CHAPTER I._The Sword of Gideon

Transcriber's Notes:

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The Quiver, Annual Volume, 1905;

Published by Cassell and Company, Limited;

_London, Paris, New York & Melbourne_: which includes

THE SWORD OF GIDEON, a Serial Story By J. Bloundelle-Burton

pp. 1, 114, 317, 363, 502, 552, 698, 744, 840, 993, 1031, 1175,

1226. Copyright, 1904, by John Bloundelle-Burton in the

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

[Illustration: VOLUNTEERS.

From the Painting by Arthur J. Black.

Exhibited in the Royal Academy, 1904.]

THE QUIVER

ANNUAL VOLUME, 1905

Principal Contributors

Elizabeth Banks

Katharine Tynan

The Rev. John Watson, D.D. ("Ian Maclaren")

The Rev. R. F. Horton, D.D.

D. L. Wookmer

The Rev. Principal Forsyth, M.A., D.D.

The Duke of Argyll

The Rev. High Black, M.A.

The Dean of Worcester

The Bishop of Derry

The Rev. J. H. Jowett, M.A.

Raymond Blathwayt

Fred E. Weatherly

J. Bloundelle-Burton

Richard Mudie-Smith, F.S.S.

The Rev. F. B. Meyer, B.A.

The Rev. Arthur Finlayson

Guy Thorne

Pastor Thomas Spurgeon

Morice Gerard

Dr. T. J. Macnamara, M.P.

The Rev. H. B. Freeman, M.A.

The Rev. R. J. Campbell, M.A.

Ethel F. Heddle

Sir Robert Anderson, K.C.B.

The Rev. Mark Guy Pearse

May Crommelin

The Lord Bishop of Manchester

Scott Graham

Amy Le Feuvre

The Venerable Archdeacon Sinclair,

etc. etc.

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED

_London, Paris, New York & Melbourne_

Exerpt:

SWORD OF GIDEON. THE Serial Story By J. Bloundelle-Burton

pp. 1, 114, 317, 363, 502, 552, 698, 744, 840, 993, 1031, 1175,

1223. _Illustrated by W. H. Margetson_.

_All rights reserved_.

THE SWORD OF GIDEON

CHAPTER I.

To north and south and east and west horsemen were spurring fast on

the evening of May 15th, 1702 (N.S.), while, as they rode through

hamlets and villages, they heard behind them the bells of the churches

beginning to ring many a joyous peal. Also, on looking back over their

shoulders, they saw that already bonfires were being lit, and observed

the smoke from them curling up into the soft evening air of the

springtime.

For these splashed and muddy couriers had called out as they passed

through the main streets of the villages that the long expected war

with France was declared at last by England, by Austria--or Germany,

as Austria was then called--and the States-General of the United

Netherlands.

Wherefore, it was no wonder that the bonfires were instantly set

blazing and the bells ringing, since now, all said to the others, the

great, splendid tyrant who for sixty years had given orders from his

throne for battles, for spoliation and aggrandisement, for the

humbling of all other countries beneath the heel of France, would meet

his match. He--he! this superb arbiter of others' fate, who had in his

younger days been called _Le Dieudonné_ and in his older _Le Roi

Soleil_--he who had driven forth from their homes countless

Protestants and had cruelly entreated those who had remained by their

hearths, while desiring only to worship God in their own way and

without molestation, must surely be beaten down at last.

"And--'tis good news!--Corporal John goes, they say," exclaimed

several of these horsemen as they drew bridle now and again at some

village inn, "as Captain-General of all Her Majesty's forces and chief

in command of the allied armies. He has been there before and hates

Louis; Louis who, although he gave him command of his English

regiment, would not give him command of a French one when he would

have served France. Let us see how he will serve _him_ now."

"I pity his generals and his armies when my lord the Earl of

Marlborough crushes them between his ranks of steel," said one who

stood by; "the more so that Lewis"--as they called him in this

country--"has insulted us by espousing the claims of James's son, by

acknowledging him as King of England. He acknowledges him who is

barred for ever from our throne by the Act of Succession, and also

because his father forswore the oath he took in the Abbey."

"He acknowledges the babe who, as I did hear Bishop Burnet say in

Salisbury Cathedral," a Wiltshire rustic remarked, "was no child at

all of the Queen, but brought into the palace in a warming pan, so

that an heir should not be wanting."

"He persecutes all of our faith," a grave and reverend clergyman

remarked now; "a faith that has never harmed him; that, in truth, has

provided him with many faithful subjects who have served him loyally.

And now he seeks to grasp another mighty country in his own hands,

another great stronghold of Papistry--Spain. And wrongfully seeks,

since, long ago, he renounced all claims to the Spanish throne for

himself and his."

A thousand such talks as this were taking place on that night of May

15th as gradually the horsemen rode farther and farther away from the

capital; the horsemen who, in many cases, were themselves soldiers, or

had been so. For they carried orders to commanders of regiments, to

Lord-Lieutenants, to mayors of country towns, and, in some cases, to

admirals and sea captains, bidding all put themselves and those under

them in readiness for immediate war service. Orders to the admirals

and captains to have their ships ready for sailing at a moment's

notice; to the commanders of regiments to stop all furlough and summon

back every man who was absent; to the Lord-Lieutenants to warn the

country gentlemen and the yeomanry. Orders, also, to the mayors to see

to the militia--the oldest of all our English forces, the army of our

freemen and our State--being called together to protect the country

during the absence of a large part of the regular troops. Beside all

of which, these couriers carried orders for food and forage to be

provided at the great agricultural centres; for horses to be purchased

in large quantities; for, indeed, every precaution to be taken and no

necessary omitted which should contribute towards the chance of our

destroying at last the power of the man who had for so long held the

destiny of countless thousands in his hand.

Meanwhile, as all the bells of London were still ringing as they had

been ringing from before midday, a young man was riding through the

roads that lay by the side of the Thames, on the Middlesex side of it.

A young man, well-built and as good-looking as a man should be; his

eyes grey, his features good, his hair long and dark, as was plainly

to be seen since he wore no wig. One well-apparelled, too, in a dark,

blue cloth coat passemented with silver lace, and having long

riding-boots reaching above his knees, long mousquetaire riding-gloves

to his elbows, and, in his three-cornered hat, the white cockade.

He passed now the old church at Chelsea on the river's brink, and

smiled softly to himself at the _tintamarre_ made by the bells, while,

as he drew rein the better to guide his horse betwixt the old

waterside houses and all the confusion of wherries and cordage that

lumbered the road, or, rather, the rutty passage, he said to himself:

"The torch is lighted. At last! 'Tis a grand day for England. And,

though I say it not selfishly, for me. Oh!" he went on, as now his

left hand fell gently to the hilt of his sword and played lovingly

with its curled quillon; "if I may draw you once again for England and

the Queen, and for all you represent for us," glancing at the old

church, wherein lay the bodies of such men as Sir Thomas More, who, in

his self-written epitaph, described himself in the bitterness wrung

from his heart as "_hereticisque_"; John Larke, an old rector of

Chelsea, executed at Tyburn for his Protestantism; and many other

staunch reformers. "Ah, yes," he continued, "if I may draw you against

Spain and her hateful Inquisition, against France and the tyrant who

persecutes all who love the faith you testify to; if I may but once

more get back to where I stood before, then at last shall I be happy.

Ah, well! I pray God it may be so. Let me see what cousin Mordaunt can

do."

He was free now of the encumbered road betwixt the river and the old

houses: the way before him lay through open fields in some of which

there grew a vast profusion of many kinds of vegetables and orchard

fruits, while, in others, the lavender scented all the afternoon air;

whereupon, putting his horse to the canter, he rode on until he came

to an open common and, next, to a kind of village green--a green on

two sides of which were antique houses of substance, and in which was

a pond where ducks disported themselves.

On the east side of the green, facing the pond, there stood embowered

in trees an old mansion, known as the Villa Carey. In after days, when

this old house had given place to a new one, the latter became known

as Peterborough House, doubtless to perpetuate the memory of the

dauntless and intrepid man who now inhabited it.

Arrived at the old, weather-beaten oak gate, against which the storms

that the southwesterly gales brought up had beaten for more than two

centuries, the young man summoned forth an aged woman and, on her

arrival, asked if Lord Peterborough were within.

"Ay, ay," the old rosy-cheeked lodge-keeper murmured; "and so in

truth he is. And to you always, Master Bracton. Always, always. Yet

what brings you here? Is't anything to do with the pother the bells

are making at Fulham and Putney and all around? And what is it all

about?"

"You do not know? You have not heard?" Bevill Bracton answered, as he

asked questions that were almost answers. "You have not heard, even

though my lord is at home. For sure he knows, at least."

"If he knows he has said nothing--leastways to me. After midday he sat

beneath the great tulip tree, with maps and charts on the carpet

spread at his feet above the grass, and twice he has sent off

messengers to Whitehall and once to Kensington, but still none come

anigh us in this quiet spot. But, Master Bevill," the old woman went

on, laying a knotted finger on the young man's arm--she had known him

from boyhood--"those two or three who have passed by say that great

things are a brewing--that we are going to war again as we went in the

late King's reign, and with France as ever; and that--and that--the

bells are all a-ringing because 'tis so."

"And so it is, good dame Sumner. We are going to see if we cannot at

least check the King of France, who seeks now to make Spain a second

half of France. But come; we must not trifle with time. Let me hook my

bridle rein here, and you may give my horse a drink of water when he

is cool, and tell me where my lord is now. Great deeds are afoot!"

"He is in the long room now. There shall you find him. Ay, lord! what

will he be doing now that war is in the air again? He who is never

still and in a dozen different cities and countries in a month."

With a laugh at the old woman's reflections on her master's

habits--which reflections were true enough--Bevill Bracton went on

towards the house itself and, entering it by the great front door,

crossed a stone-flagged hall, and so reached a polished walnut-wood

door that faced the one at the entrance. Arrived at it, he tapped with

his knuckle on the panel, and a moment later heard a voice from inside

call out:

"Who's there?"

"'Tis I--Bevill."

"Ha!" the voice called out again, though not before it had bidden the

young man come in, "and so I would have sworn it was. Why, Bevill,"

the occupant of the room exclaimed, as now the young man stood before

him, and when the two had exchanged handshakes, "I expected you hours

before. When first the news came to me this morning----"

"Your lordship knows?"

"Know? Why, i' faith, of course I know. Is there anything Charles

Mordaunt does not know when mischief is in the wind?--Mordanto, as

Swift calls me; Sir Tristram, as others describe me; I, whose 'birth

was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars,' and who, like those planets, am

ever wandering and unfixed. Be sure I know it. As, also, I knew you

would come. Yet, kinsman, one thing I do not know--that one thing

being, what it is you expect to gain by coming, unless it is the hope

of finding the chance to see those Catholics, amongst whom you lived

as a youth, beaten down by sturdy Protestants like yourself."

"For that, and to be in the fray. To help in the good cause--the cause

we love and venerate. Through you. By you--a kinsman, as you say."

"You to be in the fray--and by me? Yet how is that to be? You are----"

"Ah, yes! I know well. A broken soldier--one at odds with fortune.

Yet----"

"Yet?"

"Not disgraced. Not that--never that, God be thanked."

"I say so, too. But still broken, though never disgraced. What you did

you did well. That fellow, that Dutchman, that Colonel Sparmann, whom

you ran through from breast to back--he may thank his lucky stars your

spadroon was an inch to the left of his heart--deserved his fate."

"He insulted England," Bracton exclaimed. "He said that without King

William to teach us the art of war we knew not how to combat our

enemies. For that I challenged him, and ran him through. Pity 'twas I

did not----"

"Nay; disable thine enemy--there is no need to kill him. All the

same," Lord Peterborough continued drily, "King William broke you for

challenging and almost killing a superior officer."

"King William is dead. Death pays all debts."

"I would it did! There are a-many who will not forgive me when I am

dead."

"Queen Anne reigns, the Earl of Marlborough is at the head of the

army. My lord, I want employment; I want to be in this campaign. Oh,

cousin Mordaunt," Bevill Bracton said, with a break in his voice, "you

cannot know how I desire to be a soldier once again, and fighting for

my religion, my country, and the Queen. To be moving, to be a living

man--not an idler. I have never parted with this," and he touched the

hilt of the sword by his side, "help me; give me the right; find me

the way to draw it once more as a soldier."

"How to find the way! There's the rub. Marlborough and I are none too

much of cater-cousins now. We do not saddle our horses together. And

he is--will be--supreme. If you would get a fresh guidon you had best

apply to him."

"Even though I may have no guidon nor have any commission, still there

will surely be volunteers, and I may go as one."

"There will be volunteers," Lord Peterborough said, still drily, "and

I, too, shall go as one."

"You!"

"Yes, I. Only it will be later. When," and he smiled his caustic

smile, "the others are in trouble. If Marlborough, if Athlone, or

Ormond, who goes too, finds things going criss-cross and contrary,

then 'twill be the stormy petrel, Mordanto, who will be looked to."

"But when--when?" Bevill Bracton asked eagerly.

"When they have had time to flounder in the mire; when Ginkell--I mean

my Lord Athlone--has, good honest Dutchman as he is, fuddled himself

with his continual schnapps drinking; or when Jack Churchill, sweet as

his temper is and well under control, can bear no more contradictions

and cavillings from his brother commanders. Then--then Charles

Mordaunt will be looked to again; then--for I can cast my own

horoscope as well as any hag can do it for me--I shall be invited to

put my hand in my pocket, to stake my life on some almost impossible

venture, to give them the advice that, when I attempt to offer it,

they never care to take."

"But--but," Bevill said, "the time! The time!"

"'Twill come. Only you are young, impatient, hot-headed. I am almost

old, yet I am the same sometimes--but you will not wait. What's to do,

therefore?"

"I cannot think nor dream--oh, that I could!"

"Then listen to me. 'Tis not the way of the world to do so until it is

too late; in your case you may be willing. Do you know Marlborough?"

"As the subaltern knows the general, not being known by him. But no

more."

"'Tis pity. Yet--yet if you could bring yourself before his notice;

if--if--you could do something that should come under his eyes--some

deed of daring----"

"I must be there to do it--not here. At St. James's or Whitehall I can

do nought. The watch can do as much as I."

"That's very true; you must be there. There! there! Let me see for it.

Where are the charts?" and Lord Peterborough went towards a great

table near the window, which was all littered with maps and plans that

made the whole heterogeneous mass look more like a battlefield itself

after a battle than aught else.

"Bah!" his lordship went on, picking up first a plan and then a chart,

and throwing them down again. "Catalonia, Madrid, Barcelona, Cadiz. No

good! no good! Marlborough will not be there. The war may roll, must

roll, towards Spain, yet 'tis not in Spain that he will be. But

Holland--Brabant--Flanders. Ha!" he cried at the two latter names.

"Brabant--Flanders. And--why did I not think of it?--she is there, and

there's the chance, and--and, fool that I am! for the moment I had

forgotten it."

"_She!_ The chance! Brabant! Flanders!" Bevill Bracton repeated, the

words stumbling over each other in his excitement. "She! Who? And what

have I to do with women--with any woman? I, who wish to do all a man

may do in the eyes of men?"

"Sit down," Lord Peterborough said now, in a marvellously calm, a

suddenly calm, voice. "Sit down. I had forgotten my manners when I

failed to ask you to do so earlier."

"Ah, cousin Mordaunt, no matter for the manners at such a moment as

this. Alas! you set my blood on fire when you speak of where the war

will be, of where it must be, and then--then--you pour a douche of

chill cold water over me by talking of women--of a woman."

"Do I so, indeed? Well, hearken unto me," and his lordship leant

forward impressively and looked into the young man's eyes. "Hearken, I

say. This woman of whom I speak may be the guiding star that shall

light you along the path that leads to Marlborough, and all that he

can do for you. This woman, who may, in very truth, be your own

guiding star or----"

"Or?"

"She may lead to your undoing. Listen again."

[Illustration: "'Learn to know what Sylvia Thorne is like.'" (_p_.

6).]