captives into close confinement at the

bagnio, hanging the gardener, and bringing Cervantes bound to receive

his sentence from the Dey Azan himself.

The threats of impalement, torture, mutilation of every kind, which

Cervantes well knew to be no mere threats, had no effect upon his

faithful soul. He stuck to the story he had told, and the Dey, 'wearied

by so much constancy,' as the Spanish historian says, ended by loading

him with chains, and throwing him again into prison.

For some time he remained here, strictly and closely guarded, but his

mind always active as to plans of escape. At last, however, he managed

to enter into relations with Don Martin de Cordoba, General of Oran, by

means of a Moor, who undertook to convey letters asking for help for the

Spanish prisoners. But his ill fortune had not yet deserted him. The

messenger fell into the hands of other Moors, who handed him over to

Azan, and the wretched man was at once put to a cruel death by the Dey's

orders. Curiously enough, the sentence of 2,000 lashes passed upon

Cervantes was never carried into effect.

Disappointments and dangers only made Cervantes more determined to free

himself or die in the attempt; but nearly two years dragged by before he

saw another hope rise before him, though he did everything he could in

the interval to soothe the wretched lot of his fellow-captives. This

time his object was to induce two Valencia merchants of Algiers to buy

an armed frigate, destined to carry Cervantes and a large number of

Christians back to Spain, but at the last minute they were again

betrayed, this time by a countryman, and again Cervantes took the blame

on his own shoulders, and confessed nothing to the Dey.

Now it seemed indeed as if his last moment had come. His hands were tied

behind him, and a cord was put round his neck; but Cervantes never

swerved from the tale he had resolved to tell, and at the close of the

interview found himself within the walls of a Moorish prison, where he

lay for five months loaded with fetters and chains, and treated with

every kind of severity, though never with actual cruelty.

All this time his mind was busy with a fresh scheme, nothing short of a

concerted insurrection of all the captives in Algiers, numbering about

25,000, who were to overpower the city, and to plant the Spanish flag on

its towers. His measures seem to have been taken with sufficient

prudence and foresight to give them a fair chance of success, bold as

the idea was, but treachery as usual caused the downfall of everything.

Why, under such repeated provocation, the cruel Azan Aga did not put him

to a frightful death it is hard to understand, but in his 'Captive's

Story,' Cervantes himself bears testimony to the comparative moderation

of the Dey's behaviour towards him. 'Though suffering,' he says,

'often, if not indeed always, from hunger and thirst, the worst of all

our miseries was the sight and sound of the tortures daily inflicted by

our master on our fellow-Christians. Every day he hanged one, impaled

another, cut off the ears of a third; and all this for so little reason,

or even for none at all, that the very Turks knew he did it for the mere

pleasure of doing it; and because to him cruelty was the natural

employment of mankind. Only one man did he use well, and that was a

Spanish soldier, named Saavedra, and though this Saavedra had struck

blows for liberty which will be remembered by Moors for many years to

come, yet Azan never either gave him stripes himself, nor ordered his

servants to do so, neither did he ever throw him an evil word; while we

trembled lest for the smallest of his offences the tyrant would have him

impaled, and more than once he himself expected it.' This

straightforward account of matters inside the bagnio is the more

valuable and interesting if we recollect that Cervantes'

great-grandmother was a Saavedra, and that the soldier alluded to in the

text was really himself. It is impossible to explain satisfactorily the

sheathing of the tiger's claws on his account alone; did Cervantes

exercise unconsciously a mesmeric influence over Azan? Did Azan ascribe

his captive's defiance of death and worse than death to his bearing a

charmed life? Or did he hold him to be a man of such consequence in his

own country, that it was well to keep him in as good condition as Azan's

greed would permit? We shall never know; only there remains Cervantes'

emphatic declaration that during the five long years of his captivity no

man's hand was ever lifted against him.

Meanwhile, having no more money wherewith to ransom his son, Rodrigo de

Cervantes made a declaration of his poverty before a court of law, and

set forth Miguel's services and claims. In March 1578, the old man's

prayer was enforced by the appearance of four witnesses who had known

him both in the Levant and in Algiers and could testify to the truth of

his father's statement, and a certificate of such facts as were within

his knowledge being willingly offered by the Duke of Sesa, the King,

Philip II., consented to furnish the necessary ransom.

But the ill-fortune which had attended Cervantes in these past years

seemed to stick to him now. Just when the negotiations were drawing to a

conclusion, his father suddenly died, and it appeared as if the

expedition of the Redemptorist Fathers would sail without him. However,

his mother was happily a woman of energy, and after managing somehow to

raise three hundred ducats on her own possessions, appealed to the King

for help. This he appears to have granted her at once, and he gave her

an order for 2,000 ducats on some Valencia merchandise; but with their

usual bad luck they only ultimately succeeded in obtaining about sixty,

which with her own three hundred were placed in the hands of the

Redemptorist Fathers.

It was time: the fact that the term of Azan's government of Algiers had

drawn to an end rendered him more than ever greedy for money, and he

demanded for Cervantes double the price that he himself had paid, and

threatened, if this was not forthcoming, to carry his captive on board

his own vessel, which was bound for Constantinople. Indeed, this threat

was actually put into effect, and Cervantes, bound and loaded with

chains, was placed in a ship of the little squadron that was destined

for Turkish waters. The good father felt that once in Constantinople,

Cervantes would probably remain a prisoner to the end of his life, and

made unheard of efforts to accomplish his release, borrowing the money

that was still lacking from some Algerian merchants, and even using the

ransoms that had been entrusted to him for other captives. Then at last

Cervantes was set free, and after five years was able to go where he

would and return to his native country.

His work however was not yet done. He somehow discovered that a Spaniard

named Blanco de Paz, who had once before betrayed him, was determined,

through jealousy, to have him arrested the moment he set foot in Spain,

and to this end had procured a mass of false evidence respecting his

conduct in Algiers. It is not easy to see what Cervantes could have done

to incur the hatred of this man, but about this he did not trouble

himself to inquire, and set instantly to consider the best way of

bringing his schemes to naught. He entreated his friend, Father Gil, to

be present at an interview held before the notary Pedro de Ribera, at

which a number of respectable Christians appeared to answer a paper of

twenty-five questions, propounded by Cervantes himself, as to the

principal events of his five years of imprisonment, and his treatment of

his fellow-captives. Armed with this evidence, he was able to defy the

traitor, and to return in honour to his native land.

With the rest of his life we have nothing to do. It was not, we may be

sure, lacking in adventure, for he was the kind of man to whom

adventures come, and as his inheritance was all gone, he went back to

his old trade, and joined the army which Philip was assembling to

enforce his claim to the crown of Portugal. In this country as in all

others to which his wandering life had led him, he made many friends and

took notice of what went on around him. He was in all respects a man

practical and vigorous, in many ways the exact opposite of his own Don

Quixote, who saw everything enlarged and glorified and nothing as it

really was, but in other ways the true counterpart of his hero in his

desire to give help and comfort wherever it was needed, and to leave the

world better than he found it.

_THE WORTHY ENTERPRISE OF JOHN FOXE, AN ENGLISHMAN, IN DELIVERING TWO

HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX CHRISTIANS OUT OF THE CAPTIVITY OF THE TURKS AT

ALEXANDRIA, JANUARY 3, 1577_

AMONG our English merchants it is a common thing to traffic with Spain,

for which purpose, in 1563, there set out from Portsmouth a ship called

the 'Three Half Moons,' with thirty-eight men on board, and well armed,

the better to encounter any foes they might meet. Now, drawing near the

Straits, they found themselves beset by eight Turkish galleys, so that

it was impossible for them to fly, but they must either yield or be

sunk. This the owner perceiving, manfully encouraged his company,

telling them not to faint in seeing such a heap of their foes ready to

devour them; putting them in mind also that if it were God's pleasure to

give them into their enemies' hands, there ought not to be one

unpleasant look among them, but they must take it patiently; putting

them in mind also of the ancient worthiness of their countrymen, who in

the hardest extremities have always most prevailed. With other such

encouragement they all fell on their knees, making their prayers briefly

to God.

Then stood up Grove, the master, being a comely man, with his sword and

target, holding them up in defiance against his enemies. Likewise stood

up the owner, boatswain, purser, and every man well armed. Now also

sounded up the trumpets, drums, and flutes, which would have encouraged

any man, however little heart he had in him.

Then John Foxe, the gunner, took him to his charge, sending his bullets

among the Turks, who likewise fired among the Christians, and thrice as

fast. But shortly they drew near, so that the English bowmen fell to

shooting so terribly among their galleys that there were twice as many

of the Turks slain as the whole number of the Christians. But the Turks

discharged twice as fast against the Christians, and so long that the

ship was very sorely battered and bruised, which the foe perceiving,

made the more haste to come aboard. For this coming aboard many a Turk

paid dearly with his life, but it was all in vain, and board they did,

where they found a hot skirmish. For the Englishmen showed themselves

men indeed, and the boatswain was valiant above the rest, for he fought

among the Turks like a mad lion, and there was none of them that could

stand in his face; till at last there came a shot that struck him in the

breast, so that he fell down, bidding them farewell, and to be of good

comfort, and exhorting them rather to win praise by death than to live

in captivity and shame. This, they hearing, indeed intended to have

done, but the number and press of the Turks was so great that they could

not wield their weapons, and so were taken, when they intended rather to

have died, except only the master's mate, who shrank from the fight like

a notable coward.

[Illustration]

But so it was, and the Turks were victors, though they had little cause

of triumph. Then it would have grieved any hard heart to see these

infidels wantonly ill-treating the Christians, who were no sooner in

the galleys than their garments were torn from their backs, and they set

to the oars.

I will make no mention of their miseries, being now under their enemies'

raging stripes, their bodies distressed with too much heat, and also

with too much cold; but I will rather show the deliverance of those who,

being in great misery, continually trust in God, with a steadfast hope

that He will deliver them.

Near the city of Alexandria, being a harbour, there is a ship-road, very

well defended by strong walls, into which the Turks are accustomed to

bring their galleys every winter, and there repair them and lay them up

against the spring. In this road there is a prison, in which the

captives and all those prisoners who serve in the galleys are confined

till the sea be calm again for voyaging, every prisoner being most

grievously laden with irons on his legs, giving him great pain. Into

this prison all these Christians were put, and fast guarded all the

winter, and every winter. As time passed the master and the owner were

redeemed by friends; but the rest were left in misery, and

half-starved--except John Foxe, who being a somewhat skilful barber,

made shift now and then, by means of his craft, to help out his fare

with a good meal. Till at last God sent him favour in the sight of the

keeper of the prison, so that he had leave to go in and out to the road,

paying a stipend to the keeper, and wearing a lock about his leg. This

liberty six more had, on the same conditions; for after their long

imprisonment, it was not feared that they would work any mischief

against the Turks.

In the winter of the year 1577, all the galleys having reached port, and

their masters and mariners being at their own homes, the ships

themselves being stripped of their masts and sails, there were in the

prison two hundred and sixty-eight Christian captives, belonging to

sixteen different nations. Among these were three Englishmen, one of

them John Foxe, the others William Wickney and Robert Moore. And John

Foxe, now having been thirteen or fourteen years under the bondage of

the Turks, and being weary thereof, pondered continually, day and night,

how he might escape, never ceasing to pray God to further his

enterprise, if it should be to His glory.

Not far from the road, at one side of the city, there was a certain

victualling-house, which one Peter Unticare had hired, paying a fee to

the keeper of the prison. This Peter Unticare was a Spaniard, and also a

Christian, and had been a prisoner about thirty years, never contriving

any means to escape, but keeping himself quiet without being suspected

of conspiracy. But on the coming of John Foxe they disclosed their minds

to each other about their loss of liberty; and to this Unticare John

Foxe confided a plan for regaining their freedom, which plan the three

Englishmen continually brooded over, till they resolved to acquaint five

more prisoners with their secret. This being done, they arranged in

three more days to make their attempt at escape. Whereupon John Foxe,

and Peter Unticare, and the other six arranged to meet in the prison on

the last day of December, and there they told the rest of the prisoners

what their intention was, and how they hoped to bring it to pass. And

having, without much ado, persuaded all to agree, John Foxe gave them a

kind of files, which he had hoarded together by means of Peter Unticare,

charging them every man to be free of his fetters by eight o'clock on

the following night.

The next night John Foxe and his six companions, all having met at the

house of Peter Unticare, spent the evening mirthfully for fear of

rousing suspicion, till it was time for them to put their scheme into

execution. Then they sent Peter Unticare to the master of the road, in

the name of one of the masters of the city, with whom he was well

acquainted, and at the mention of whose name he was likely to come at

once, desiring him to meet him there, and promising to bring him back

again.

The keeper agreed to go with Unticare, telling the warders not to bar

the gate, for he would come again with all speed. In the meantime the

other seven had provided themselves with all the weapons they could find

in the house, and John Foxe took a rusty old sword without a hilt, which

he managed to make serve by bending the hand end of the sword instead of

a hilt.

Now the keeper being come to the house, and seeing no light nor hearing

any noise, straightway suspected the plot, and was turning back. But

John Foxe, standing behind the corner of the house, stepped forth to

him. He perceiving it to be John Foxe, said: 'O Foxe! what have I

deserved of thee that thou shouldest seek my death?'

'Thou, villain,' quoth Foxe, 'hast been a blood-sucker of many a

Christian's blood, and now thou shalt know what thou hast deserved at my

hands!'

Therewith he lifted up his bright shining sword, cleared of its ten

years' rust, and struck him so strong a blow that his head was cleft

asunder, and he fell stark dead to the ground. Thereupon Peter Unticare

went in and told the rest how it was with the keeper, and at once they

came forth, and with their weapons ran him through and cut off his head,

so that no man should know who he was.

Then they marched towards the road, and entered it softly. There were

six warders guarding it, and one of them asked who was there. Then quoth

Foxe and his company, 'All friends!'

But when they were within it proved contrary, for, quoth Foxe to his

companions:

'My masters, here there is not a man to a man, so look you play your

parts!' They so behaved themselves indeed that they had despatched those

six quickly. Then John Foxe, intending not to be thwarted in his

enterprise, barred the gate surely, and planted a cannon against it.

They entered the gaoler's lodge, where they found the keys of the

fortress and prison by his bedside, and then they all got better

weapons. In this chamber was a chest holding a great treasure, all in

ducats, which Peter Unticare and two more stuffed into their garments,

as many as they could carry. But Foxe would not touch them, saying that

it was his liberty and theirs he sought, and not to make a spoil of the

wicked treasure of the infidels. Yet these words did not sink into their

hearts, though they had no good of their gain.

Now, having provided themselves with the weapons they needed, they came

to the prison, and unlocked its gates and doors, and called forth all

the prisoners, whom they employed, some in ramming up the gate, some in

fitting up a galley which was the best in the road.

In the prison were several warders, whom John Foxe and his company slew;

but this was perceived by eight more Turks, who fled to the top of the

prison, where Foxe and his company had to reach them by ladders. Then

followed a hot skirmish, and John Foxe was shot thrice through his

apparel, without being hurt; but Peter Unticare and the other two, who

had weighed themselves down with the ducats so that they could not

manage their weapons, were slain.

Among the Turks there was one thrust through who fell from the top of

the prison wall, and made such a crying out that the inhabitants of a

house or two that stood near came and questioned him, and soon

understood the case--how the prisoners were attempting to escape. Then

they raised both Alexandria on the west side of the road, and a castle

at the end of the city next to the road, and also another fortress on

the north side of the road. And now the prisoners had no way to escape

but one that might seem impossible for them.

[Illustration]

Then every man set to work, some to their tackling, some carrying arms

and provisions into the galley, some keeping the enemy from the wall of

the road. To be short, there was no man idle, nor any labour spent in

vain; so that presently the galley was ready, and into it they all

leaped hastily, and hoisted sail.

But when the galley had set sail, and was past the shelter of the road,

the two castles had full power over it, and what could save it from

sinking? The cannon let fly from both sides, and it was between them

both.

Yet there was not one on board that feared the shot that came thundering

about their ears, nor yet was any man scarred or touched. For now God

held forth His buckler and shielded this galley, having tried their

faith to the uttermost. And they sailed away, being not once touched

with the glance of a shot, and were presently out of the reach of the

Turkish cannon. Then might you see the Turks coming down to the

waterside, in companies like swarms of bees, trying to make ready their

galleys--which would have been a quick piece of work, seeing that they

had in them neither oars, nor sails, nor anything else. Yet they carried

them in, but some into one galley, some into another, for there was much

confusion among them; and the sea being rough, and they having no

certain guide, it was a thing impossible that they should overtake the

prisoners. For they had neither pilot, mariners, nor any skilful master

that was ready at this pinch.

When the Christians were safe out of the enemy's coast, John Foxe called

to them all, telling them to fall down upon their knees, thanking God

for their delivery, and beseeching Him to aid them to the land of their

friends. Then they fell straightway to labouring at the oars, striving

to come to some Christian country, as near as they could guess by the

stars. But the winds were so contrary, now driving them this way, now

that, that they were bewildered, thinking that God had forsaken them and

left them to yet greater danger. And soon there were no victuals left in

the galley; and the famine grew to be so great that in twenty-eight days

there had died eight persons.

But it fell out that upon the twenty-ninth day, they reached the Isle of

Candy, and landed at Gallipoli, where they were made much of by the

Abbot and monks, and cared for and refreshed. They kept there the sword

with which John Foxe had killed the keeper, esteeming it a most precious

jewel.

Then they sailed along the cost to Tarento, where they sold the galley,

and went on foot to Naples, having divided the price. But at Naples they

parted asunder, going every man his own way, and John Foxe journeyed to

Rome, where he was well entertained by an Englishman and presented to

the Pope, who rewarded him liberally and gave him letters to the King of

Spain. And by the King of Spain also he was well entertained, and

granted twenty pence a day. Thence, desiring to return into his own

country, he departed in 1579, and being come into England, he went into

the Court, and told all his travel to the Council, who, considering that

he had spent a great part of his youth in thraldom, extended to him

their liberality, to help to maintain him in age--to their own honour

and the encouragement of all true-hearted Christians.

[Illustration]

_BARON TRENCK_

MOST men who have escaped from prison owe their fame, not to their

flight, but to the deeds which caused their imprisonment. It may,

however, safely be asserted that few people out of his own country would

have heard of Baron Trenck had it not been for the wonderful skill and

cunning with which he managed to cut through the 'stone walls' and 'iron

bars' of all his many 'cages.' He was born at Koenigsberg in Prussia in

1726, and entered the body-guard of Frederic II. in 1742, when he was

about sixteen. Trenck was a young man of good family, rich,

well-educated, and, according to his own account, fond of amusement. He

confesses to having shirked his duties more than once for the sake of

some pleasure, even after the War of the Austrian Succession had broken

out (September 1744), and Frederic, strict though he was, had forgiven

him. It is plain from this, that the King must have considered that

Trenck had been guilty of some deadly treachery towards him, when in

after years he declined to pardon him for crimes which after all the

young man had never committed.

Trenck's first confinement was in 1746, when he was thrown into the

Castle of Glatz, on a charge of corresponding with his cousin and

namesake, who was in the service of the Empress Maria Theresa, and of

being an Austrian spy. At first he was kindly treated and allowed to

walk freely about the fortifications, and he took advantage of the

liberty given him to arrange a plan of escape with one of his

fellow-prisoners. The plot was, however, betrayed by the other man, and

a heavy punishment fell on Trenck. By the King's orders, he was promptly

deprived of all his privileges, and placed in a cell in one of the

towers, which overlooked the ramparts lying ninety feet below, on the

side nearest the town. This added a fresh difficulty to his chances of

escape, as, in passing from the castle to the town, he was certain to be

seen by many people. But no obstacles mattered to Trenck. He had money,

and then, as now, money could do a great deal. So he began by bribing

one of the officials about the prison, and the official in his turn

bribed a soap-boiler, who lived not far from the castle gates, and

promised to conceal Trenck somewhere in his house. Still, liberty must

have seemed a long way off, for Trenck had only one little knife

(_canif_) with which to cut through everything. By dint of incessant and

hard work, he managed to saw through three thick steel bars, but even

so, there were eight others left to do. His friend the official then

procured him a file, but he was obliged to use it with great care, lest

the scraping sound should be heard by his guards. Perhaps they wilfully

closed their ears, for many of them were sorry for Trenck; but, at all

events, the eleven bars were at last sawn through, and all that remained

was to make a rope ladder. This he did by tearing his leather

portmanteau into strips, and plaiting them into a rope, and as this was

not long enough, he added his sheets. The night was dark and rainy,

which favoured him, and he reached the bottom of the rampart in safety.

Unluckily, he met here with an obstacle on which he had never counted.

There was a large drain, opening into one of the trenches, which Trenck

had neither seen nor heard of, and into this he fell. In spite of his

struggles, he was held fast, and his strength being at last exhausted,

he was forced to call the sentinel, and at midday, having been left in

the drain for hours to make sport for the town, he was carried back to

his cell.

Henceforth he was still more strictly watched than before, though,

curiously enough, his money never seems to have been taken from him, and

at this time he had about eighty louis left, which he always kept hidden

about him. Eight days after his last attempt, Fouquet, the commandant of

Glatz, who hated Trenck and all his family, sent a deputation consisting

of the adjutant, an officer, and a certain Major Doo, to speak to the

unfortunate man, and exhort him to patience and submission. Trenck

entered into conversation with them for the purpose of throwing them off

their guard, when suddenly he snatched away Doo's sword, rushed from his

cell, knocked down the sentinel and lieutenant who were standing

outside, and striking right and left at the soldiers who came flying to

bar his progress, he dashed down the stairs and leapt from the ramparts.

Though the height was great, he fell into the fosse without injury, and

still grasping his sword. He scrambled quickly to his feet and jumped

easily over the second rampart, which was much lower than the first, and

then began to breathe freely, as he thought he was safe from being

overtaken by the soldiers, who would have to come a long way round. At

this moment, however, he saw a sentinel making for him a short distance

off, and he rushed for the palisades which divided the fortifications

from the open country, from which the mountains and Bohemia were easily

reached. In the act of scaling them, his foot was caught tight between

the bars, and he was trapped till the sentinel came up, and after a

sharp fight got him back to prison.

For some time poor Trenck was in a sad condition. In his struggle with

the sentinel he had been wounded, while his right foot had got crushed

in the palisades. Beside this, he was watched far more strictly than

before, for an officer and two men remained always in his cell, and two

sentinels were stationed outside. The reason of these precautions of

course was to prevent his gaining over his guards singly, either by pity

or bribery. His courage sank to its lowest ebb, as he was told on all

sides that his imprisonment was for life, whereas long after he

discovered the real truth, that the King's intention had been to keep

him under arrest for a year only, and if he had had a little more

patience, three weeks would have found him free. His repeated attempts

to escape naturally angered Frederic, while on the other hand the King

knew nothing of the fact which excused Trenck's impatience--namely, the

belief carefully instilled in him by all around him that he was doomed

to perpetual confinement.

It is impossible to describe in detail all the plans made by Trenck to

regain his freedom, first because they were endless, and secondly

because several were nipped in the bud. Still the unfortunate man felt

that as long as his money was not taken from him his case was not

hopeless, for the officers in command were generally poor and in debt,

and were always sent to garrison work as a punishment. After one wild

effort to liberate _all_ the prisoners in the fortress, which was

naturally discovered and frustrated, Trenck made friends with an officer

named Schell, lately arrived at Glatz, who promised not only his aid but

his company in the new enterprise. As more money would be needed than

Trenck had in his possession, he contrived to apply to his rich

relations outside the prison, and by some means--what we are not

told--they managed to convey a large sum to him. Suspicion, however, got

about that Trenck was on too familiar a footing with the officers, and

orders were given that his door should always be kept locked. This

occasioned further delay, as false keys had secretly to be made, before

anything else could be done.

Their flight was unexpectedly hastened by Schell accidentally learning

that he was in danger of arrest. One night they crept unobserved through

the arsenal and over the inner palisade, but on reaching the rampart

they came face to face with two of the officers, and again a leap into

the fosse was the only way of escape. Luckily the wall at this point was

not high, and Trenck arrived at the bottom without injury; but Schell

was not so happy, and hurt his foot so badly that he called on his

friend to kill him, and to make the best of his way alone. Trenck,

however, declined to abandon him, and having dragged him over the outer

palisade, took him on his back, and made for the frontier. Before they

had gone five hundred yards they heard the boom of the alarm guns from

the fortress, while clearer still were the sounds of pursuit. As they

knew that they would naturally be sought on the side towards Bohemia,

they changed their course and pushed on to the river Neiss, at this

season partly covered with ice. Trenck swam over slowly with this friend

on his back, and found a boat on the other side. By means of this boat

they evaded their enemies, and reached the mountains after some hours,

very hungry, and almost frozen to death.

Here a new terror awaited them. Some peasants with whom they took refuge

recognised Schell, and for a moment the fugitives gave themselves up for

lost. But the peasants took pity on the two wretched objects, fed them

and gave them shelter, till they could make up their minds what was best

to be done. To their unspeakable dismay, they found that they were,

after all, only seven miles from Glatz, and that in the neighbouring

town of Wunschelburg a hundred soldiers were quartered, with orders to

capture all deserters from the fortress. This time, however, fortune

favoured the luckless Trenck, and though he and Schell were both in

uniform, they rode unobserved through the village while the rest of the

people were at church, and, skirting Wunschelburg, crossed the Bohemian

frontier in the course of the day.

Then follows a period of comparative calm in Trenck's history. He

travelled freely about Poland, Austria, Russia, Sweden, Denmark and

Holland, and even ventured occasionally across the border into Prussia.

Twelve years seem to have passed by in this manner, till in 1758 his

mother died, and Trenck asked leave of the council of war to go up to

Dantzic to see his family and to arrange his affairs. Curiously enough,

it appears never to have occurred to him that he was a deserter, and as

such liable to be arrested at any moment. And this was what actually

happened. By order of the King, Trenck was taken first to Berlin, where

he was deprived of his money and some valuable rings, and then removed

to Magdeburg, of which place Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick was the

governor.

Here his quarters were worse than he had ever known them. His cell was

only six feet by ten, and the window was high, with bars without as well

as within. The wall was seven feet thick, and beyond it was a palisade,

which rendered it impossible for the sentinels to approach the window.

On the other side the prisoner was shut in by three doors, and his food

(which was not only bad, but very scanty) was passed to him through an

opening.

One thing only was in his favour. His cell was only entered once a week,

so he could pursue any work to further his escape without much danger of

being discovered. Notwithstanding the high window, the thick wall, and

the palisade, notwithstanding too his want of money, he soon managed to

open negotiations with the sentinels, and found, to his great joy, that

the next cell was empty. If he could only contrive to burrow his way

into that, he would be able to watch his opportunity to steal through

the open door; once free he could either swim the Elbe and cross into

Saxony, which lay about six miles distant, or else float down the river

in a boat till he was out of danger.

Small as the cell was, it contained a sort of cupboard fixed into the

floor by irons, and on these Trenck began to work. After frightful

labour he at last extracted the heavy nails which fastened the staples

to the floor, and breaking off the heads (which he put back to avoid

detection), he kept the rest to fashion for his own purposes. By this

means he made instruments to raise the bricks.

On this side also the wall was seven feet thick, and formed of bricks

and stones. Trenck numbered them as he went on with the greatest care,

so that the cell might present its usual appearance before the Wednesday

visit of his guards. To hide the joins, he scraped off some of the

mortar, which he smeared over the place.

As may be supposed, all this took a very long time. He had nothing to

work with but the tools he himself had made, which of course were very

rough. But one day a friendly sentinel gave him a little iron rod, and a

small knife with a wooden handle. These were treasures, indeed! And with

their help he worked away for six months at his hole, as in some places

the mortar had become so hard that it had to be pounded like a stone.

During this time he enlisted the compassion of some of the other

sentinels, who not only described to him the lie of the country which he

would have to traverse if he ever succeeded in getting out of prison,

but interested in his behalf a Jewess named Esther Heymann, whose own

father had been for two years a prisoner in Magdeburg. In this manner

Trenck became the possessor of a file, a knife, and some writing paper,

as the friendly Jewess had agreed to convey letters to some influential

people both at Vienna and Berlin, and also to his sister. But this step

led to the ruin, not only of Trenck, but of several persons concerned,

for they were betrayed by an Imperial Secretary of Embassy called

Weingarten, who was tempted by a bill for 20,000 florins. Many of those

guilty of abetting Trenck in this fresh effort to escape were put to

death, while his sister was ordered to build a new prison for him in the

Fort de l'Etoile, and he himself was destined to pass nine more years in

chains.

In spite of his fetters, Trenck was able in some miraculous way to get

on with his hole, but his long labour was rendered useless by the

circumstance that his new prison was finished sooner than he expected,

and he was removed into it hastily, being only able to conceal his

knife. He was now chained even more heavily than before, his two feet

being attached to a heavy ring fixed in the wall, another ring being

fastened round his body. From this ring was suspended a chain with a

thick iron bar, two feet long at the bottom, and to this his hands were

fastened. An iron collar was afterwards added to his instruments of

torture.

Besides torments of body, nothing was wanting which could work on his

mind. His prison was built between the trenches of the principal

rampart, and was of course very dark. It was likewise very damp, and, to

crown all, the name of 'Trenck' had been printed in red bricks on the

wall, above a tomb whose place was indicated by a death's head.

[Illustration]

Here again, he tells us, he excited the pity of his guards, who gave him

a bed and coverlet, and as much bread as he chose to eat; and, wonderful

as it may seem, his health did not suffer from all these horrors. As

soon as he got a little accustomed to his cramped position, he began to

use the knife he had left, and to cut through his chains. He next burst

the iron band, and after a long time severed his leg fetters, but in

such a way that he could put them on again, and no one be any the wiser.

Nothing is more common in the history of prisoners than this exploit,

and nothing is more astonishing, yet we meet with the fact again and

again in their memoirs and biographies. Trenck at any rate appears to

have accomplished the feat without much difficulty, though he found it

very hard to get his hand back into his handcuffs. After he had disposed

of his bonds, he began to saw at the doors leading to the gallery. These

were four in number, and all of wood, but when he arrived at the fourth,

his knife broke in two, and the courage that had upheld him for so many

years gave way. He opened his veins and lay down to die, when in his

despair he heard the voice of Gefhardt, the friendly sentinel from the

other prison. Hearing of Trenck's sad plight, he scaled the palisade,

and, we are told expressly, bound up his wounds, though we are _not_

told how he managed to enter the cell. Be that as it may, the next day,

when the guards came to open the door, they found Trenck ready to meet

them, armed with a brick in one hand, and a knife, doubtless obtained

from Gefhardt, in the other. The first man that approached him, he

stretched wounded at his feet, and thinking it dangerous to irritate

further a desperate man, they made a compromise with him. The governor

took off his chains for a time, and gave him strong soup and fresh

linen. Then, after a while, new doors were put to his cell, the inner

door being lined with plates of iron, and he himself was fastened with

stronger chains than those he had burst through.

For all this the watch must have been very lax, as Gefhardt soon

contrived to open communications with him again, and letters were passed

through the window (to which the prisoner had made a false and movable

frame) and forwarded to Trenck's rich friends. His appeal was always

answered promptly and amply. More valuable than money were two files,

also procured from Gefhardt, and by their means the new chains were

speedily cut through, though, as before, without any apparent break.

Having freed his limbs, he began to saw through the floor of his cell,

which was of wood. Underneath, instead of hard rock, there was sand,

which Trenck scooped out with his hands. This earth was passed through

the window to Gefhardt, who removed it when he was on guard, and gave

his friend pistols, a bayonet and knives to assist him when he had

finally made his escape.

All seemed going smoothly. The foundations of the prison were only four

feet deep, and Trenck's tunnel had reached a considerable distance when

everything was again spoilt. A letter written by Trenck to Vienna fell

into the hands of the governor, owing to some stupidity on the part of

Gefhardt's wife, who had been entrusted to deliver it. The letter does

not seem to have contained any special disclosure of his plan of escape,

as the governor, who was still Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, could find

nothing wrong in Trenck's cell except the false window frame. The cut

chains, though examined, somehow escaped detection, from which we gather

either that the officials were very careless, or the carpenter very

stupid. Perhaps both may have been the case, for as the Seven Years' War

(against Austria) was at this time raging, sentinels and officers were

frequently changed, and prison discipline insensibly relaxed. Had this

not been so, Trenck could never have been able to labour unseen, but as

it was, he was merely deprived of his bed, as a punishment for tampering

with the window.

As soon as he had recovered from his fright and an illness which

followed, he returned to his digging. It was necessary for him to bore

under the subterranean gallery of the principal rampart, which was a

distance of thirty-seven feet, and to get outside the foundation of the

rampart. Beyond that was a door leading to the second rampart. Trenck

was forced to work naked, for fear of raising the suspicions of the

officials by his dirty clothes, but in spite of all his precautions and

the wilful blindness of his guards, who as usual were on his side, all

was at length discovered. His hole was filled up, and a year's work

lost.

The next torture invented for him was worse than any that had gone

before. He was visited and awakened every quarter of an hour, in order

that he might not set to work in the night. This lasted for four years,

during part of which time Trenck employed himself in writing verses and

making drawings on his tin cups, after the manner of all prisoners, and

in writing books with his blood, as ink was forbidden. We are again left

in ignorance as to how he got paper. He also began to scoop out another

hole, but was discovered afresh, though nothing particular seems to have

been done to him, partly owing to the kindness of the new governor, who

soon afterwards died.

It had been arranged by his friends that for the space of one year

horses should be ready for him at a certain place, on the first and

fifteenth of every month. Inspired by this thought, he turned to his

burrowing with renewed vigour, and worked away at every moment when he

thought he could do so unseen. One day, however, when he had reached

some distance, he dislodged a large stone which blocked up the opening

towards his cell. His terror was frightful. Not only was the air

suffocating and the darkness dreadful, but he knew that if any of the

guards were unexpectedly to come into his cell, the opening must be

discovered, and all his toil again lost. For eight hours he stayed in

the tunnel paralysed by fear. Then he roused himself, and by dint of

superhuman struggles managed to open a passage on one side of the stone,

and to reach his cell, which for once appeared to him as a haven of

rest.

Soon after this the war ended with the Peace of Paris (1763), and

Trenck's hopes of release seemed likely to be realised. He procured

money from his friends, and bribed the Austrian Ambassador in Berlin to

open negotiations on his behalf, and while these were impending he

rested from his labours for three whole months. Suddenly he was

possessed by an idea which was little less than madness. He bribed a

major to ask for a visit from Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, again

governor of Magdeburg, offering to disclose his passage, and to reveal

all his plans of escape, on condition that the Duke would promise to

plead for him with the King. This message never reached the Duke

himself, but some officers arrived ostensibly sent by him, but in

reality tools of the major's. They listened to all he had to say, and

saw all he had to show, then broke their word, filled up the passage,

and redoubled the chains and the watch.

Notwithstanding this terrible blow, Trenck's trials were drawing to an

end. Whether Frederic's heart was softened by his brilliant victories,

or whether Trenck's influential friends succeeded in making themselves

heard, we do not know, but six months later he was set free, on

condition that he never tried to revenge himself on any one, and that he

never again should cross the frontiers of Saxony or Prussia.

_THE ADVENTURE OF JOHN RAWLINS_

IN the year 1621, one John Rawlins, native of Rochester, sailed from

Plymouth in a ship called the 'Nicholas,' which had in its company

another ship of Plymouth, and had a fair voyage till they came within

sight of Gibraltar. Then the watch saw five sails that seemed to do all

in their power to come up with the 'Nicholas,' which, on its part,

suspecting them to be pirates, hoisted all the sail it could; but to no

avail, for before the day was over, the Turkish ships of war--for so

they proved to be--not only overtook the Plymouth ships, but made them

both prisoners.

Then they sailed for Argier, which, when they reached, the English

prisoners were sold as slaves, being hurried like dogs into the market,

as men sell horses in England, and marched up and down to see who would

give most for them. And though they had heavy hearts and sad

countenances, yet many came to behold them, sometimes taking them by the

hand, sometimes turning them round about, sometimes feeling their arms

and muscles, and bargaining for them accordingly, till at last they were

sold.

John Rawlins was the last who was sold, because his hand was lame, and

he was bought by the very captain who took him, named Villa Rise, who,

knowing Rawlins' skill as a pilot, bought him and his carpenter at a

very low rate--paying for Rawlins seven pounds ten reckoned in English

money. Then he sent them to work with other slaves: but the Turks,

seeing that through Rawlins' lame hand he could not do so much as the

rest, complained to their master, who told him that unless he could

obtain a ransom of fifteen pounds, he should be banished inland, where

he would never see Christendom again.

But while John Rawlins was terrified with this stern threat of Villa

Rise, there was lying in the harbour another English ship that had been

surprised by the pirates--the 'Exchange,' of Bristol. This ship was

bought by an English Turk, who made captain of it another English Turk,

and because they were both renegades, they concluded to have English

and Dutch slaves to go in her. So it came about that, inquiring if any

English slave were to be sold who could serve them as pilot, they heard

of John Rawlins, and forthwith bought him of his master, Villa Rise.

By January 7 the ship left Argier, with, on board her, sixty-three Turks

and Moors, nine English slaves, and a French slave, four Dutchmen, who

were free, and four gunners, one English, and one Dutch renegade.

Now, the English slaves were employed for the most part under hatches,

and had to labour hard, all of which John Rawlins took to heart,

thinking it a terrible lot to be subject to such pain and danger only to

enrich other men, and themselves to return as slaves. Therefore he broke

out at last with such words as these:

'Oh, horrible slavery, to be thus subject to dogs! Oh, Heaven strengthen

my heart and hand, and something shall be done to deliver us from these

cruel Mahometan dogs!'

The other slaves, pitying what they thought his madness, bade him speak

softly, lest they should all fare the worse for his rashness.

'Worse,' said Rawlins, 'what can be worse? I will either regain my

liberty at one time or another, or perish in the attempt; but if you

would agree to join with me in the undertaking, I doubt not but we

should find some way of winning glory with our freedom.'

'Prithee be quiet,' they returned, 'and do not think of impossibilities,

though, if indeed you could open some way of escape, so that we should

not be condemned as madmen for trying as it were to pull the sun out of

the heavens, then we would risk our lives; and you may be sure of

silence.'

After this the slavery continued, and the Turks set their captives to

work at all the meanest tasks, and even when they laboured hardest,

flogged and reviled them, till more and more John Rawlins became

resolved to recover his liberty and surprise the ship. So he provided

ropes with broad spikes of iron, and all the iron crows, with which he

could, with the help of the others, fasten up the scuttles, gratings,

and cabins, and even shut up the captain himself with his companions;

and so he intended to work the enterprise, that, at a certain watchword,

the English being masters of the gunner-room and the powder, would

either be ready to blow the Turks into the air, or kill them as they

came out one by one, if by any chance they forced open the cabins.

Then, very cautiously, he told the four free Dutchmen of his plot, and

last of all the Dutch renegades, who were also in the gunner-room; and

all these consented readily to so daring an enterprise. So he fixed the

time for the venture in the captain's morning watch.

But you must understand that where the English slaves were there always

hung four or five iron crows, just under the gun carriages, and when the

time came it was very dark, so that John Rawlins, in taking out his iron

dropped it on the side of the gun, making such a noise that the

soldiers, hearing it, waked the Turks and told them to come down. At

this the boatswain of the Turks descended with a candle, and searched

everywhere, making a great deal of stir, but finding neither hatchet nor

hammer, nor anything else suspicious, only the iron which lay slipped

down under the gun-carriages, he went quietly up again and told the

captain what had happened, who thought that it was no remarkable thing

to have an iron slip from its place. But through this John Rawlins was

forced to wait for another opportunity.

When they had sailed further northward there happened another suspicious

accident, for Rawlins had told his scheme to the renegade gunner, who

promised secrecy by everything that could induce one to believe in him.

But immediately after he left Rawlins, and was absent about a quarter of

an hour, when he returned and sat down again by him. Presently, as they

were talking, in came a furious Turk, with his sword drawn, who

threatened Rawlins as if he would certainly kill him. This made Rawlins

suspect that the renegade gunner had betrayed him; and he stepped back

and drew out his knife, also taking the gunner's out of its sheath; so

that the Turk, seeing him with _two_ knives, threw down his sword,

saying he was only jesting. But the gunner, seeing that Rawlins

suspected him, whispered something in his ear, calling Heaven to witness

that he had never breathed a word of the enterprise, and never would.

Nevertheless, Rawlins kept the knives in his sleeve all night, and was

somewhat troubled, though afterwards the gunner proved faithful and

zealous in the undertaking.

All this time Rawlins persuaded the captain, who himself had little

knowledge of seamanship, to steer northward, meaning to draw him away

from the neighbourhood of other Turkish vessels. On February 6 they

descried a sail, and at once the Turks gave chase, and made her

surrender. It proved to be a ship from near Dartmouth, laden with silk.

As it was stormy weather, the Turks did not put down their boat, but

made the master of the conquered ship put down his, and come on board

with five of his men and a boy, while ten of the Turks' men, among whom

were one English and two Dutch renegades belonging to the conspiracy,

went to man the prize instead.

[Illustration]