from a wreck.
There was to be a long and _very exciting_ story to-night, so the Cubs
bustled down to the Stable extra early, and were undressed before you
could say "Jack Robinson." In fact, Terry began to undress in the
street, and was out in the Stable-yard in his night-shirt before Akela
and the last Cub had got through the gate.
"Tell us a long, long, long one," begged the Cubs; "we aren't a bit
sleepy. Let it last till midnight."
"I'll tell as long as the candle lasts," said Akela, sticking a stump of
candle on the ledge.
The Cubs curled up, and the candle-light fell in a golden flicker on their
ruddy, sunburnt faces. Fifteen pairs of eyes were fixed on Akela. You
couldn't hear a straw rustle. Only the faint "Swish-sh-sh--_Sha-a-a-ah_"
of the "white horses" breaking on the shore broke the stillness.
"Now we are going back, back, back into a thousand years ago," began
Akela, and the Cubs gave a wriggle of satisfaction, and prepared to take
that mighty journey with the greatest ease.
THE STORY OF ST. EDMUND, KING AND MARTYR.
Now we are going back, back, back into a thousand years ago, and more.
We shall stay in England, but it is a strange, wild England, covered
with deep, mysterious green forests, where speckled deer roam about, and
on moonlight nights you can hear the wolves howling. The Englishmen of
these days are nearly as fierce as the wolves. If you met one coming
down a forest path I believe you'd be a bit afraid of him, with his
fierce eyes and shaggy head of hair, his round shield and sharp spear. A
good many of these Englishmen are still heathens. But St. Benedict's
monks have been hard at work for the last few hundred years turning the
wild country into the beautiful England we know, and the fierce, cruel
Saxons into brave Christian knights, with kindly, noble hearts as well
as fearless spirits.
Well, in a part of the country called East Anglia there lived an old
King called Offa. He was a Christian, and descended from a line of brave
and noble Kings called the Uffings. Poor old Offa was very sad, because
he felt he was getting old, and he thought that when he died the royal
line of Uffings would end, for he had no son to succeed him.
As a matter of fact he _had_ got a son, but many years before God had
called this boy to give up all thoughts of worldly glory and become a
holy hermit, giving up his life to prayer. When God calls a man to serve
Him and Him alone, He does not let the world suffer by his loss. God had
a plan of His own for replacing Offa's hermit son by one of the most
glorious Kings that ever reigned in England, and it is the wonderful
story of how he was found, and of his thrilling adventures as the young
King of East Anglia, that I'm going to tell you to-night.
Well, something--perhaps it was a whisper from the Holy Spirit--made old
King Offa feel that if he prayed very hard he might in some wonderful
way obtain an heir to his throne.
In those days, when people wanted to pray very hard and show God they
_really_ wanted a thing, and really believed He would give it them, they
used to do what was called "going on a pilgrimage." It was like _doing_
instead of only _saying_ a great prayer, for the whole, long, dangerous
journey was one act of faith and devotion or of thanksgiving.
So old Offa set out on a pilgrimage to the very best place you could
pilgrimage to--the land where Our Blessed Lord lived and died, where
there are still the very same rocky paths His Blessed Feet touched, the
same mountains and lakes His Eyes rested on, the very hill where His
Precious Blood poured down from the Cross, dyeing the grass and the
little white daisies red. Somehow the King felt that if he could go and
pray where Our Lord had prayed he would get some wonderful answer. So he
started off, crossed the blue sea and landed on the opposite coast. Now,
God is so ready to grant the prayers of people who have so much love and
faith that He sometimes answers almost before they have asked. That's
what happened with the old King. His way lay through Saxony, the kingdom
of his cousin Acmund. One day he rode up with his men-at-arms to the
Court, and decided to spend a few days there. Acmund, of course,
welcomed his cousin, and received him joyfully to the palace.
Well, as King Offa sat resting on one of the low couches covered with
the skins of wild beasts that Acmund had killed in the chase, there was
a light footfall outside the chamber, the heavy curtain was drawn back
from the doorway, and there stood before him a tall, slim boy of
thirteen, with fair hair, truthful blue eyes, and a face tanned with the
sun and wind of his open-air life. Something seemed to jump up in the
old King's sad heart. Oh, if only that noble boy were his son, his heir!
He was a true Uffing. What a King he would make for East Anglia!
In the next few days Offa and the King's son, Edmund, became great
friends. Edmund took upon himself the job of looking after his old
cousin, and seeing that he had all he needed and enjoyed his visit at
the Court. And Offa watched Edmund with a feeling of love and interest
such as he would have had for his own son. He saw that the boy was brave
and clever, a good shot with his bow, able to throw a spear straight and
ride a horse. He saw that he was loved by all, and always ready to do
good turns and put the wishes of others before his own. But he saw
something that pleased him more--that Edmund was a true, loyal
Christian. In all the excitement of the chase and the gaiety of the
Court, his first thought was of God--to serve Him and please Him, to
keep from all sin for His sake.
The more Offa saw of Edmund, the more sure he felt that God had led him
to this Court that he might find his heir. Still, though it seemed as if
his request was already granted, he did not give up his pilgrimage, but
decided to press on, if only as an act of thanksgiving to God.
Before starting once more on his way, the King called Edmund aside.
Taking a gold ring from his finger, he put it on Edmund's hand, and told
him that if it were God's will this might some day mean great things for
him. Then he said good-bye, and rode away towards the East.
Young Edmund must often have wondered what it was that God held in store
for him, and as he looked at the gold ring on his finger I feel sure he
used to promise God that whatever it was he would _do his best_ to
fulfil His Holy Will.
Well, old Offa reached Palestine all right. His heart thrilled with joy
and love as he saw the very village where Jesus was born, and where the
shepherds came that early Christmas morning to adore the little new-born
King. He remembered the three Kings of the East, who came plodding along
on their camels, bearing gifts for Mary's little Son.
Then he went on to Mount Calvary, and the tears ran down his old face as
he saw the hill where Our Blessed Lord suffered such agony, with such
glorious courage, for our sakes. He prayed and gave thanks, and then,
with a confident heart, left all the future in God's Hands and started
homewards.
But he had not got very far before he fell ill, and soon his men saw
that he was dying. Calling them about him, he told them that it was
God's will that young Edmund, Acmund's son, should be their King. Taking
from his finger the signet-ring that had been placed upon it by the
Bishop at his coronation, he commanded that when he was dead it should
be carried as quickly as possible to the boy. Then, heaving a last sigh
of peace and gratitude, he closed his eyes on the world, and his
faithful soul went to God.
_The Coming of St. Edmund._
Now we will go back to England. The people have heard of the death of
their King, and they are not at all sure that they want a strange young
Prince from Saxony to come and rule over them. They have collected in a
great crowd on the shore, for the galleys from across the sea have come
in sight, bearing down before the wind.
The ships draw every moment nearer, and the people wait. As long as most
of them can remember they have been ruled over by King Offa; and for
many generations their Kings have been Uffings--tall, fair, blue-eyed
men, with noble, fearless hearts. What will this strange boy be like?
And on the ship young Edmund pushed his way forward to the prow. He
could see the green, tree-covered cliffs of his new kingdom, and the
crowd of people on the shore. His heart beat fast, and he fingered the
ring old Offa had put on his hand. Oh, if only these people knew that he
came to them ready to _do his best_ to be to them a good King--to _do
his best_ for them, for the love of God!
Splash, splash!--the big anchors go overboard and the chains rattle as
they run out over the bows. Soon Edmund and his men are in small boats,
being rowed swiftly to the shore. Edmund's boat is the foremost and he
himself stands up on the prow, ready to leap ashore. As the men of
England look at him they see that he is no stranger, but one of
themselves, a true Uffing, and then and there a sense of loyalty springs
up in their rough hearts.
The nose of the boat grates on the shore. With a leap Edmund has cleared
the water, and is standing on the land of which he is to be King. His
first act is to fall on his knees and ask God's blessing on himself and
his people. His short prayer ended, he gets up and turns to greet his
new friends; but to his surprise they are all falling on their knees,
murmuring to one another, "A miracle, a miracle!" For a spring of clear
water has bubbled up where Edmund's knees touched the ground--a sign
from Heaven that he is the true King, a symbol of the power of the Holy
Ghost that will well up like a spring in his heart.
_The Crowning of St. Edmund._
After a time of study and preparation under a holy man, called Bishop
Humbert, who became a true father to the boy and his lifelong friend,
the time of St. Edmund's coronation drew near. It took place on
Christmas Day, and the old books tell us of the gorgeous procession and
the wonderful service. St. Edmund had to make a solemn promise of
loyalty to God and his people, and after being anointed with holy oil he
was clothed in certain royal garments by the Bishop, while a thane
stepped forward and put sandals on his feet, a purple cloak was put upon
his shoulders, and in his hand a sceptre of mercy and an iron rod of
justice. After that a naked sword was presented to him, and a helmet put
on his head. Then, laying aside all these, St. Edmund stepped forward,
and standing before the altar declared solemnly that by the grace of God
he would fulfil all the duties of a good King. The Bishop placed the
crown upon his head, saying, "Live the King for ever," and the people
all cried, "Amen, amen, amen."
After that there was a solemn service of praise and thanksgiving to God,
and the new King received Holy Communion. You can imagine how happy it
made the holy young King that this should be the very first act of his
reign, and what confidence it gave him that Christ would stay with him
through all the difficult years to come.
_War._
For a long time there was peace in St. Edmund's kingdom, though the
people in other parts of the country were suffering terribly from their
enemies, the Danes, who came over in wild hordes from the North in their
low, black-sailed boats, and, landing on the coast, went through the
country burning and plundering and killing.
St. Edmund knew they would sooner or later invade his kingdom too. So he
set to work to prepare for them. His chief way of doing this was to win
the loyalty of all his subjects, so that if there was war he knew they
would all rally round him. He made wise laws, and he was so fair to all,
and so ready to listen to the poor and oppressed and help them, that
soon everyone in the kingdom loved the young King and would do anything
for him. They could see that God was with him, and they could not help
feeling that in serving the humblest of his subjects he felt that it was
Christ Himself that he served.
St. Edmund had, of course, prepared his army and had thrown up defences
to try and keep the enemy out as long as possible. You can still see one
of his great earthworks running from Newmarket to the Fen country. For
hundreds of years it was called "Edmund's Dyke." He placed scouts and
outposts all round his borders, and prepared in every way he could.
At last the day came when the country people came running into the towns
in terror. They had seen along the borders huge, fierce men, with
flashing eyes and long red hair and beards. Their leather tunics were
stained dark with blood. Huge round shields were slung across their
backs; they were armed with spears, bows, clubs, and knives, and they
shouted to one another in a strange language.
St. Edmund's scouts came running in to say that the Danes were
collecting in great crowds on the frontiers.
Soon they began creeping in at every point, burning houses and churches,
and killing people, especially the Christians. Though it was an almost
hopeless job, St. Edmund led his brave army forward, and whenever it was
possible he engaged the enemy in battles and drove them out. The Danes
had never before been so powerfully resisted, and thousands of them were
killed. There's not time now to tell you all of the thrilling adventures
St. Edmund had at this time, and of his wonderful escapes from the
Danes. Anyhow, the Danes were so much weakened that they asked for
peace, and after spending the winter in a great camp at Thetford, they
sailed away, full of rage and hatred and desire for revenge.
_A Cowardly Plot._
For a time there was peace, and then a sad thing happened.
One stormy day when the waves dashed and foamed up the shingly beach,
and the sea and sky were a leaden grey, the fisher-folk who lived down
by the shore saw a small boat, with tattered sails and broken mast,
being driven before the wind. There seemed to be a man in it, but he was
evidently weak and exhausted, and was doing nothing to help himself.
Presently the boat was thrown up on the shore, and the fishermen ran
down and collected in a little crowd round it. Looking down at the
helpless man, still clinging to a spar and drenched with foam and
sea-water, they soon saw he was not one of their people. "A Dane, a
Dane!" they murmured with sullen hate. Then one who had served in St.
Edmund's army suddenly gave a wild exclamation. "By Heaven," he said,
"it's Lothparch!" Lothparch was the leader of the Danish army who had
done such awful harm to East Anglia only a few years before. "Kill him!"
growled one man. "Throw him back on the mercy of the sea!" hissed
another. But the man who had fought under St. Edmund would have nothing
of the kind. The King never allowed a helpless man, even a cruel enemy,
to be killed. So Lothparch was carried up to the royal palace.
To the surprise of the fierce Angles, St. Edmund not only made the
stranger welcome, but showed him every kindness. "Love your enemies,"
said Our Lord, and sure enough St. Edmund seemed truly to be obeying
that command. Everything the King did seemed right to his loyal
subjects; but there was one man--Berne, the King's huntsman--whose
jealousy was so bitter at St. Edmund's showing favour to a Dane that he
waited till he had an opportunity, and then he murdered Lothparch.
The King was very angry, of course; but he said that, though Berne
deserved to die for the crime, he would give him a faint chance of
escape; he should be put in an open boat, and pushed out to sea and left
to the mercy of the waves.
After tossing for many days, Berne was washed up on a strange coast.
During those lonely days of tossing on the waves, instead of repenting
of his crime, Berne's wicked heart had been full of hatred for the King.
So when he heard that the land he had come to was Lothparch's own
kingdom, and that his two sons, Inguar and Hubba, were reigning in his
place, a horrible idea came into his mind. Asking to be taken before the
Princes, he made up and told them an awful lie, saying that when their
father, Lothparch, had been washed up, helpless, on the coast of
England, Edmund the King had caused him to be cruelly put to death.
Of course, this enraged Inguar and Hubba, and they at once collected a
huge and fierce army, and set out once more for East Anglia.
_A Fight to the Death._
Landing in the North, and marching from York southward, the Danes
plundered every city they passed through. They burned the monastery that
had been built at Croyland (St. Guthlac's isle), and also those at
Peterborough, Ramsey, Soham, and Ely. Meeting St. Edmund's army, they
defeated it completely, killed the brave General who commanded it, and
took Thetford by storm. Then they sent St. Edmund a message to say that
he must give up half his kingdom and pay heavy taxes, or they would do
the most terrible "frightfulness" throughout the land.
But St. Edmund and his men decided to make one great effort to keep
their land in liberty and true to the Christian Faith. At the head of
his gallant army, St. Edmund marched on Inguar's army, and a ghastly
battle began.
Arrows flew thick; swords clashed on shields; great spears tore men open
and left them to bleed to death. All day the battle raged, but at night
the Danes fell back exhausted, and St. Edmund held the field,
victorious. But as he stood in the moonlight and looked upon the scene
his heart sank.
Before him stretched the great battlefield, its trampled grass all
soaked in blood; and around him, silent for ever, lay his great army--an
army of dead men. With a heavy heart he led back his little handful of
tired and wounded soldiers to the camp.
The next day came terrible news. Hubba, with ten thousand men, had
marched up and joined his brother.
_The Martyr._
It was hopeless to try and resist any more--the King knew it, and his
people knew it, and they shuddered to think of their fate. Then a great
idea came to the King.
It was he himself the Danes hated so. If only they had him in their
power, perhaps they would leave his beloved country in peace! The more
he thought of this, the more certain he felt that, by giving himself up,
he could buy the peace and happiness and safety of his people. Christ,
his Captain, had done this--He had not feared to face the most cruel
death to save mankind, and St. Edmund's heart suddenly leapt with the
thought that he would follow Christ and do the same!
At first his old friend the Bishop, St. Humbert, tried to hold him back.
But after a while he saw that St. Edmund was quite resolved. He spoke of
it with such courage and joy that the aged Bishop knew the Holy Spirit
must be in his heart leading him to this glorious sacrifice of himself,
this giving of his very life for his God and his friends, this quest for
the martyr's crown. And so he gave him his blessing and bade him do as
his brave heart prompted him. So, calling together his people, St.
Edmund told them what he was going to do. You can imagine what they
felt--how they begged him with tears not to do it. But nothing would
make him change his mind--he knew it was God's Will.
Bravely he gave his last order to his men. It was that all the gates of
the fortress should be thrown open, all the defences left unguarded,
nothing done to stop the Danes entering it. Then he made his way to the
chapel. Unbuckling his faithful sword, he laid it on the steps of the
altar, and knelt down, with no protection save God's mercy.
The little chapel was very dim, and full of a holy feeling. All was
still. It seemed to the young King as if he were far, far away from the
rest of the world, from all the horror of bloodshed and crashing
battle-axes that had filled the last few weeks like some horrible dream.
He let his mind just rest on the thought of God and His love, and a
wonderful peace came over him.
Near him knelt the old Bishop, and his heart was near to breaking, for
he loved St. Edmund very much. The tears ran down his furrowed cheeks,
and fell silently on the steps of the altar, but he spoke no word.
Silently the moments passed, and then, suddenly, a sound broke the
stillness that sent a cold shiver through St. Humbert. Wild shouts,
coarse laughter, the clash and clatter of armed men rushing in wild
triumph through the fortress. It was the King they were seeking. Where
was he? They cared for nothing but to find him and wreak their revenge.
The shouts came nearer . . . the tramp of feet . . . the clang and
scrape of spears against the wall. Nearer, nearer, until the chapel door
burst open and a crowd of cruel faces peered in. Then a wild oath rang
through the quiet of the chapel. They had found the King! Rushing in,
they seized him and dragged him out.
_"Faithful unto Death."_
In a field beyond the town the Danes tied St. Edmund to a tree. They
were determined to have a full revenge. With long whips they began to
scourge his naked body. Each lash was like the touch of a red-hot iron,
and left a long, bleeding wound in the bare flesh. But St. Edmund only
rejoiced that, at last, he could share truly what Christ had suffered
from the Roman soldiers. No cry escaped him, except now and then the
name of Jesus.
Then, throwing down their whips, the Danes took up their bows. The
arrows fell thickly round St. Edmund, piercing him in every part, until,
as the old book says, he was as covered with arrows as a porcupine with
quills.
Inguar, the Danish Prince, looked on with a horrible smile of cruel
enjoyment. Hearing the Holy Name break like a sob from the mouth of the
martyr, he began to taunt him, telling him to give up his faith in
Christ, since it had only brought him to this. But St. Edmund was
"faithful unto death." Soon, soon he would receive the "crown of life,"
the welcome of the King of kings.
Seeing that nothing could make St. Edmund cry for mercy or give up his
faith in God, Inguar drew his long sword, and, with a hoarse laugh of
triumph, cut the martyr's head from his body.
Free and glorious the soul of King Edmund rose from his bloodstained
body into the sunlight of heaven.
* * * * *
St. Edmund had not sacrificed himself in vain. The Danes, so greatly
weakened by the bloody battles they had fought, gave up the idea of
ruling East Anglia, and sailed away to their country, leaving St.
Edmund's people in peace, and free to practise the Christian Faith.
THE FIFTH DAY (SUNDAY)
Everyone dressed quickly and quietly, found his Prayer-Book somewhere in
the far depths of his kit-bag, and ran down to sit on the sea wall and
wait for Akela and the last Cub or two (the ones whose boots had got
lost, or who were so fussy about parting their hair, etc., that dressing
took rather a long time).
Very reverently they went into church, and very quietly came out again
and up to the field.
Breakfast, a run round the field to let off steam, and then down to the
shore for a bathe.
In the afternoon every Cub got hold of a piece of paper and a pencil,
and sat, lay, knelt, or squatted in some corner, his tongue well out and
his brow furrowed with thought, to write home.
Some wrote very private letters, all on their own, and didn't give the
show away even to ask how to spell the hardest words, like "library"
(which might just as well be "lybary," or "librurry," or "lieberry"). Of
course, library, in some form or other, came into all their letters,
because they all wanted to tell about the adventure of going to Quarr
Abbey. Some Cubs, sacrificing the privateness of their letters, decided
that if Akela or Godmother did the writing, while they did the _saying
what_, it would be much quicker, and much more could be told to "mother
and all at home." So they brought their paper and pencils, and asked
Akela to do it in "proper, quick writing." They told _everything_--even
what they had had for dinner each day, and one said his bed at camp was
much "comfortabler" than his bed at home.
After tea there was a little cricket practice and some tree-climbing,
and then supper and, of course, night prayers. And then, feeling as if
they had lived in camp all their lives, instead of only five days, the
Cubs walked contentedly down the hill to bed.
Patsy, as usual, was having a free ride on Akela's back, and he was
certainly quite a lot heavier than the first day.
Before long everyone was established in the Coach-house and the candle
lighted.