True Stories of Girl Heroines
by Evelyn Everett-Green · English · Gutenberg #40508 · 489,451 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: True Stories of Girl Heroines
Author: Evelyn Everett-Green
Illustrator: E. F. Sherie
Release date: August 15, 2012 [eBook #40508]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUE STORIES OF GIRL HEROINES ***
TRUE STORIES OF GIRL HEROINES
[Illustration: The brave young wife rode forth at the head of her whole
garrison.
_Page 109. Frontispiece._]
TRUE STORIES OF GIRL HEROINES
BY
E. EVERETT-GREEN
AUTHOR OF "GOLDEN GWENDOLYN," "THE SILVER AXE," "OLIVIA'S EXPERIMENT,"
ETC.
WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. F. SHERIE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
LONDON
HUTCHINSON & CO.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INEZ ARROYA 1
CATHARINE THE ROSE 17
ELSJE VAN HOUWENING 35
GRIZEL COCHRANE 55
EVA VON GROSS 73
EMMA FITZ-OSBORN 93
ELIZABETH STUART 111
CHARLOTTE HONEYMAN 131
MARY BRIDGES 149
THERESA DUROC 167
JANE LANE 185
HELEN KOTTENNER 205
MAID LILLYARD 223
MARGARET WILSON 241
AGOSTINA OF ZARAGOZA 259
AGNES BEAUMONT 277
HANNAH HEWLING 297
MONA DRUMMOND 317
JESSY VARCOE 337
URSULA PENDRILL 355
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The brave young wife rode forth at the head of her whole
garrison _Frontispiece_
The first great stone leapt from her hand and went
bounding and crashing upon the head of the foremost
Moor _ To face p._ 8
The Commandant pulled her down beside him before it
was too late " " 30
"Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?" " " 48
With a beating heart Grizel tore open this bundle and
looked at its contents " " 66
He stopped short on seeing the Countess " " 125
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop " " 145
Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's peril. " " 183
"Well, now, I did hear as young Charles Stuart himself
was taken," answered the smith " " 193
The men plunged down into the vault " " 218
She set herself in their ranks, and went charging down
the hill " " 237
A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet " " 270
Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon
his face " " 283
The Judge plucked his robe out of her detaining hand. " " 310
"Dare to come one step nearer, and I fire" " " 335
"The first man that touches him I'll kill!" cried Jessy " " 351
True Stories of Girl Heroines
INEZ ARROYA
"Mistress! my mistress! the Moriscos are upon us!"
Inez sprang to her feet, the rich southern blood receding for a moment
from her cheek, as those words fell upon her ears--words of such fearful
significance to the Christian inhabitants of the Moorish territory along
the Sierra Nevada.
"Juana, what mean you? Speak, girl! What have you heard? What have you
seen?"
Juana's face had been white when she came bursting in upon her young
mistress; she held her hand to her side; her breath came and went in
great gasps; yet already she was recovering the power of speech, and she
seized Inez by the arm.
"Mistress, they are below already; they are robbing the house. Can you
not hear them? When they have taken the wine and the oil they will come
hither and murder us!"
Inez held her breath to listen. Yes, there were sounds from
below--sounds of voices--loud, threatening voices, and the laughter of
men assured of victory.
Juana, the maid, spoke in a fierce whisper. Fear was receding. The high
courage which comes to weak women in the hour of extremest need
possessed the hearts alike of mistress and maid.
"The master went forth not an hour ago. Five minutes since little Aluch
ran up to tell me that, as the master was taking the air, there suddenly
appeared a band of rebel Moriscos from Orgiba, who set upon him, and
chased him, and would have killed him, but he took refuge in his
father's house; and he will hide him, and get him safe away. But all
Istan will join the rebels, and already they are crying that every
Christian shall be slain!"
"Every Christian!" cried Inez, with a flash in her dark eyes. "And how
many Christians are there in Istan? Two weak women, Juana, you and I,
and my uncle, whom they have already set upon and chased to the
mountains. Pray Heaven and our Lady that he may reach them safely, and
send us help from Marbella, else there will be but short work with the
Christian population of Istan."
There was scorn in the girl's voice, scorn in the flashing eyes. Istan
was a Moorish village, where one Christian priest had been placed to
work amongst the Moslems, and seek to convert them to the true faith.
Success in this missionary work had been small; but the good man had
hitherto lived in peace with his alien flock. The wise and kindly
traditions of Ferdinand and Isabella, and Hermando de Talavera, had for
long kept under the natural hatred of Moor towards Christian in Southern
Spain. But a monarch had arisen who hated the word toleration. To keep
faith with the Moslem was to break it with the Almighty. The edict of
1567 was now a year or more old, and its pernicious effects were already
made abundantly evident in fierce Moorish risings here, there, and
everywhere.
Inez had heard stories as to the fate of Christian prisoners who had
fallen into the hands of the Moors. Before she followed Juana she had
caught up a shining dagger which hung against the wall; and she thrust
it into her girdle as she ran down the broken steps of the tower.
"At least, they shall not take us alive!" she breathed to herself; and
Juana seemed to hear, for she flashed back a glance at her young
mistress, and for a moment showed the gleam of a long stiletto which she
carried in the bosom of her tunic.
The priest of Istan dwelt in a strange house. It was, properly speaking,
no house at all, but a Moorish fortalice, dismantled and ruinous, which
he had partially repaired soon after his arrival there, and which, since
the arrival of his orphan niece to live with him, he had desired to make
more habitable still.
The place was, in fact, a sort of tower. The lowest floor was their
storehouse for supplies of wheat, oil, and so forth; and from this level
came up the sound of rough voices, as the Moors leisurely removed the
spoil before proceeding upwards. There was only one door from the
fortalice into the world without, and this it was impossible to reach,
for the Moors were swarming in the lowest part, effectually preventing
their egress. They knew perfectly that the two girls were as helplessly
caught as a rat in a trap; they did not even hasten the work in which
they were engaged. Inez, standing at the top of the long flight of stone
steps which led downwards to the basement, heard what they were saying
one to another, and into her olive cheek there crept a deep glow of red,
whilst her lips set themselves, her teeth clenched, and her black eyes
gleamed with a light like that of fire.
"Our Lady and the blessed saints protect us!" whispered Juana, with a
furtive glance into the beautiful face of her young mistress; and Inez
looked back at her without a quiver as she replied:
"The Christian's God helps those who help themselves, Juana. We are not
here to wring our hands and look for a miracle to save us. We fight for
our lives, and Christ and our Lady will help us. See, we are not quite
defenceless, Heaven be thanked for that! Collect those stones, quickly,
quietly. Keep out of sight. Do not let them observe us. Get together a
number, then you shall see!"
It was as Inez had said. The repairs of the fortalice, which had been
already commenced, had put the means of defence into their hands. Large
quantities of great stones had been collected at first in the basement,
but only the previous week had been laboriously carried up the steep,
narrow stairs which led upwards to the dwelling rooms; and these large
stones the two brave girls were now quietly collecting in a great heap
at the top of the flight.
They were in deep shadow, and below the brown-skinned men, in their
picturesque Arab dress, were far too busy examining their spoil, and
making away with it, to heed the slight sounds from above. They talked
together as they worked; they told of the attack they had made upon
Orgiba, and of that fearful massacre of Christian men, women, and
children at Uxixar. Inez held her breath to listen to the confirmation
of certain vague rumours which had reached them before this, but had
scarcely been believed. Peaceful Istan, with its terraced gardens
overhanging the lovely gorge of the Verde, had seemed so far removed
from the storm and strife; and its people were peaceable and kindly
disposed, even though they were Moriscos. But these men were rebels and
freebooters, with the fierce lust of blood upon them, their hands red
from the butchery of innocent, helpless women and children; men who
laughed aloud at tales of hideous deeds done in cold blood; men mad with
hatred to the conquering race, knowing themselves doomed to final
defeat, yet resolved to revenge themselves in every possible way upon
those of the hated faith ere their own turn came.
Upon such a band of men did Inez look down, with the fire of courageous
despair in her eyes. What could they do? what hope was there for them?
two slight girls against a score of trained warriors.
The Moriscos of Istan would probably not join in the attack upon them;
but they would not interfere with what their brethren of the faith might
do. Help from without there would be none, unless the priest himself
could find means of escape, and could get to Marbella and bring it. Inez
knew that he would strain every nerve in this effort. But what chance
had they of holding out for perhaps six hours or more? Could it be done?
Oh, could it be done? She looked at the heap of stones. She looked at
the flitting forms below in the gloom. And then she held her breath once
again, listening to stories of how in other places Christians had taken
refuge in towers and churches, whilst their Moorish foes piled faggots
soaked in pitch, and such-like inflammable material against and around
the walls, and reduced the building to one mass of flames.
If they kept the men from laying immediate hands upon them, would that
fiery doom be theirs?
"Better that than to fall into their hands," said Inez, between her shut
teeth; and Juana, looking at her mistress, with a world of faithful love
in her eyes, exclaimed softly:
"Our Lady will surely send us help, mistress. You are too beautiful to
die such a death!"
Inez put her hands upon the shoulders of the faithful girl, and said in
a low voice:
"You would come with me from Granada, Juana, where you would have been
safe; and there were those who warned us that we might not long be safe
out here. But my duty seemed to my uncle; and you--you would not leave
me. And what if I have brought you hither to your death?"
"We must all die once," answered Juana, her eyes full of love and
courage; "and I would sooner die with you, mistress, than live without
you. If I had stayed behind, and had heard this story of you, I should
have killed myself, or died for grief and shame that I was not with
you."
Then Inez put her arms about the faithful girl's neck, and kissed her
thrice upon the lips.
"We will do battle for our lives, Juana; and then, if needs be, we will
die together," she said.
Suddenly there was a cry from below. Some one had looked up, and had
seen the two girlish figures clinging together. Perhaps the very action
had been misunderstood, and instantly there was a rush towards the
steep, broken, narrow steps of some dozen swarthy Moors.
Instantly the girls were at their post at the head of the flight. Inez,
quiet and composed, gave the word.
"Welcome to the Moriscos!" she cried, in a clear and ringing voice, as
the first great stone leapt from her hand and went bounding and crashing
upon the head of the foremost Moor.
"Welcome to the Moriscos!" echoed Juana, dislodging another, which
sprang from stair to stair, and then, bounding sideways, went crashing
upon the bent back of a man in the basement beneath, who fell like a log
from the blow, his spine fractured.
Crash, crash, crash! Down hurtled the huge stones, flinging the
unprepared Moriscos from the steep stairs, where they fell in a confused
mass, one upon the top of the other, pinned down by the great boulders
which came rolling down upon them from above, cursing, raging, crushed
and maimed, utterly taken aback by such a reception; and now only eager
and anxious to get out of a place that seemed to rain nether mill-stones
upon them.
[Illustration: The first great stone leapt from her hand and went
bounding and crashing: upon the head of the foremost Moor.
_Page 8._]
Three of their number lay stretched dead upon the ground. A number more
were badly hurt; and all were flying from the stairs, which threatened
to become a veritable death-trap for all who tried to mount.
There was a rush for the outer door. The wounded were dragged away
groaning by their comrades; those who were sound carried the dead. They
turned and shook threatening fists at the two girls standing behind
their heap of stones at the top of the stairs; they promised them that
they were coming back. They breathed out threats which might well make
the stoutest hearts quail. But Inez stood up tall and straight, with a
great stone poised in her hand; and the strength and accuracy with which
those formidable weapons had been launched against them before, caused
the men to jostle each other through the doorway in their haste to
escape from possible hurt from the same source.
Scarcely had the last man disappeared before Juana was down the stairs
like a flash, had slammed-to the heavy oaken door, and had drawn the
great iron bolts and the heavy iron bar across it.
"The master left it open when he went out this morning," she said to
Inez, "and I never thought to shut it. Why should I? That is how they
got in so easily; but they will not get in again so fast!"
This was true enough; for the door had been made to withstand attack,
as, indeed, had the tower itself, and though it had fallen into a
ruinous state inside, it was built in a very solid fashion, the walls
being exceedingly thick, and light being admitted mainly by loopholes.
The top, also, was protected by a low battlement, from which a view of
the surrounding country could be obtained. This battlement had fallen a
good deal into disrepair, like the tower itself, and material for
repairing it had been brought in; so that not only had the girls the
remainder of the stones they had already used with such effect, but
there was a large quantity of such material that had been laboriously
carried up to the very top only three days earlier; and some of these
stones were very large and heavy, as they had been designed to form the
coping of the battlement.
"See there!" cried Inez, as the two girls ran up the stairs to the top,
to watch the retreat of the temporarily baffled foe. "Juana, how long,
think you, would such artillery last us? We could slay a score of our
foes, as the woman in the tower slew Abimelech the king. Did not mine
uncle tell us that tale the other night? and how little we thought----"
Juana's eyes were shining. The thrill of victory was upon her. The peril
was not over. Nay, they might have worse to encounter than they had
done already. But at least they had driven forth the foe from the
tower. Their citadel was their own. They had weapons of defence under
their hands. If help would only come at last, they could hold out for
awhile.
"See, see!" cried Inez, as she leaned over the wall to watch the baffled
Moriscos wending their way downwards, sometimes turning to shake
threatening fists at the tower and its defenders. "There is little Aluch
hiding below in the orange grove, and making signals to us. Run, Juana,
to that loophole below, and he will tell you what he has come to say!"
Juana disappeared down the stairs, and returned quickly with a face in
which anxiety and satisfaction were strangely blended.
"The master has got safely off to the mountains. He will be at Marbella
very soon, and then they will start out to help us; but Aluch said he
heard the Moriscos vowing vengeance upon us as they went away. They will
quickly be back; and he thinks if they cannot batter in the door and
take us alive, that they will burn the tower down over our heads."
"They will if they can," said Inez, looking out over the fair, wild
valley, with the expression of one who knows she may be looking almost
her last upon a familiar scene; "but we have a welcome ready for them!"
They leaned over the battlements, those two brave-hearted girls, and
they watched the little village at their feet, almost wishing that the
Moriscos would show themselves; for suspense was harder to bear than
action.
"Let us say our prayers," said Inez, suddenly kneeling in the hot
sunshine upon the hard stone floor; and Juana instantly knelt beside her
and took her rosary in her hands.
When they rose from their knees a few minutes later, suspense was at an
end. The attack was approaching.
"They have weapons now!" cried Juana. "Mistress, have a care. Those bows
and arrows are deadly weapons in the hands of a good marksman. And
look--they are bringing faggots; and that mule has a barrel of tar upon
his back! And see that great ram of wood! They will seek to batter down
the door with that. If they do----"
Yes, if they did that, the girls' position would be desperate indeed.
Before, the men had only been armed with daggers and scimitars, which
were useless save at close quarters. Now they had the deadly bow and
arrow, and if they once obtained entrance, it would be useless for the
girls to repeat the defensive manoeuvre of the earlier hours. They
would be shot down instantly, and fall an easy prey. Inez realised that
in a moment, as she watched the approach of the Moors; and scarcely had
her head appeared above the battlement, before a shower of arrows fell
clattering about them.
"This side!" she said to Juana, between shut teeth. "They will try the
door first; we will be ready for them!"
The girls dared not show themselves openly; but the battlements were
built with a view to defence, and they were able to look cautiously over
without being seen. The Moors were approaching the door; they were
almost directly underneath.
"Now!" cried Inez, setting her hand to a huge stone. Juana put all her
strength into the task, the great coping stone was hoisted between them,
and pushed bodily over.
A fearful yell and a thundering crash told that it had done its work
well; a storm of furious execration went up, and in the midst of it down
came another stone which dashed out the brains of a fellow in the crowd
below.
Juana peered over and then drew back, a fierce triumph on her girlish
face; for she had seen that there were two enemies the less.
"We have plenty of stones, the saints be praised!" she exclaimed. "They
are closing in again, Mistress. Let us give them another!"
The Moors were always careless of life in battle; and again and again
they advanced to fix their battering ram; whilst again and again the
huge stones came thundering down, and, besides these large ones, were
many smaller, which the girls aimed with such precision and coolness,
that not only could the assailants not fix their ram against the door to
batter it down, but the men approaching the walls with faggots and
combustibles were picked off one by one, and dropped wounded or crushed
beneath the hail of stones from above.
Inez looked over once again, drawing herself up to her full height, and
straining her eyes towards Marbella in the hope of seeing the
long-looked-for relief.
"Have a care, Mistress, have a care!" cried Juana anxiously, and sprang
forward; but she was just too late. The arrow had buried itself in the
shoulder of Inez; she gave a start and an exclamation of pain; but,
taking hold of it firmly, she instantly plucked it out.
"Pray heaven it be not poisoned!" cried Juana, as she stanched the flow
of blood with quick, skilful fingers. And Inez smiled bravely through
her pain.
"Hark! They are at the door again; we must show them that the garrison
is not disabled yet. That stone there, Juana; now both together! down it
goes! Hark! what a yell that was. I am revenged for my sore shoulder!"
But the brave resistance of the girls seemed rather to stimulate than to
baffle the assailants. The air was rent with frightful threats and
curses; and Inez, looking rather white, though there was no fear in her
heart, said quietly:
"There is no hope of mercy, Juana. If we are not relieved; if help comes
not, we must sell our lives as dearly as we can; and plunge our daggers
into our own hearts sooner than fall alive into their hands."
"We will, Mistress," said Juana firmly. "But surely our Lady will send
us aid ere that!"
"Look! look! look!" cried Inez suddenly. "The banner of the cross! Oh,
Juana, do my eyes deceive me? Is it a vision that I see?"
And indeed for a moment both the girls thought that it must be; for the
light fell sparkling upon mailed headpieces and flashing swords; and a
banner with the cross flaunting in the golden light of the southern
afternoon was borne aloft, and waved as though in signal that help
indeed was at hand.
"What can it be? Whence come they?" cried Inez, with breathless
agitation. "That is not the road from Marbella! Our Lady herself must
have sent them to our aid! Pray heaven it be not a vision!"
"See, see!" cried Juana in ungovernable excitement, running to the
battlement and showing herself fearlessly. "The Moriscos--they run! They
fly Mistress, we are saved! We are saved! It is our brave Spanish
soldiers come to our rescue!"
Inez looked over in turn, and though the mists seemed to rise before her
eyes in the revulsion of her feeling, she could see the flying figures
of the Moriscos dashing down helter-skelter into the deep ravine below,
to escape the Christian swords, and she saw the lifted headpiece of the
officer in charge of the band, as he looked up and marked the two girls
leaning over the low rampart.
The next minute Juana had dashed down and opened the door, while little
Aluch, flushed with triumph, was telling Inez how this band had come in
pursuit of the rebels of Orgiba; how he had met them and told them of
the predicament of the Christian maidens, and had brought them by the
nearest route to the rescue.
So Istan was saved--saved from Spanish vengeance through little Aluch's
act, as the Christian population of three souls was saved by the heroism
of the two brave girls. Inez rode into Marbella that evening beside the
officer of the band, to find her uncle there, beseeching help, which the
citizens could not believe was wanted in such a peaceful spot, till the
young officer rode into the great square, still holding Inez by the
hand, and told the tale of how she and Juana had held the tower against
the rebel Moriscos.
CATHARINE THE ROSE
He held her hands and looked steadfastly into her eyes.
"You would not hold me back, Kate?"
The eyes which looked bravely at him were full of tears; but the girl
shook the drops from her long lashes as she threw back her head, and
spoke with unfaltering lips.
"I would hold no man back from his duty; least of all the man I love."
In a moment his arm was about her. The troth plight, spoken amid the
clang of arms and the rattle of musketry, was but three days old; and
the strange sweetness of it had penetrated the life of the English
Captain in a fashion which he had no skill to analyse. But in these
stern days there was little scope for the sweetness of spoken love; and
even the minutes snatched from the pressing needs of garrison life were
few and far between.
But Hart had volunteered the second time for a service of extra peril,
and he had come to speak a farewell to his love--a farewell which both
knew might be final.
"I went and returned in safety last time, sweetheart," he said, "and
wherefore not again? I shall have your prayers to Heaven on my side this
time."
"You had them before," said Kate, lifting her head from his shoulder and
looking straight into his eyes; and he kissed away the last of the
raindrops from her lashes.
"Help we must have if Sluys is to be saved," he said. "I swim forth
to-night, under cover of the darkness, with letters for England's Queen.
The devil take that pestilent peace-party, who would beguile her into
dallying with Spain and her tyrant King and treacherous Princes!" broke
out the young Captain suddenly, in a gust of hot anger. "Can she not see
that her only safety lies in joining heart and soul with the Netherlands
in their struggle for life and liberty? Let Philip of Spain once get
these lands beneath his iron heel, and then England will have cause to
tremble for her very existence!"
"But the Queen has sent us help already," said Kate; "surely she will do
more, when she knows our dire extremity!"
"Eight hundred men," answered the young officer, with a tone of scorn,
"eight hundred English soldiers with eight hundred Dutch, to hold a
place like Sluys! How is it possible the thing should be done? It has
come to this, that if help comes not, Sluys must fall. Alexander Farnese
and his Spanish host will score another triumph for tyranny and the
Inquisition!"
A shudder ran through the girlish frame at the sound of that word, more
hateful and terrible to the party of freedom than any other which could
be spoken. Then her eyes flashed with a spark as of fire, and, flinging
back her head, she cried:
"And what would the men do if they came, Harold? What work would you set
them first to do?"
"There is work and to spare, both in attack and defence," answered Hart,
with something of grimness in his tone. "We are in dire need of at least
four redoubts between the citadel and the ramparts. The burghers have
banded themselves together to build us one. We are sending every man
that can be spared from garrison duty and the actual fighting to throw
up the second; but how the others are to be constructed with our present
force it is impossible to see. Help we must have at all cost, and I
trust these dispatches which you have been so carefully sewing in my
clothing, will bring it to us, ere it be too late."
He could not linger. The shadows of the coming evening were beginning to
fall, although the summer day lingered long. He put his hands upon the
shoulders of the girl, and looked into her face with a long wistful
gaze. His own face was very thin and brown, and though he was still
quite young, there were a few grey hairs to be seen about his temples.
Hard living, hard fighting, days and nights of anxious toil had left
their impress upon him, as upon many another compatriot at that season
of bitter struggle. And the bitterness was greater rather than less for
the knowledge that if England's Queen and her counsellors would but show
a little more firmness of purpose and readiness of dispatch, many of the
horrors of this protracted struggle might even now be saved to the
courageous and devoted Dutch.
Even upon the fair young face of Catharine Rose, the perils in which she
had been reared had traced their lines. That look of firm determination,
of high-souled courage, of resolute devotion to duty, be the cost what
it might, could not have been so clearly written there had she not lived
her young life amidst scenes and tales of stress and storm.
Men and women, youths and maidens, had to face from week to week, and
even from day to day, the possibility of having to yield up life and
liberty, home and friends, for their fidelity to their country and their
faith. Catharine's father had died a martyr at the stake. Her brother
had been slain in the memorable defence of Antwerp, two years since; and
the loss of her only son had broken the mother's heart, so that she
faded away and died a few months later.
But these troubles and losses had broken neither the heart nor the
spirit of Catharine. She had the mixed blood in her veins of an English
father and a Dutch mother; the courage and devotion of two warlike
nations seemed to combine in her youthful frame.
Her quarrel with Fate was that she had been born a woman, and not a man.
Her longing was to gird on sword and buckler, and go forth to fight the
hated Spaniard--the tool of the bloody tyrant whose very name was not
heard without curses both loud and deep.
"Oh, if I were but a man!" had for long been the cry of her heart; and
if in the sweetness of feeling herself beloved by one of the heroes of
Sluys she no longer breathed this aspiration, it was not because her
heart was less filled with an ardent longing to do and to dare.
"Farewell, sweetheart," spoke the Captain, looking deep into her eyes,
and knowing, as she too knew, that perhaps he was looking his last. But
the consciousness of ever-present peril was one of the elements of daily
life in the beleaguered city; and although this mission upon which Hart
set forth was one of more than ordinary peril, a soldier never went
forth upon his daily duty with any certainty of seeing home or friend
again.
"Farewell; God be with you, and bring you safely back to us," she
answered steadfastly; and their lips met once before he dropped her
hands, and hurried away without trusting himself to look behind again.
Catharine looked after him from the window as he walked rapidly away in
the gathering twilight. Her accustomed ears scarcely heeded the sullen
booming of the great guns, or the dropping shots of muskets from the
ramparts. The life of the town went on with a curious quietude in the
midst of warlike strife; notwithstanding the fact that it became daily
more and more evident that without substantial succour in men, and
munitions, and food, Sluys could not hold out against such overmastering
odds.
Suddenly the girl turned from the window, and, with fleet steps, crossed
the room, descended a dim stairway, and entered the chamber beneath,
where, by the light of a solitary lamp, a girl, a few years her senior,
was setting out a frugal meal with the aid of a youthful servant-maid.
"Has he gone, Kate?" she asked, as she saw that Catharine was alone; "I
had hoped he would have had something to eat ere he sallied forth into
the night. The rations of the soldiers are meagre enough now, and he has
a hard task before him. God in His mercy give him safe transit through
those sullen waters, and blind the eyes of sentries and soldiers!"
"He could not stay," answered Kate, "and he said he had eaten well.
May," she broke out suddenly, clasping her hands together, the colour
coming and going in her cheeks, "May, I have a plan, and you must help
me. I have learned what the sons and daughters of the city can do for
Sluys. I am going to toil for her, and you will help me!"
"What mean you, Kate? What have you heard? What can be done for the city
by weak women like ourselves?"
"I am not a weak woman!" answered Kate, throwing back her head in her
favourite gesture, "I am a strong woman, and so are you, May, and so are
dozens, ay, and scores of the daughters and the wives of the burghers.
Listen, May. You know of the need for redoubts, and how your husband is
toiling almost day and night to construct one on yonder side of the
citadel. But they need more; Harold himself told me so. They need more
than soldiers or burghers can build. I am going to organise a band of
women and girls. You and I, May Hart, will be the leaders. I have not
watched the building of forts and defences for nothing all these weeks.
You and I with the women of the city, will build them a redoubt, and it
shall be the work of the girls of Sluys!"
The young wife fired instantly at the suggestion. All over the city it
was known of the dire want of men to construct these defensive works.
Boys and men of the burgher class had gone forth willingly in defence
of their town, and were working night and day at the unaccustomed toil.
But Sluys was to see another sight ere long: a great band of women, many
of them mere girls, and even little children, armed with the needful
tools led by Mary Hart and Catharine Rose, going forth morning by
morning from their homes, delving, building, toiling through the long
hot summer's day, in rivalry of the brothers and fathers on the
corresponding side of the citadel; the new redoubt rising bit by bit
before their strenuous efforts, the work as accurate and solid as that
of the men, though every detail was the work of women and girls.
"Impossible!" had been the first cry of the burghers when they heard of
the proposed scheme. Proud though they were of the spirit that inspired
their women-kind, they shook their heads at the thought of their ever
being able to carry out such a plan. But Catharine was a power amongst
the girls of Sluys. She came of a race who had laid down their lives for
the country of their adoption. Her mother had been a townswoman; and the
girl had been born and bred amongst them. "Catharine the Rose" she had
been called in affectionate parlance, a play upon her patronymic, and a
compliment to her brilliant colouring which even the privations and
anxieties of the siege had not dimmed.
Mary Hart was also a girl of Sluys, lately wedded to Roger Hart, the
elder brother of the gallant English Captain, who had been sent with the
small band of troops into the city a short time previously, and had
already so distinguished himself by personal courage, that any specially
perilous errand was readily entrusted to him.
Roger was not a soldier by profession. The Harts' father had settled in
the Netherlands during a time of Tudor intolerance and persecution in
England, little foreseeing how soon the land of their adoption would
become the arena of a struggle to the death against a tyranny of which
England in her worst and darkest hour had never dreamed. He had,
however, thriven and prospered in the country he had chosen as his home,
and had not been driven away by the troubles which speedily befell it.
His sons, like Catharine Rose, combined in their veins the blood of
England's sons and that of the Netherlands; and it was with the Harts
that the girl had found a home, when her mother's death had left her
alone in the world. Perhaps it was not strange when Harold Hart came to
Sluys and spent his few spare hours at his brother's house, that he and
the girl he had played with in childhood should draw together as they
had done, animated by a common love, a common hatred, and a common
steadfast resolve to do and dare all in the cause which was nearest
their heart.
But how would the amazons of Sluys face the fire from the guns of the
enemy when their earthworks grew to the height that would make them
increasingly a target for the Spanish guns?
"Leave it to us now," said some of the burghers, who came as a
deputation to the spot where the women and girls were at work. "Commence
the fort if you will, brave maidens, but leave this part to men. It is
too stern work for delicate girls when the storm of lead whistles about
those who work."
It was to Catharine the Rose they spoke, and she turned upon them with a
flash in her eyes, as she made answer:
"Think you that we have not counted the cost? Think you that we are
afraid? Have we not seen? do we not know? Are we of different nature
from yourselves? I answer for the maidens of Sluys. That which we have
begun we will carry through. Have not you men your work cut out? Are you
not toiling--ay, and dying--daily for our defence and that of our homes?
Do you think we are afraid to toil, and, if need be, to die in the same
cause? It was like you to offer thus to relieve us in the time of
chiefest peril; but I give you the answer of the girls of Sluys--go to
Captain May for the answer of the wives!"
Captain Catharine and Captain May were the titles by which the two
leaders were known to their own squads; but the men called them
"Catharine the Rose" and "May in the Heart"--a sort of graceful parody
upon their names.
Mary Hart had the same answer to give on behalf of the wives of the
burghers. And, indeed, it was abundantly evident that the men had their
hands full with what they themselves had undertaken, and that unless the
brave work were carried out by those who had commenced it, it must
perforce be abandoned; whilst more and more needful for the safety of
the city did these redoubts become.
The temper of the besiegers was known to be sorely tried, and scant was
the chance that even if they heeded the sex of the workers upon the
growing redoubt, they would on that account permit it to grow without
opposition. Again and again in the history of those bloody wars women
had fought side by side with men in the defence of their homes and
liberties, and the Spanish soldier had as ruthlessly cut down the one as
the other.
"Girls, are you afraid?" asked Kate, as she led forth her band upon the
morrow. "You have heard the balls hissing overhead these many days; but
to-day, perchance, we shall feel the sting of the hot bullet, or the
splinter of some shell tearing its way into our flesh. Are you afraid to
face such experience?"
"We are not afraid; where you lead us, we will go!" was the almost
universal rejoinder, spoken with a quiet gravity and resolve which
attested its sincerity. These girls were not undertaking the task in
ignorance of its perils. They had seen enough of wounds and death. They
knew what they were facing; but there were only a few waverers who, on
Kate's invitation, went back; and even they could not tear themselves
away from the scene of their labours; they came to look on beneath the
shelter of the rampart, to give help should help be needed; and before
long the stern excitement of the hour possessed them also, and scarce
one but was soon working with the rest, only shrinking and perhaps
uttering a little cry as some bullet might whizz close to her ear.
Under fire!--a rain of bullets falling round!--a comrade beside you
sometimes falling silent and helpless, or with a cry and a struggle. It
is so easy to speak of such things, but how many of us realise what they
mean to those who have passed through such experience?
Catharine in the foremost post of danger worked on directing and
encouraging. She had insisted that her squad of girls should take the
side most exposed to the enemy's fire, leaving the less perilous place
for the married women. There had been a generous rivalry for this
position of peril and honour; but Catharine's word and determination had
prevailed.
"You who have husbands and perhaps children to think of, and to miss you
if you are taken, must give this post to us," she said; and she thought
of the man she loved, of whom no tidings had yet come; who had ventured
his life so many times; and in her heart she prayed that if he were
taken, she might join him on the other side of the narrow stream of
death, the stream which seemed so small and narrow when so many were
crossing it day by day.
So the work progressed rapidly, though many a brave young life paid
forfeit, and the tears would well up sometimes in Kate's eyes, as she
saw a comrade carried off dead, or bent over a dying girl, to hear her
last brave message for home and friends; or, when in the silence of the
night, she thought upon these things, and cried in her heart, "How long,
O Lord, how long?"
But there was never a quiver of fear in her face or in her heart as she
stood to her post day by day; and the walls grew, and the Commandant of
the garrison came and gave warm praise and thanks, and timely cautions
and instructions to the heroic girls who toiled through the hot summer
days without one selfish thought of fear.
Once, as he stood beside the leader of these brave young amazons, a
shell came screaming through the air, and he shouted a word of command.
"Down on your faces!" he cried, and himself set the example, to show
them what to do. The shell was from a new battery, and it had been
directed with a view to stopping the work on this very redoubt. The
girls dropped their tools and fell flat, but Catharine was a thought too
late. She had been so interested in the work of that battery that she
forgot for a moment the peril in which she stood. Luckily the Commandant
pulled her down beside him before it was too late; but a portion of the
explosive struck her, tearing a ghastly wound from wrist to elbow. The
stones and rubble seemed to fly up around them; a fragment dashed itself
against Catharine's head; a blood-red mist seemed to swirl before her
eyes, and blank darkness swallowed her up.
When she opened her eyes next it was to find herself at home, lying upon
the wide couch beneath her favourite window which looked down the
street. The light showed that the evening was advancing; May was in the
room setting the table for supper, and--but was not that part and parcel
of the dream which still seemed to enwrap her faculties?--Harold, her
bronzed-faced soldier, was seated beside her, his eyes hungrily bent
upon her face.
She smiled, half afraid to move lest the dream should vanish, and the
next moment he had her fingers close in his grasp.
"Kate, my Kate!" he cried; and she smiled back, and sat up.
[Illustration: The Commandant pulled her down beside him before it was
too late.
_Page 30._]
"Harold! you have done it again! and have come back safe."
"Yes, I have come back, and to find--what? That my Kate has set an
example to the women of the Netherlands, that----"
But she put her hand upon his mouth and stopped him.
"It was not I more than others; and there are some who have laid down
their lives for the cause. You must not praise me; why should not women
do their duty to the cause of freedom as well as men? You do not praise
your men for standing to their guns."
"But we will praise you!" cried Harold hotly. "Know you not that all the
city is ringing with the news that the women's redoubt is all but
finished, and that in spite of the deadly fire from the new battery? And
Kate, to-night the soldiers will get the guns mounted, and to-morrow
Fort Venus will give her answer back. Oh, my Kate, will you be able to
come and see?"
"Fort Venus?" she queried, with a smile in her eyes.
"That is what the Commandant has christened it, and the soldiers
received the name with ringing cheers. The names of Catharine the Rose
and May in the Heart are in all men's mouths. Surely, surely you must be
there to see!"
And she was; for the wound, although severe, was not crippling, and the
dauntless spirit of the girl carried her through the triumph and
gladness of the next day, as it had carried her through the previous
perils and hardships.
A spectator would have thought that Sluys was _en fête_ that day instead
of a sorely pressed beleaguered city, wanting food, help, everything.
Citizens and soldiers marched in squadrons to the new fort, which had
been the scene of arduous toil all the night, and from whose loopholes
the mouths of guns could now be seen protruding.
And foremost in that procession, cheered to the echo by burghers and
soldiers alike marched the brave women and girls, who had done such work
for their country and their city, headed by Mary Hart and Kate Rose.
Then, at a given signal, "Fort Venus" opened her mouth and roared forth
her message of defiance and resolve.
"Hear the voice of the women of the Netherlands!" cried Arnold de
Groenevelt, the grave Commandant, as the guns belched forth fire and
smoke, and the welkin rang with the shouts of the citizens and soldiers.
And so true was the aim of the gunners, that the new battery was
speedily silenced; and cheer after cheer went up as the destruction
wrought became more and more visible; and the youths of the city bore
aloft upon their shoulders through the streets to their homes,
Catharine the Rose and May in the Heart, crying aloud as they took their
triumphal way: "Hear the voice of Fort Venus! Hear the voice of the
women of the Netherlands! Death to the tyrant! Life and immortality to
the liberties of the people, and freedom of faith. The voice of the
girls is the voice of the nation."
ELSJE VAN HOUWENING
For two years she had lived within the walls of a grim fortress; a
prison had been her home. Thirteen massive doors, secured by iron bolts
and bars and huge locks, stood between her and the outer world; and yet
this maiden of nineteen summers was no prisoner; she was here in this
gloomy place of her own freewill.
And for what cause was she here? Was it to guard and tend one who was
very near and dear to her,--a father, a mother, a brother? No; it was
none of her own kindred who were thus shut up, but her master, Hugo de
Groot, or Grotius, as he is more generally known to history.
With the causes for the unjust captivity of this great and learned man,
we need not deal here. They belong to the page of history, where they
can be read in full. Suffice it to say, that Grotius was condemned by
the States-General of the Netherlands to a life-long captivity in the
great fortress of Loevenstein, under the spiteful tyranny of its
governor, Lieutenant Deventer, who had an especial grudge against him,
and seemed resolved to make his captivity as bitter as it was possible
to do.
The one grace allowed to the unhappy prisoner was that his wife and
family might share his captivity; might live within the fortress in the
quarters allotted to him, although not suffering all the rigours of
imprisonment. And with Madame de Groot and her family of children had
come Elsje van Houwening, their young maid-servant, who had stoutly
refused to leave them in their hour of trial and trouble, and had
already spent two years of her young life within the walls of the
prison.
The tie that binds master and servant together was stronger in those
days than it is now. The race of devoted servants seems well-nigh
extinct in these degenerate days; our mothers and grandmothers had
experience of a fidelity which is seldom met with now. But even in their
times an instance of such courage and devotion must needs be rare. Yet
to Elsje it seemed perfectly natural to cleave to the family that had
befriended her in a lonely childhood, and she loved her master and
mistress and their children with a love which only grew stronger and
stronger during the long, monotonous days of this captivity. Small
wonder was it that Madame de Groot should sit for hours over their
scanty fire, her children asleep, her husband poring over the books
which came to him from time to time in a great chest from friends in
Gorcum, talking with Elsje as though to a friend, talking over the
difficulties of keeping house upon the pittance allowed them from the
Government after the sequestration of their family property; the
mournful future that seemed to stretch indefinitely before them, and now
and again of that ever recurrent dream of hapless prisoners--the chances
of escape!
And yet what was the possibility of this? How could it be even dreamed
of that a closely guarded prisoner should pass through those thirteen
iron-bound doors which lay between him and liberty? And if the sad-eyed
wife or eager maid looked down from their windows, what did they see,
save the rushing, tumultuous flow of a deep turbid river?
Nature and art had combined, as it seemed, to make this fortress
impregnable alike from without and within. It stood in the very narrow
and acute angle, where the strong and turbid Waal joins its rushing
waters with those of the Meuse; and on the land side immensely strong
walls with a double moat guarded it from attack, and held in helpless
captivity all those upon whom the great doors had closed.
True Madame de Groot with her children, or Elsje with her market basket,
were permitted to sally forth at will by day, or, at least, under
modified restrictions; to cross by the boat to Gorcum, which lay exactly
opposite on the farther bank of the Waal. They made their purchases
here, and saw their friends from time to time; but how did this help
the prisoner? Madame de Groot was very stout and somewhat short, whilst
Grotius himself was tall and slight, possessed of singular personal
beauty, and an air and bearing that would be most difficult to disguise.
The idea of dressing him up in their clothes, and smuggling him out in
that fashion, had been talked of a hundred times, but only in a sort of
despair. Hugo himself had shaken his head over the plan. It was doomed
to ignominious failure, as he saw from the first. No one was permitted
to leave the prison save in broad daylight, and all had to pass
innumerable guards and sentries on the way. If the prisoner were to be
detected seeking to escape in such fashion, it would only lead to a more
rigorous and harsh captivity, and, probably, to his entire separation
from his family.
The wife had sorrowfully agreed that it was too great a risk to run;
yet, nevertheless, she and Elsje were ceaselessly racking their brains
to think out some plan whereby the prisoner might escape the dreadful
doom of life-long captivity.
It was evening. Madame de Groot was bending over the stove, cooking her
husband's frugal supper. Elsje went in search of the children, to put
such of them to bed as were not already there.
Her favourite out of all the little ones was Cornelia, a lovely little
girl of nine years, wonderfully like her father, and perfectly devoted
to him. She and her brother Hugo were often to be found in the room in
which he studied and wrote from morning to night, only varying his
sedentary pursuits by the spinning of a huge top that had been made for
him by friends in Gorcum, that he might not suffer too greatly from lack
of accustomed exercise.
Elsje stole softly into the room, so as not to disturb her master, and
glanced round the bare place again and again. Where could the children
be? She had looked everywhere else in their limited quarters; there was
no other room except this one that had not been searched through and
through. She would not disturb her master by a question, and continued
softly moving and looking about, till the sound of a suppressed child's
laugh, close beside her, made her almost jump; for there was nothing to
be seen, save--ah! yes; she saw it all now--there was the great empty
chest that had brought the last load of books from Gorcum. She raised
the lid, and a simultaneous shriek of laughter arose from two pairs of
rosy child-lips. There were little Cornelia and Hugo, curled up like
dormice in the chest, peeping at Elsje, with eyes brimming with
laughter.
She carried them off, laughing herself, and asking them how they managed
to breathe with the heavy lid closed fast down.
"Oh, there is a long crack just under the top of the lid, it doesn't
show from outside; but we could see light, and your shadow came right
over us, and then Hugo laughed, and you heard. We sat there a long time
this afternoon and told ghost stories. It was such fun!"
Elsje put the children to bed, and went thither shortly herself, but all
the night long she was dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. She saw the chest
with the two children inside; and then she saw it again, and instead of
two small figures there was one large one--a tall man's figure crushed
together in the chest, and when he turned his face towards her it was
the face of her master!
The girl was up and about with the dawn; and her mistress coming to help
her, she told her in whispers of the incident of the previous night and
of her dream, and the two women stood staring at each other, with white
faces and glowing eyes, as the idea slowly formulated itself and took
shape.
"It might be done! It might be done!" whispered Madame de Groot at last;
"if he could get in, it might perchance be done. Oh! if heaven should
open us such a way as that!"
That day passed like a dream to all. They waited till dark; till all the
children were sound asleep, and no one from without would trouble them
again, before they even dared to make the experiment. Grotius was a tall
man, as has been said, though he was slender in his proportions. At
another time he would have pronounced it impossible that he should so
fold himself up as to get inside that chest, and let the lid be fastened
down upon him. But when a man sees life-long captivity before him on the
one side, and the hope of escape and freedom on the other, he can
sometimes achieve the impossible. And, at last, after many efforts, the
thing was done; the lid was closed, and the man found that he could
breathe and endure the pressure even for a considerable period.
Day by day, or, rather, night by night, he made these trials till his
limbs in some sort grew accustomed to the strange constriction, and he
was able to bear the cramped posture for a more prolonged time. Madame
de Groot, upon her next journey into Gorcum, spoke jestingly with a
friend as to how her husband would be received were he to turn-up some
day, and Madame Daatselaer answered, in the same jesting spirit, that he
would have a warm and hearty welcome; for the Daatselaers were old and
tried friends, though only of the rank of merchants. They owned a large
warehouse of great repute, and their dwelling-house was at the rear of
the shop, where ribbons and other merchandise were vended to all comers.
It was through the immediate agency of these friends that the books lent
to Grotius by Professor Erpenius were consigned to him in his prison.
The Professor sent them to the Daatselaers, who dispatched the chest by
the boat which plied between Gorcum and the fortress opposite. It was
returned in the same manner to them when the books were done with, for
transmission back to the Professor. Therefore, if Grotius could conceal
himself in the chest for the journey over the water, he would be
consigned to the safe-keeping of friends, who might be trusted to do
everything in their power to facilitate his escape to Antwerp, and so to
France, where he would be safe from the malice of his enemies.
Days flew by, and the plan seemed more and more feasible, albeit fraught
with no small danger of discovery. Madame de Groot's anxiety was almost
greater than that of her husband, and perhaps it was her visible
agitation, occasionally manifesting itself in spite of her great courage
and self-control, which led the prisoner to speak as follows to Elsje,
when he and she were alone one day, his wife having gone once more to
Gorcum, prepared to drop a faint hint to Madame Daatselaer, without,
however, really arousing her suspicions of what was in the wind; for all
knew how much the success of such a scheme depended upon the maintenance
of absolute secrecy.
"My good girl, is it true what thy mistress says of thee, that this
whole plan is one of thine own making?"
"Not of my making, master, but rather as a thing revealed to me in a
dream. I seemed to see the chest, and when it was opened there was my
master within. I told the dream to my mistress, and the rest seemed to
follow of itself."
"And if the plan be carried out when next that chest is returned, who
will accompany it across the water?"
Elsje paused in thought. Sometimes she had gone with it on former
occasions, sometimes her mistress. There had been no peril in the
transit then. It had mattered nothing who went; but now things would be
quite different. She looked her master questioningly in the face. He
returned her glance.
"I have been thinking much on that point," he said; "it will be a
memorable journey for those concerned. There be moments when I misdoubt
me if my wife hath the needful firmness. It is not courage that she
lacks, nor firmness of purpose; but can she pass the many barriers, the
many posts of peril, the many prying eyes within and without, and so
command her face that her anxiety be not seen? The sorrows and anxieties
of these last years have told upon her. And if she betray too great
solicitude for this chest of books, why in a moment we may be undone!"
Elsje stood looking very thoughtful. She saw at once the danger of
self-betrayal; the danger that would be far more quickly noted in the
prisoner's wife than in his servant. Her gaze was lifted to her
master's face.
"Shall I be the one to go?" she asked.
"Wouldst thou not be afraid, my child?"
"What punishment could they give to me were the plot to be discovered?"
she asked.
"Legally none," answered Grotius, whose training in the law gave him
full knowledge on all such subjects; "but, my girl, I myself am guilty
of no crime--yet see what has befallen me. I cannot tell what might be
thy fate were this thing discovered during the perilous transit."
For a moment Elsje stood motionless, thinking deeply. Then she lifted
her head, and her eyes shone brightly.
"No matter for that," she said, "whatever comes of it I will be the one
to go. If they must punish another innocent person, let the victim be me
rather than my dear mistress!"
Grotius took her hand, and the tears stood in his eyes. Elsje rattled on
as though to hinder him from speaking the words that for the moment
stuck in his throat.
"It will be better so every way," she said, "for see--the men must come
in hither to get the chest, and so it must seem that you, master, are
sick and in bed, else would they look to see you here at work. We must
draw the curtains close; but leave your clothes visible by the bedside,
and my mistress must seem to be attending upon you. So it will be best
every way for me to go with the box; and the soldiers all know me, and
we have our quips and jests together. I will talk to them all the while,
as my mistress could scarce do without rousing suspicion, so they will
not note if the weight of the chest be something greater than usual."
"Thou art a brave girl; thou hast a great heart and a ready wit," said
the prisoner with emotion in his voice, "may God reward thee for thy
devotion to a family in distress; for we may never be able to do so."
"I want no reward," answered Elsje stoutly, "save to know that I have
helped those I love, and who once befriended me."
The next day was Sunday, and a wild March gale was raging round the
castle, lashing the waves of the river into foam. The rain dashed
against the windows as they sat with their books of devotion, as usual,
through the earlier hours of the day. Grotius had read and offered
prayer as was his wont, when suddenly little Cornelia turned her face
towards the barred window, and her eyes seemed full of a strange light.
"To-morrow, Papa must be off to Gorcum, whatever the weather may be,"
she said; and then, slipping off her chair, took the little ones away
with her for the usual midday repast.
Husband and wife looked at each other aghast. The strangeness of the
coincidence seemed to them most remarkable.
"Let us take it for a direction from heaven," said Grotius. "Out of the
mouth of babes and sucklings--the child knew nothing, yet something was
revealed to her spirit."
Later in the day Elsje came breathless with the news that the Commandant
of the fortress was just leaving it for a few days' absence. He had
received his captaincy, and was to go to Heusden to receive his company.
All things seemed pointing in one direction; and early on Monday
morning, Madame de Groot asked leave of Madame Deventer to send back the
chest of books to Gorcum.
"My husband is not well; he is wearing himself out with so much study.
If the books are sent away I can persuade him to remain in bed and take
some needful repose. I got him to pack them up last night; but if they
stay in his sight, he will assuredly remember something more he wants to
study, and nothing I can say will then persuade him to keep in bed."
Madame Deventer was a kind-hearted woman, and sorry for the prisoner's
wife. She gave ready consent to the request, and said she would send
some soldiers shortly to take the chest away.
The crucial moment had come. Grotius, dressed in the thinnest linen
under-garments--for there was not space for much clothing--took his
place in the chest. A book, padded with a cloth, served as a sort of
pillow, a few books and papers were placed in such interstices as were
left by the curves of his body; and his wife took a solemn farewell of
him before she shut down the lid and snapped the key in the lock, giving
it in deep silence to Elsje.
Outside the storm still raged and howled, but the tumult of their souls
seemed greater; yet Elsje stood with a careless smile on her face as the
soldiers entered the room, and Madame de Groot bent over the fire,
stirring something in a saucepan, and telling her husband that she would
soon have his soup ready, and she hoped he would enjoy it more than his
breakfast. The curtains of the alcove bed were drawn, and the ordinary
clothes of the prisoner lay upon a chair near it.
"My word, but it is a heavy boxful this time!" exclaimed the men, as
they laid hold of the chest.
"To be sure," cried Elsje; "what would you have? They are Arminian
books, and those are mighty solid, I can tell you. You had best have a
care how you treat them when you get to the water. Arminian books have
sunk many a good bark ere now, before it has got into harbour!"
The men laughed at the innuendo of the girl's words. It was in truth
their adherence to the Arminian side of the great Arminian and
Calvinist controversy which had shipwrecked the lives of Grotius and so
many others. Elsje chattered gaily to them as they dragged and lifted
the heavy chest down the stairs and through the thirteen ponderous
doors. She kept them laughing by her droll remarks, and the little
anecdotes she retailed for them whenever a halt was called. At last it
stood without the last of the doors, and the soldiers paused and wiped
their brows.
"Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?"
Elsje's heart thumped against her ribs. This was the crucial moment. At
first when the box had gone in and out its contents had been carefully
examined; but as nothing save the books had ever been found there the
practice had been given up latterly. But there was never any actual
certainty.
Elsje dangled the key from her girdle, and swung it carelessly round and
round.
"It always used to be done," she said, "but methinks my lord Commandant
love not the smell of Arminian books; perchance it smacks too much of
brimstone to please him! For of late he has not troubled. But I care
not, only pray you make haste. I have marketing to do in Gorcum, and
what if all the best things are sold ere I get there, and my poor master
lying sick?"
[Illustration: "Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?"
_Page 48._]
"Ask the will of madame," said somebody; and the messenger went and
returned, whilst Elsje stood almost sick with apprehension, though she
never ceased laughing and talking the while.
"Madame says it may pass," came the answer back, "since her lord
troubles not now, she will not delay the transit."
"Perhaps she fears lest some little Arminian imp should spring out upon
her!" quoth Elsje merrily; and away they went with their load towards
the boat.
It was indeed a rough passage that lay before them; and the girl's heart
was in her mouth many times ere she got her precious chest safe on
board, and securely lashed to keep it from slipping overboard. They
laughed at her solicitude; but she always had a ready retort; and a
young officer of the garrison, crossing at the same time, was so taken
by her rosy face and bright eyes that he sat himself down upon the chest
and drummed upon it with his feet, as he chatted with the little servant
girl.
"Why do you wave your kerchief?" he asked, as the boat began her rough
voyage across the tumbling waters.
"To tell yon children at that window that I am safe afloat. They feared
the boat might not go in such a storm. And, fair sir, be pleased to
leave kicking of that box, and come away to this better seat; for there
is some precious porcelain inside, and if it be broken, I shall get the
blame, for I packed it."
But Elsje's signal was for the straining eyes of her mistress far more
than for those of the children. All was well thus far, and the worst of
the peril was over; but--but there was still the landing on the other
side.
"Take my box first," she pleaded, as they approached the wharf.
"That lumbersome thing?--that can wait till the last," answered the
skipper, rather surlily; "'tis as heavy as if it held a man."
"I have heard tell how a criminal was once carried from prison in a
box," remarked a soldier's wife laughingly, "and, methinks, if one has
so escaped another might. Let us peep inside, maiden!"
Elsje laughed, bending to tie her shoe-string.
"What, and let the Professor's books be all scattered this way and that,
and perhaps fall into the water! He would never send my master another
chest; and, methinks, without books he would die."
"I'll get a gimlet and bore a hole in the Arminian!" laughed the
soldier, whose wife had first spoken.
"Ay do!" cried Elsje; "get a gimlet long enough to reach the top of the
castle. I will stand by and watch you as you bore!"
"Out of the way there!" cried the skipper and his son, as the boat swung
towards the wharf; and in a moment all was bustle and confusion. The
soldier helped his wife ashore, the young officer made a bow to Elsje
and sprung over the side; there was hurry and bustle, and a welcome
confusion; and the girl stood beside her precious chest, and at last, by
the promise of an exorbitant fee, got the skipper and his son to
transport the chest at once to the Daatselaers' house, on a barrow.
She walked a little ahead in her excitement; but was recalled by a surly
question from the old man.
"Do you hear that, girl--do you hear what my son says? You have got
something alive in that box!"
"Ah, to be sure, to be sure," she cried, laughing, "it is the Arminian
books; they are often like that, because they say the devil helped to
write them. Why, when I was a little girl I knew an old woman who lived
all by herself in a wood; and she had a big book, and they said the
devil had given it to her; and if she wanted a ride, she just got
astride of it and it flew with her wherever she wanted to go! That's
what my mistress says about some of these big books. There's magic in
them, and she wants to be rid of them."
The men looked awed; but superstition was rife in those days, and their
one aim now was to be rid of the uncanny load. It was wheeled, and then
lifted into the back room of the house, and Elsje paid and dismissed the
bearers with perfect calmness.
The next minute she had glided into the shop where Madame Daatselaer was
serving customers, and whispered something in her ear.
Leaving everything, but with a face as white as paper, the worthy woman
hastened after Elsje, who rapped on the lid, but got no reply; for a
moment her fortitude gave way, and she cried aloud in her anguish:
"My master!--my poor master--he is dead--stifled!"
"Ah!" cried Madame Daatselaer in bewildered dismay, "better a live
husband in a prison than a dead one at liberty; my poor friend, my poor
friend!"
But a sharp rap on the trunk from the inside reassured them.
"I am not dead," gasped Grotius, "but I was not sure of your voices.
Open and let me have some air!"
Elsje unlocked the chest, whilst her friend locked the door of the room,
and Grotius raised himself slowly as from a coffin.
"Praised be God for this deliverance!" he cried, as Elsje brought a
cloak in which to wrap him, for he was cramped and numbed by cold, and
the constraint of his posture. "God be praised for His mercy; and how
can I thank you enough, good friend, for receiving me thus into your
house!"
"If only it bring not my husband to prison in your place," cried Madame
Daatselaer, whose face was deadly pale.
"Nay, nay, sooner than that I will return to my prison in yon chest as I
came forth!" answered Grotius.
But Madame Daatselaer rallied her courage and spoke quickly.
"Nay, nay, that shall never be since thou art here. But thou art no
common person, and all the world talks of thee, and will soon be talking
of thy escape. But before that we will have you safe from pursuit. My
husband will see to that. And now I must hide you in the attics till
dark, when we can make farther plans."
Elsje's work was done. Her master took her hands in his, and kissed her
on the brow.
"Farewell, my brave maiden. May God reward you and keep you always safe
from harm. There will be many heartfelt prayers offered that no ill
shall befall you through your devotion to me and mine. And now go--tell
the story to my dear wife; and so soon as I be safe in France she and
the children shall join me, and in our home there will always be a place
for thee; if thou dost not find another and a better home for thyself."
Elsje's tears fell as she said farewell to her master; but her heart was
full of joy as she returned to the castle with the story for her
mistress. And soon they knew that Grotius had effected his escape to
France, and that all peril was at an end.
The Commandant, it is true, raged at the women when he found how his
prisoner had escaped him; but nothing was done to them, and they were
shortly released.
They joined their lord and master in his new home, and from thence one
day, not so long after, Elsje van Houwening was married to a faithful
servant of the family, who had also shared their captivity in the
fortress of Loevenstein; and had been so well taught by his master the
rudiments of law and of Latin, that he rose in time to be a thriving
advocate.
But of nothing was he ever so proud as of the bravery and address of his
wife in her girlhood, when she had been the instrument by which the
celebrated escape of Grotius had been effected from the grim fortress of
Loevenstein.
GRIZEL COCHRANE
Father and daughter stood facing each other in the gloomy prison of the
Tolbooth: the girl's face was tense with emotion, and the man's eyes
seemed to devour her with their gaze; for Sir John Cochrane believed
that he was looking his last upon his favourite child.
He was not a man of great parts, nor one who can be regarded as in any
sort a hero. He was more rash than brave, and his ill-judged support of
the claims of the luckless Duke of Monmouth had brought him to his
present doleful position--that of a prisoner in the hands of a deeply
offended and implacable monarch, expecting each day to hear that his
death-warrant had arrived from London.
Sir John had been one of the leaders of the insurrection in Scotland,
which had been even more of a fiasco than the one conducted by Lord Grey
in the West of England, where a temporary success at the outset had
cheered and encouraged the adherents of the champion of Protestantism.
King James II., savage of temper and bitterly angry with all those
concerned in this rebellion, had sent the terrible Jeffreys to the
Western Assizes, which henceforth were to be known as the Bloody
Assizes; and here, in Edinburgh, lay another illustrious victim,
awaiting the king's warrant, which would doom him to the scaffold.
Whatever might have been his faults and errors in his public life, Sir
John was a tender and loving husband and father. His wife, a delicate
invalid, shattered by grief and anxiety, was unable to leave her room;
but Grizel had come. Grizel had paid visits before this to her captive
father, and each one was more sorrowful than the last, since the end
must now be drawing very near.
"Methinks, my child," said the father hoarsely, "that this will be our
last meeting on earth. They told me to-day that the death-warrant would,
in all likelihood, be here in three days' time from this."
A quiver passed over Grizel's face; yet her voice was calm.
"Can our grandfather do nothing?" she asked.
Now Sir John's father was Lord Dundonald, a man of wealth and influence,
and the question was a natural one to put.
"He is doing his utmost," answered Sir John, "I have had tidings of
that. He has got the King's Confessor on his side, and they hope to gain
the ear of His Majesty. But I fear me it will be all too late. If the
warrant could be delayed, pardon might perchance reach in time; but as
things now stand I fear to cherish hope. Let the will of God be done, my
child. We must believe that He knows best."
A sudden light had flashed into Grizel's eyes, it illumined her whole
face.
"Thou dost speak truth, my father," she said. "God, indeed, does know
best; and let His will be done. But is it His will that one should
perish whom even an earthly sovereign has pardoned, and who has never
offended against Him?"
Sir John looked at her with a questioning gaze.
"God's ways, my daughter, are not as our ways, and His thoughts are past
finding out. Let us brace our spirits for what may lie before us, and
resign ourselves to that which He shall send. Kiss me once again, and
bid me good-bye. It will not be for ever. This life is but a span, and
we shall meet on the shores of eternity."
She flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
"Farewell, sweet father, farewell," she cried, with a little catch in
her voice. "Farewell, but not good-bye. Something within me tells me
that we shall meet again--in this life."
He looked into her strangely shining eyes, noted the resolute expression
of her beautiful mouth, and asked almost anxiously:
"What dost thou mean, my child? What hast thou in that busy head of
thine? Thou must run no risk for me; for thou art the stay and prop at
home. Thou must be son, daughter, and husband--all to thy poor
mother--when I am taken."
Steps were heard approaching. Grizel drew herself away, and looked once
more into her father's face:
"Son and daughter--that will I be in all sooth, dear sir; but
husband!--nay that will not be needed, methinks----"
"Grizel, what dost thou mean? What----"
The key was turning in the lock. She put her hands upon her father's
shoulders and kissed him once again.
"Fear nothing," she said, "I am a Cochrane." And with those words on her
lips she turned and left him, following her grim guide, the gaoler, till
she stood outside in the street once more.
The same expression of high courage and resolve was on her face, as she
pursued her way through the darkening streets, followed by the
man-servant who had been awaiting her. But she did not go straight home.
She turned aside up a narrow thoroughfare, and entered a house in it,
with the familiarity of one who is known there intimately; and her
servant had to wait long before his youthful mistress reappeared.
She went home, and went straight to her mother, who was weeping and
praying in her upper chamber; there, kneeling beside the bed, Grizel
told of the interview with her father, and then said in a low, earnest
tone:
"Mother mine, give me thy blessing, for I must needs start forth this
very night to save my father."
"Thou, child? What canst thou do?"
"Mother, I have a plan. I will not tell it thee, for it were better none
should know. But pray for me whilst I am gone, that God will bless and
watch over me. Methinks it was He who put the thought into my heart, and
that He will speed me on my way and give me success in the carrying out
of it."
"Thou wilt not run into danger, my child?" said the mother, who had come
to lean upon Grizel, since her husband's captivity, almost as she would
have done upon a son.
"I will not seek danger; I will avoid it where possible. But thou
would'st not have me flinch, mother, when my father's life is at stake?"
"And thou must go to-night? But not alone?"
"I will take old Donald with me! And we must have the two best horses in
the stable. But fear not, mother mine! In three or four days I will be
back; and I trow that I shall have such news to tell, as will make thy
heart sing aloud for joy."
That night, just before the gates of the city were shut, the guard saw
two men riding forth together, the elder of whom he recognised as the
old servant of the Cochranes. The younger of the pair, who looked like
a youth, had his hat drawn somewhat close over his face. Donald gave the
man a ready "Good-night," and paused a moment or two to gossip with him
over the latest news from England.
"They say the next mail-bags will bring poor Sir John's death-warrant,"
remarked the soldier; "they must be in sore grief yonder, doubtless."
"How long does a letter take passing betwixt London and Edinburgh?"
asked Donald.
"A matter of eight days each way," answered the man; and, after a few
more words, Donald rode on, and joined his companion speedily.
"Eight days?" spoke a soft voice, not much like a youth's, as Donald
told the news; "then, should anything go wrong with the warrant, it
would be full sixteen days ere another could be got from London. Sure
that would give the time--the time so sorely needed. Sixteen days!" and
the words ended in a deep-drawn breath.
The old servant looked with loving eyes at the youth--who, of course,
was none other than Grizel habited in the attire of a lad--a plain and
inconspicuous riding suit, which she had borrowed from the brother of a
dear friend, and which a little skill had altered to fit her slim figure
well. Her floating locks aroused no suspicion as to her sex, in days
when huge wigs adorned (or disfigured) the heads of men, and where
those who could not afford these costly luxuries, and yet desired to
keep in the fashion, let their own hair grow, and kept it curled and
powdered. There was nothing specially womanish in the aspect of Grizel's
abundant, curly hair flowing over her shoulders. She looked exactly like
a smooth-faced boy, and bore herself with a bold and boyish air so soon
as they were beyond the radius of the locality where her face
might be known. By the time that the pair rode into the city of
Berwick-upon-Tweed Grizel had come to feel so well at home in her part
that she feared neither to converse with those about her, nor to show
herself abroad in the unfamiliar habiliments of the other sex.
"Donald," she said, that night before they sought their beds, "we are in
time. The mail has not yet passed through. To-morrow, bide thou here,
whilst I ride to Belford, where I hear the messenger with the mails
always pauses for a few hours' sleep. If he come hither with his
mail-bags undisturbed, use thou thy wits, and seek to accomplish that in
which I shall then have failed; but if he should bring news that he has
been robbed, then set spurs to thy horse, and meet me at the house that
I did point out to you as we rode into the town; and bring without fail
the bag containing mine own attire and saddle: for then I must no longer
travel as I do now."
Donald was loth to let his young mistress ride forth unattended; but
Grizel would not have it otherwise. She believed that she would
accomplish the thing better alone; and by leaving Donald in the place
through which the messenger must pass, she felt that she gave herself
another chance, should her first scheme miscarry.
The landlady of the little wayside inn at Belford smiled upon the
bright-faced youth who reined up at her door and asked for a meal for
himself and his horse.
"Step softly, if you will, fair sir," she said, pausing as she opened
the door of the one room the inn boasted for the accommodation of
travellers, "for the bearer of His Majesty's mail-bags stops here each
time he passes, and has a spell of sleep ere he rides on to Berwick. He
is sleeping soundly now, and I would not willingly have him disturbed.
'Tis a weary ride from London."
Grizel's heart beat thick and fast as she stepped softly within the
room, golden possibilities presenting themselves to her imagination of
getting at the bags and destroying certain of its contents, whilst the
messenger slept the sleep of exhausted nature close beside her. But alas
for her hopes! when she saw the sleeper, stretched snoring upon the
alcove bed let into the wall, she noted that he had placed his bags for
his pillow, and that each bag was securely sealed. This being so, she
could neither possess herself of them without too great risk, nor undo
and purloin papers without instant detection.
Food was brought to her, and she forced herself to eat, for she knew
well that she might need all her strength and powers of endurance that
day. And whilst she dined, and the man slumbered, her quick wits were
working at full speed.
Outside, the voices of the landlady and the ostler told her that she
would not be disturbed by a visitor just now. The pistols of the
messenger lay upon the table almost within reach of her hand. With a
quick, stealthy gesture she drew them towards her, and quickly removed
the charges; putting the weapons back accurately in their place when she
had done.
Then, rising from the table, she went out, paid her reckoning, mounted
her horse, and rode leisurely away.
"Your guest sleeps sound," had been her parting remark to the woman.
"Ay, that he do, poor fellow, and I'm grateful that you've not wakened
him, sir; but I must go and do so soon, since he must be on the road
again in half an hour's time."
"Then I shall not have long to wait to know my fate," said Grizel,
between her shut teeth, as she set her horse at a gentle trot. "If he
looks to his pistols when he gets up and loads again, the chances are
that I shall have an ounce or two of cold lead in my brain ere an hour
be past. If not, well then I may have my father's death-warrant safe in
mine own hands in that time! Is that hope not enough for me gladly to
take all the chance of what may else betide!"
The light sprang into Grizel's eyes--the light of a deep devotion. She
looked round at the fair world of nature with the unconsciously wistful
gravity of one who knows he may be looking his last; of one who feels
possible death within measurable distance. Yet there was not a sign of
flinching in that fair face. The soldier spirit, and the spirit of
devoted love were burning upon the altar of her heart. There was no room
for thoughts of self there.
The beat of horse-hoofs behind her told that the moment had come. The
man with the mail-bags strapped to his saddle was advancing rapidly
towards her. Grizel reined back her horse into the shadow of the trees,
and drew out a pistol from her belt. Her heart beat fast and furiously.
Next moment the man had ridden up.
"Stand and deliver!" shouted Grizel, in the most masculine voice she was
capable of assuming; then as the man reined up and regarded the slight,
boyish-looking youth with glances of inquiry and surprise, she added in
a quieter tone: "Sir, I desire to obtain possession of certain papers in
those bags of yours; wherefore deliver them up peaceably to me, and
your life will be safe. Otherwise----" and here Grizel rode full up to
the messenger with her pistol pointed at his head.
In a moment the fellow had whipped out his own weapon; and was holding
it close against her cheek.
"Lay so much as a finger on His Majesty's mails, and I blow out your
brains," he cried; "I am not one to shed blood needlessly, and thou art
a mere boy; but not a finger shalt thou lay upon my bags."
"Nevertheless, it is those bags I mean to have," said Grizel, and put
out a hand to take them.
Click! went the trigger, there was a flash in the pan--nothing more.
Grizel's heart leapt up within her. He was at her mercy now. She would
gain her end! With an exclamation of astonished dismay the man pulled
out the second pistol. Grizel watched him with a smile. The weapon
played him the same trick. He flung it from him with an oath, and threw
himself off his horse to grapple with his slim antagonist,
notwithstanding that the lad held a pistol in his hand.
Now was quick-witted Grizel's opportunity. She seized the reins of the
horse, dashed spurs into her own, and set off at full gallop with the
mail-bags, ere the astonished man well knew what had happened. She had
travelled a quarter of a mile before she paused to look over her
shoulder, and saw the breathless messenger tearing along, panting and
blowing. Grizel calmly dismounted, and tied the horses to a tree hard
by. Then, pistol in hand, she advanced, and signalled the man to stop,
which he did.
"Good friend," she said, "I do not desire to kill thee, so come no
nigher. Nor do I want any but a few of the papers in yon bags.
Wherefore, go back, I pray you, to the inn for one brief hour; and then,
when you return, you shall find your horse and your bags all safe in
this spot; and you may take the news to Berwick as fast as you will!"
A strange bewilderment had taken possession of the man, or else there
was something very compelling in the presence and pistol of Grizel, for
he turned back slowly and walked away, whilst the girl went back to her
precious bags.
These were soon opened and the mere private letters tossed aside. Here
was a likely looking bundle of great parchments with the seals upon
them, which told that they had come from high places. With a beating
heart Grizel tore open this bundle and looked at its contents. Her head
seemed to swim and her cheek grew white as her eyes read the fatal words
that doomed her father to death. There were other parchments, too, with
lighter sentences of fine or imprisonment for others--some of them
friends--who had taken part in the recent insurrection. All these she
took with her, carefully hiding them upon her person; tied up the bags,
replaced them upon the tethered horse, and, mounting her own, set spurs
to him, and never drew rein till she was safe within the walls of
Berwick, and within the friendly shelter of a kinsman's house.
[Illustration: With a beating heart Grizel tore open this bundle and
looked at its contents.
_Page 66._]
Here, with bated breath, she told her tale, and showed the priceless
papers. Here Donald found her, bringing tidings that the whole town was
ringing with the news of how His Majesty's mails had been robbed by a
daring young highwayman. Here, by a blazing fire, Grizel destroyed, one
by one, the fatal documents that else would have desolated so many
homes; and whilst soldiers were going forth to scour the country round
for the youth who had done that daring deed, and who was regarded as a
member of some regular gang, Grizel, in her own attire, was quietly
riding away towards Edinburgh from her kinsman's house, with the old
serving-man in attendance at her side.
It was dusk one evening when Grizel found her way to her mother's room,
and, kneeling down beside the bed, broke quite unexpectedly into
convulsive weeping. Nature was taking her revenge at last; but Lady
Cochrane sat up, and, folding her arms about her daughter, cried in a
strangled voice:
"The will of God be done, my child. No one can achieve the impossible!"
Grizel could not speak; she tried many times, but always broke down,
and suddenly there were sounds in the house of confusion and excitement,
the door was burst open, and two of the younger girls broke in.
"Mother, mother, all Edinburgh is ringing with the news! A young highway
robber has stopped the messenger who was bringing our father's
death-warrant, and it has been stolen, and other expected papers too.
And there can be nothing done to him till the news has gone to London,
and the messenger has returned with a new warrant. And that will mean
time!--time!--time! And if our grandfather's letter be true: why time is
all we need!"
The mother's face had turned from red to white, and from white to red.
Grizel's was hidden in the bed-clothes. Her sisters thought her overcome
by the news they had brought.
"Ask me nothing, mother, yet," gasped Grizel, when they were alone
together, "I will tell all when my father is pardoned!"
Great was the stir and excitement that prevailed when the story of the
robbery became known. Lady Cochrane herself was so far uplifted by hope
as to be able to leave her bed, and drive to the Tolbooth to visit her
husband; and thus it came about that she had the joy of being with him
when the Earl of Dundonald, who had travelled with the greatest possible
speed from London, in terror and almost despair of being in time, was
ushered into his son's prison, and fell upon his neck crying:
"Ah, John, John, thou hast been a sad fool, my boy; but the King's
Majesty has been pleased to grant thee a pardon, thou art a free man
from this hour!"
Then husband and wife fell into each other's arms and wept aloud, whilst
the old Earl, after storming up and down, and rating his son for his
folly, broke down and wept too; and who so proud and happy as Lady
Cochrane as she led her husband home at last, and set him in his own
accustomed chair before the fireside!
That night Lord Dundonald had to tell all his tale of how the pardon had
been procured; bought practically for many thousand pounds, through the
influence of a priest. But little cared the family for aught save the
one great fact, they had their loved one home again. His life was safe.
He was theirs indeed!
But Sir John missed Grizel from the group. She had slipped away whilst
her grandfather's tale was drawing to a close. Why did she not return?
It was old Donald who entered the room after a while and said: "May it
please you, master, the young man who stopped the messenger, and robbed
the King's mails, craves leave of speech with you, if you will give him
a brief audience."
Sir John uttered an eager exclamation of astonishment and pleasure. His
wife caught her breath, and her hands began to tremble.
"Let him come in! Oh, bring him here!" was the general cry, and Lord
Dundonald added: "Doubtless he comes for his reward, and right willingly
will I give it him; for had it not been for that daring deed of his, my
labour and my gold would alike have been thrown away. I could never have
arrived in time. Thy head would have fallen, John, or ever I had reached
Edinburgh. It was with more of despair than of hope that I rode those
weary miles. Though something within me always bid me not give up."
It was a large room in which they sat, and the farther end was in deep
shadow. All turned with breathless expectancy as Donald come in,
bringing with him a slenderly made youth, who wore his hat so deeply
drawn over his face that nothing of the features could be seen. Perhaps
it was from a lack of knowledge of good manners on his part that he did
not remove it upon entering; or perhaps he was too shy to lift his eyes,
and observe the presence of ladies. Shyness does occasionally go hand in
hand with considerable personal courage.
"This is the youth who robbed the King's mails," said old Donald, in a
voice not quite his own.
"My deliverer!" exclaimed Sir John, rising, "and so young and slight,
and of such tender years too! How can I ever thank you enough! Pray
you, dear sir, come somewhat forward, and let us see the face of one to
whom we all owe this great and unspeakable happiness."
Slowly the stranger advanced, at first with drooping head; then suddenly
he flung away his downcast air, put up his hand, and snatched off his
hat!
There was a cry from all present! The mother clasped her hands together
and whispered:
"I knew it! I knew it!"
The Earl stared as though he could not believe the sight of his eyes.
The sisters shrieked and broke into incoherent questioning; but Sir John
opened his arms uttering no word, and Grizel went straight into them,
and hid her face on his breast.
EVA VON GROSS
She lay face downwards upon her pallet bed, in the dim, narrow cell that
she had been striving to regard as a home of sanctity and peace. She had
torn from her head the stiff, white covering that it had worn for hard
upon a year now, and which now seemed ready to stifle her. The long
heavy robe of the nun which she wore fell about her in a mass of gloomy
drapery. Everything was gloomy here. The narrow walls seemed to hem her
in; the loophole window to admit an insufficiency both of air and light.
It was all like the narrow, narrow, pent-up life of the cloister to
which she had been doomed, and which had by this time become as a very
dungeon to her.
"How can I bear it? How can I bear it?" she moaned; "I am so young, so
very young. I have not taken the full vows yet. Oh, why would they not
let me forth? Why may I not be free? I cannot bear the thought of the
long, long years that lie before me--fifty--sixty, perhaps; who can say?
The Reverend Mother is over seventy; and one sister lived to be nigh
upon ninety. Oh, how did she bear it? How did she bear it?"
The young head sank down upon the hard pillow; a moaning came from the
lips that should have been smiling and happy with the dawn of tender
womanhood. But on that fair young face there was a look as of fixed
despair.
Clasped in her hand was a letter, which seemed the immediate cause of
her grief, as in a sense it was; for it was the stern reply sent to her
by her parents in response to her passionate appeal to be taken away
from the convent, and permitted to live the life of happy girlhood in
her father's house, where, as she strove to point out, her place had
been set.
"It is some subtle device of the enemy that is tempting thee away from
the higher life," her father had written; "thy choice was made. It would
be sacrilege that would imperil thy soul's salvation to seek to retrace
thy steps."
"I did not choose! I did not choose!" cried Eva, as if in passionate
remonstrance with the unseen father; "I was weak from sickness; thou and
the priest did persuade me. It all sounded so peaceful, so beautiful, so
holy. But I have tried it; and it is not peace, it is not joy. The
Church is composed of all holy men and women, and we who are baptised
into it become its members, knit into its life. I ask no more. Are these
nuns better than other women? No--I say NO! I have watched. I have
listened. I have felt. It is not a holy life; it is no holier than what
we see led by the saints in the world outside cloister walls. There are
saintly nuns, I deny it not; as there are saintly wives and mothers, and
saintly maidens and virgins without the cloister wall. It is not the
dress, the vow, the life, that makes the saint. It is something far, far
higher. And the Spirit divides His gifts as He will. He is not bound by
gates and bars and high imprisoning walls!"
Again the passionate sobs broke forth; and there was a sound as of anger
and fierce resolve in that weeping, rather than of mere helpless
despair. Eva suddenly sat up, a bright light shining in her eyes, her
mouth taking an expression of almost grim determination.
"They cannot force me to ratify my vows at the close of my novitiate!
What would happen if I refused? What are the tales that are whispered
within these walls of nuns who have been found unfaithful--as they are
pleased to term it?"
The girl was silent. There was a tense look upon her face. She was
pondering deeply. In her dark eyes there showed from time to time a
gleam as of fire. It was plain that within the spirit of this novice of
the convent there dwelt a daring and a courage that is not vouchsafed to
all.
And whence had come to Eva and to some other of her sister nuns this
sudden disgust of convent life?--this sudden conviction that it was not
in accordance with the dictates of nature, nor with the scheme of
salvation as set down in Holy Writ? How came that convent-bred girl to
have glimmerings of a higher calling as a member of the Church, than as
just a so-called cloister bride, brought, as it was then believed, in
some way nearer perfection by having abandoned the place in the world in
which she had been set.
That question is easily answered. Not very long before there had broken
from the bonds of monastic life a young monk, Martin Luther by name, who
had since then been taking the world by storm, preaching and teaching
doctrines of liberty and enlightenment which had made the ears of his
listeners tingle. This bold young teacher was related to some friends of
two sisters, nuns in the Convent at Nimptsch, where Eva was undergoing
her training, and in some way or other many of his writings had been
introduced and circulated within the convent walls, with the effect that
nine of its inmates, including the young Eva, had become so keenly
dissatisfied with the life of seclusion to which they were vowed, that
they were making every effort in their power to gain permission to
rejoin their own families, and to be taken home by their parents.
But however much men's minds might be working with a sense of impending
change--a suspicion that the things in which they had hitherto put
their trust were about to fail them, and crumble into dust;--in spite of
all the upheaval that was beginning in the Church and in the world,
men's minds were not yet prepared for the revolt of nuns from their
cloistered homes. The breaking of the solemn vows they had taken still
seemed a thing impossible to condone or to permit. Not one of the
fathers appealed to had consented to the earnest petition addressed to
him. Not one had admitted the arguments by which the cloistered captives
had sought to win upon the hearts of those in authority over them. Eva's
heart had sunk within her these past days, as the stern replies came
back; but she had ever buoyed herself up with the hope that in her case
mercy would be shown. She was so young. Her full vows had not been
taken. She had pleaded so earnestly. It seemed impossible that her
father should not be moved to compassion. And yet his answer was now in
her hands, and it was a stern, uncompromising refusal to consider her
petition for a moment.
"It was just a temptation of the devil," he concluded.
A step was heard in the corridor without, and Eva quickly resumed her
discarded headgear. Order and discipline were strong elements in her
present life. What would the Reverend Mother or one of the senior
sisters think, if they found her in such dishevelment? But the door had
barely opened before she uttered a little cry of joyous relief.
"Oh, Katharine! is it indeed thou?"
It was one of the marks of those who longed to renounce the convent
rule, that they had discarded, amongst themselves, their convent names.
Katharine von Bora[A] was known as Sister Therese, as Eva was known as
Sister Angela to their sister--nuns; but with the longing after home
ties had come the longing after home titles. It gave Eva a thrill of joy
each time she heard her once familiar name pass the lips of those about
her.
[Footnote A: Afterwards the wife of Martin Luther.]
"My little one, I saw by thy face in the chapel just now, that thou art
in trouble. Is it that thou hast had thine answer too?"
Eva held out the crumpled sheet, and the elder nun's eyes quickly ran
over the written words. She sighed as she read.
"It is no more than I feared; although so much less than I hoped. The
walls and bars of the convent are strong indeed."
"Katharine--ah, sweet Katharine!--do not tell me that thou hast yielded
up hope! I would dare so much! I would do so much! If a monk has
escaped--like that brave Martin Luther--and nought is done to him, why
may not we?"
The elder woman looked searchingly into the eager, quivering face, and
caught the light of courage and purpose in the soft, dark eyes. Her own
kindled beneath the glance.
"Little one, art thou brave enough, and discreet enough to be entrusted
with a secret?" asked Katharine, "or wouldst thou rather remain in
ignorance until the final moment? There is safety sometimes in
ignorance; and thou art little more than a child."
The colour was coming and going in Eva's face; the look of purpose in
her eyes deepened each moment.
"Tell me," she whispered, her eyes beginning to shine, "is it that there
is hope for us? Can it be that help can reach us, even within these
grim, strong walls?"
Katharine glanced round her to be certain that the door of the cell was
fast shut. She even moved to it, and looked down the bare corridor, as
if to assure herself that there was no spy within hearing. Who could
tell, in such a community as that, whether it would not seem the bounden
duty of any passing nun to play the eavesdropper, should she harbour for
a moment a suspicion that all was not well with her fellow sisters? Who
could tell whether or not the Reverend Mother had got wind of the
discontent of some of her nuns? Probably she knew somewhat about it,
since the appeal of certain of their number to their friends had been
made. Might she not have set traps and devices in order to discover
whether or not the answers they had received would be sufficient to
quiet their discontent, and induce them to settle contentedly in their
cloistered home? Would she not be intensely alert to discover if any
other phase of revolt were passing in the minds of the imprisoned nuns?
"Thou art brave enough to know the truth and not to betray it?"
"I will die sooner!" cried Eva. "Ah, sweet Katharine, tell me! Is there
indeed some hope for us?"
"I trust so. I believe so. We have done what we can. We have made appeal
to Martin Luther himself!"
Eva's hands were clasped closely together. Her breath came and went in
an ecstasy of excitement and hopeful expectation. The elder woman spoke
on in a carefully lowered voice.
"It hath been done through Margaret and Katharine von Zeschau. Thou
knowest that their relatives are friends of this Luther's, and that
although their parents are still beneath the thrall of the old beliefs,
others of their house are beginning to break through the toils. They
have the letter, and will place it safely in the hands for whom it is
meant. Word came through a safe channel to-day, that we might be assured
of this; Martin Luther will never turn a deaf ear to such an appeal. He
will rest not until he has answered us, and won for us our liberty!"
A look of ecstasy transfigured Eva's face. She threw her arms about
Katharine's neck; her voice quivered as she cried:
"Oh, Katharine!--to be free--to be free! To drink in the pure air of
heaven! To see one's life opening before one amid the sweet surroundings
of home! To have brothers, sisters, a father and mother once more!
But----" and here she paused, and a look of anxiety crossed her face.
"But what if our parents refuse to receive us when we are free?"
Katharine's calm face expressed full comprehension. She drew Eva towards
her, and they sat close together on the narrow pallet bed. The elder nun
supported the quivering frame of her girl companion, as she sought to
make her understand the situation.
"There are many things to think of, little one," she said; "and thou
must not embark upon such an enterprise not knowing all its risks. First
there is the peril to ourselves should this thing get wind before we are
safe without the walls."
Eva shivered a little, and clung more closely to Katharine.
"What would they do to us?" she asked in a whisper.
"Nay, I know not. There are many frightful tales of the punishment
inflicted upon nuns who have been 'unfaithful to their vows,'" answered
Katharine steadily; "thou dost know the bricked-up niche in the crypt
beneath the chapel, where they say such an one was walled-up to perish
by hunger and thirst."
"Katharine," said Eva suddenly, "is it right to be unfaithful to our
vows? We are not doing that which is abhorrent?"
"I think not--and truly believe not," answered Katharine, her eyes
glowing and dilating; "and I have spent many a night in prayer and
fasting, asking to be led and guided. These vows were forced upon us ere
we understood their meaning. They wrapped up the real truth in such a
way that we were much deceived. There is a terrible side to convent life
which is never breathed beyond the walls. There is a wide-spreading
corruption going on that shows to me the system is not Heavenly. God
will understand that, in the spirit, our vows to be His for ever will be
kept, as far as poor frail flesh can keep them, albeit the letter be
broken. I fear not to cast myself upon His mercy in this thing. I know
that were I to remain here they could not be kept as truly as they shall
and can be without!"
Eva felt a shiver run through Katharine's frame. She only partly
understood; but she knew enough to cause her to spring to her feet and
cry, although in the instinctively hushed tones that soon become natural
to the convent-bred girl:
"Then take me, take me too! I will do anything, I will dare anything, to
escape from these terrible walls! I would even face that terrible fate;
for is it not a living death to be for ever here without the prospect of
release?"
After that the days seemed to go by strangely in the convent. It was
Lent; the celebration of the Lord's Passion was drawing very near. The
nuns were engrossed in their appointed hours and religious exercises;
they grew thin and pale from vigil and fasting; but there was another
reason why some of them looked white and careworn. The looked-for answer
to their appeal had not reached them yet. Could it be that the thing was
too hard for this bold advocate of liberty to attempt?
Good Friday had come. The long exhausting services had been gone through
with rigorous exactitude; and the Reverend Mother had now retired to her
own room, the nuns being bidden each to her cell, to spend the interval
in meditation. Eva felt a light touch upon her arm as she was leaving
the chapel. Katharine's voice in her ear spoke in the softest whisper:
"Come to my room."
A sudden hope flooded Eva's heart. She dared not lift up her eyes lest
they should betray her. She continued her soft walk with drooping head
and hushed footfall; but there was a clangour in her temples of the
young blood coursing there, and she was asking herself a thousand eager
questions as she slipped like a ghost past her own door, and to the
apartment of Katharine von Bora, where, to her amazement, there were
gathered together the whole party of those nuns who desired escape, a
look of strained expectancy upon all faces.
When Eva entered, Katharine closed and locked the door, and flung the
key through the open window into the courtyard below. There was
something in her aspect so resolute and tense, that Eva's heart leapt up
within her, and she cried:
"Katharine--tell me--ah, tell me!"
"They have promised to come for us to-night," answered the other
Katharine. "We are to wait here for the signal. When it comes we are to
drop noiselessly into the court below, and they will have means to
convey us over the wall and away! It seemed a good day; all the world
resting and exhausted after the day's exercises. Suspicion dulled, we
trust. We may hear the signal at any moment now. Pray heaven it comes
speedily!"
They were all trembling with excitement and a nervous terror that was
inevitable in their reduced condition. Katharine von Bora looked round
upon the ring of white faces, and said:
"If we have been betrayed;--if the thing is known--and who can be
certain that it is not? Spies abound within cloister walls, as women
have found to their cost ere now;--if it be known we shall be captured,
and our punishment will not be light. If any is afraid, there is yet
time to turn back. Let none who is faint-hearted seek the perils of
flight!"
Her eyes dwelt chiefly upon the tender flower-like face of Eva. Her love
for the youthful novice was deep and tender. She longed for her to
escape from the terrible bondage of the convent; but what if they should
be discovered and brought back? She could bear the thought for herself;
but for Eva----
But there was no fear in Eva's face as she read the thought in the eyes
of her friend. The pulsations of her heart seemed to become quiet and
regular; her gaze was steady and fearless. She was the youngest and
tenderest of all that band; but there was no tremor in her tones as she
said:
"Heaven will help us, I am sure of it. Have we not been asking it? But
even if not, let me go with you. Far better is death itself, than a
living death within these pitiless walls."
"The signal! the signal!" cried a strangled voice from the window; and
Magdalene von Staupitz, who had been leaning out with straining ears,
held up her hand to enforce instant silence.
They all heard it then; the rumble of wheels, and the careless whistling
by the driver of a familiar tune, agreed upon as the signal of
approaching help.
The room in which they were assembled was quite dark, save for the dying
twilight of the April evening. The bars of the casement had been
carefully filed through before, and could be removed noiselessly now
with a single wrench. The courtyard was not far below; and the sisters
helped each other to drop silently down into it, having selected this
particular window on the north side of the convent, as being most remote
from danger of observation.
Eva was the last to descend; she was so light and bird-like in her
movements, that having helped to lower the others, she found no trouble
in hanging by her hands from the sill, and dropping lightly into the
arms of her sister nuns, as she fancied. To her astonishment, and for a
moment to her terror, she found herself confronted by a goodly youth of
fine proportions, but, of course, a perfect stranger to her, who set her
gently on her feet with the reassuring words:
"Your pardon, sweet maid; but time presses, and your companions are
being hurried over the wall to the waggon. They tell me you are the
last. So let us lose not another moment."
He took her hand and led her across the courtyard, the beating of her
heart sounding in her ears like the clangour of an alarm-bell in the
tower overhead. Suppose this was a trap? Were they walking blindfold to
their destruction? For a moment her feet faltered; but a strong hand
upheld her, and a voice spoke in her ear with masculine reassurance:
"Fear not, sweet lady. Having so far succeeded, we will not give you up
without such a struggle as shall set all Germany in a blaze!" He looked
at the fair face beneath the nun's coif, and added with sudden fire and
chivalry: "I would lay down my life to save you from all hurt!"
Eva felt herself quivering and tingling all over. The blood was racing
through her veins as it never seemed to do within those stagnating
cells. The next instant she found herself being helped up a ladder to
the top of the wall, and immediately a pair of strong arms lifted her,
and she was placed beneath the friendly covering of a waggon, where she
felt, rather than saw, that her friends were all packed together.
"Ladies," spoke the voice of the elder man, "we must ask you, for awhile
at least, to consent to somewhat cramped quarters. There are a dozen big
barrels in the waggon. Each is roomy enough to hold a human being. The
only safe way in which we can convey you through the country we have to
traverse is by concealing you in these barrels. I trust you will not
find the captivity a very oppressive one."
Instantly there was willing bustle and confusion, as the nuns joyfully
concealed themselves within the great casks, which were sufficiently
roomy to permit of their squatting down upon the thick layer of straw
considerately provided, whilst the air-holes previously bored gave them
ample breathing space when the tops were fastened down.
Eva was helped into her cask by the youth who had caught her on her
descent from the window, and whom she heard the elder man address
sometimes as "Leonard." He picked up a rug from his own seat upon the
box, and tucked it about her to make her nest softer; and when she
looked up with a grateful smile, and asked:
"Whither are we going, fair sir?" he answered eagerly:
"We take you first to Dr. Martin Luther, who has arranged all this. But
afterwards you will be housed and sheltered by some of the good citizens
of Wittemberg, till it be seen whether or not your parents will receive
you back. But even if not, methinks there will be other happy homes
speedily open to you. My mother is even now hoping to house and shelter
some of you. Wilt thou be willing to trust thyself to my mother's gentle
care?" And as he spoke young Leonard leaned a little nearer, and just
touched Eva's hand with his.
She felt a strange thrill run through her frame. She was half-terrified,
half-delighted. It was like a strange dream, this tent-like waggon, with
its heavy cover, and the gleam of the lantern that lighted up the rows
of casks with their living occupants, and shone upon the flushed and
eager face of the handsome youth, and the grave bearded countenance of
his father. It recalled to her a thousand blissful dreams of childhood,
when she had revelled in the romances and stories of knights errant and
bold heroes. As the light was shut out from her eyes, and she felt the
heavy waggon begin to move on, she realised that the first and worst of
the peril was past. They had escaped! They were outside the convent
walls! They had broken the chain which bound them!
Peril might still menace them for awhile; but at least they had achieved
something. Eva had a feeling, which she was almost afraid to analyse too
closely, that "Leonard" would fight a very grim and determined battle
before he would let her be carried back to the gates of the cloister.
Many were the halts and interruptions of the journey; and many times did
Eva's heart seem almost to stop beating, as a voice would ask close in
their ears, as it seemed:
"What have you here in this waggon?"
"Barrels of herrings," was the reply, made in a grumbling tone from the
driver; "barrels of herrings, and a very slack market for them since
Easter is so nigh. I should have had them before; but there was delay,
and now nobody wants our wares."
Eva had fallen asleep, and her sleep was so sound that she was startled
at last on waking suddenly, to find the sunlight illuminating the bright
world. The head had been taken from her cask, and the tall, handsome
youth was looking eagerly down upon her, saying with a smile and a
blush:
"Mistress Eva, you are safe now. Dr. Martin Luther wishes to welcome you
with the rest. And when you have refreshed yourself, and changed your
attire, my father and I are to have the honour of welcoming you and
Mistress Katharine von Bora under our humble roof, there to await the
result of such representations as will be made by you to your parents."
Eva never forgot that memorable breakfast taken in presence of the great
man, whose name was becoming a household word throughout the length and
breadth of the land.
She remembered less clearly the drive to Torgau with Councillor Koppe
and his son Leonard. It was like a dream to sit in a coach, attired in
the ordinary garb of a citizen maiden, and to be in conversation with a
handsome youth like Leonard, whose devotion never allowed her a moment's
anxiety or a single ungratified wish.
But the motherly kindness of Frau Koppe was worth all the rest to Eva,
when that worthy matron opened her arms and folded her in a loving
embrace. And when it came out at last that her offended parents
declined to receive her home, Eva could meet the disappointment bravely;
for had she not found a second home and second mother in Torgau; and
what was to hinder her speedy marriage with Leonard, when both knew
their own hearts so well?
EMMA FITZ-OSBORN
"The King forbids the marriage!"
Raoul de Gael sprang from his seat beside his betrothed, and stared with
incredulous astonishment into the face of the bearer of this piece of
strange tidings.
The beautiful Emma lifted her head and gazed wonderingly into the dark,
stern face of her brother.
"The King forbids the marriage!" repeated Roger Fitz-Osborn, a dark
flush gathering upon his cheek, as his anger slowly kindled and rose;
"he has sent a special courier across the sea with his Royal mandate,
but no word of reason to explain his tyranny. Are we to be the slaves
and chattels of the man we have made?"
"The King forbids the marriage?" repeated Emma, in her clear, ringing
tones; "and by what right does the King forbid it? Does he not owe to
our father the crown that he wears so proudly upon his head? And are we
to become the slaves of the man in whose cause our father
spent his blood and money, and at last his life itself? Oh,
shame!--shame!--shame!"
A thunder-cloud rested on the brow of the bridegroom-elect; that swarthy
Breton face was capable of expressing the extreme of haughty passion and
resentment. He paced the long apartment to and fro like a wild beast in
its cage. Then he went up to Emma and took her hand in his.
"Dost thou fear the anger of this King, who, but a few short years ago,
was but the Duke of Normandy? whose title to the broad realm of England
would never have been won but for the aid of thy noble father, and of
men like ourselves, who have fought and conquered by his side? Dost thou
fear his Royal displeasure?"
Emma threw back her head, and looked into her lover's eyes. The blood of
a soldier race ran in her veins.
"I fear nothing," she answered, with simple sincerity.
"Spoken like a Fitz-Osborn!" cried her brother, whose pride and
self-esteem had been stung to the quick by the haughty mandate from the
Conqueror, and who had himself favoured the marriage of his beautiful
sister to his brother-in-arms and chiefest friend, and had completed
every arrangement for the ceremony, which was to take place almost
immediately.
Roger Fitz-Osborn was Earl of Hereford by right of sword, as Raoul de
Gael was Earl of Norfolk. Both had distinguished themselves by their
bravery in the war which had made William of Normandy King of England,
and had received these earldoms in recognition of their services.
William the Conqueror was at this time in his own native land, having
left the Primate Lanfranc in temporary charge of England. During this
breathing space the warriors had had time to think of other matters than
the excitement of arms. Raoul had paid a visit to Roger in his new and
stately castle, and the beauty and grace of Emma had so completely won
his heart that they had become affianced in a few weeks' time, and he
was already urging on an immediate marriage.
Such a marriage was entirely to the mind of the brother, and as for
Emma, her heart had been won by the attractions and manly beauty of
Raoul, whose fierce temperament seemed to find its complement in her
lofty courage.
Such a thing as any opposition upon the King's part never once entered
the minds of any of the parties concerned. Nor has it ever been made
clear why the Conqueror raised this objection, and by his haughty
mandate alienated the allegiance of some of his most faithful followers.
Had there been time for the journey to and fro, perhaps the brother
might have crossed the sea and returned with the Royal assent, and the
subsequent tragedy might have been averted; as it was, the mandate only
reached them a few days before the wedding was to be celebrated. They
were already assembled at Norwich Castle, where (in spite of its being
the bridegroom's home) the ceremony was to take place, guests were even
now flocking in to witness the marriage and attend the subsequent feast.
To be forced to give out that the bridal could not take place owing to
the prohibition of the King was a thing abhorrent to the proud spirits
of Roger and Raoul, whilst the equally high spirit and courage of Emma
revolted against the imperious intermeddling of the King, who but a
short while since had been nothing but a noble himself, and whose recent
sudden rise in power was greatly owing to the support of the very
families whose happiness he now sought to mar.
It wanted but a little to arouse in many hearts a sense of revolt and
anger against the absent William. No man can rise so suddenly to such
power without raising up a host of enemies amongst those who begin to
feel the iron hand of monarchy, where once was only the clasp of a
friend. The genius of the Conqueror had won him a kingdom, supported by
the loyal assistance of the Norman and Breton nobles; but he had not
always been careful to conciliate his friends, even though he had not
been backward in bestowing upon them broad lands and new titles.
Sometimes the very wealth and power thus placed within their reach
became, in some sort, a snare to them. Dreams of ambition are ever quick
to rise when angry men get together, and are heated with wine; and
during the days which intervened between the arrival of the King's
message and that fixed for the marriage ceremony, there were fierce and
eager discussions between hot-headed nobles, young and old; and a wave
of rebellious hatred seemed to be sweeping them along as they discussed
the tyranny of the newly made monarch, and spoke together in angry,
threatening tones, or in still more dangerous whispers of the
possibility of bringing about a better state of affairs in the country,
and one more distinctly advantageous to themselves. If William had so
easily conquered the kingdom and established his own power, perchance
that power might again be easily displaced.
The spirit of anger and discontent is easily aroused, and Raoul and
Roger resolved to defy the King; yet, half afraid of the consequences of
their defiance, knowing well the implacable nature of the man with whom
they had to deal, they were eager to win to their way of thinking all
those nobles who were assembling to do honour to bride and bridegroom;
and certainly it seemed as though the spirit of disaffection were not
hard to wake.
"If Waltheof would but join us we might rouse all England against the
Conqueror!" whispered Raoul into the ear of his betrothed upon the
night before their nuptials, as he spoke his fond farewell; and Emma's
eyes glowed, for she knew Earl Waltheof well as a great and warlike man,
whose popularity with his own countrymen would render him an invaluable
ally, supposing that this sudden wave of rebellious impulse were to
break forth into actual insurrection. Girl though she was, she had lived
in an atmosphere of strife, and the sound of battle or the clash of arms
had no terrors for her. Anger was in her heart against the King, and she
cared little if her brother and her future lord chose to take up arms
against him. Sooner than submit to his tyrannous decree, she would fight
with her own hands, and shed the last drop of her blood. For what was
life without Raoul?
Very lovely was the face of the young bride beneath its drooping veil,
as, in the midst of a stately gathering, she plighted her troth to the
man of her choice.
The deed was done. The King's mandate had been defied. A subject was in
open revolt. The realisation of this came home to all those present as
the fatal words were spoken. William was not a man either to forget or
to forgive. The gauntlet had been thrown down--what next?
The wedding guests sat at the long tables in the great banqueting hall.
Bride and bridegroom, together with all the nobles and men of high
degree, sat at the table on the raised daïs, the others of lesser
degree at the tables in the body of the hall. Normans and Bretons were
there, together with a sprinkling of English, Earl Waltheof, who had
married the Conqueror's niece, the afterwards infamous Judith, being one
of them. But his wife was not with him, else perchance even the boldest
had not dared to speak so openly.
It was as if (after the wine cups had gone round many times, and men's
hearts were inflamed by good cheer and by the whispers that had been
circulating with the cups) some sudden impulse came upon them, for a
murmur arose, and the murmur waxed louder and more fierce, and suddenly
a cry seemed to shake the rafters of the hall:
"Down with the Usurper! Who is he that he should reign over us? What is
he better than others? Down with him! Let us divide the realm, and
choose Kings of our own!"
Then came isolated voices crying fierce questions:
"Did he not poison Conon, our brave Count of Brittany?"
"What has he done for us, who shed our blood for him?"
"Has he fulfilled the promise he made?"
"He gave us barren lands for our wounds, and what does he do when we
have made them of some value? Does he not take them from us by force,
to give them to some new favourite?"
"Down with him!--Down with him!--Shall we call such a man our King?"
The deed was done! The die was cast. The banner of revolt was raised.
The assembled company knew that already they had gone too far to draw
back. The King would hear of this thing, and would never forgive. Action
must now follow hard upon words. The Conqueror was absent; much might be
done ere the news of insurrection reached him. Not one of those precious
days must be lost.
With the first light of the new day the bride stood watching the
departure of her brother and her lord. Roger was to travel night and day
with all speed to Hereford and beat up his followers and the hardy Welsh
on his borders, with whom he had maintained friendly relations. Raoul
was to collect forces nearer at hand in his own earldom; but he must
needs go in person, and to his girl-wife he left the care of the grim
castle which had been the scene of yesterday's wedding and feast, and
which was garrisoned with black-browed Bretons, devoted to the service
of their master, and ready to lay down their lives for his beautiful
bride.
Did her heart fail her as she saw the departure of her husband, her
brother, and their noble guests, together with the armed followers which
they had brought? Did she feel fear in the knowledge that she and they
were now accounted rebels, and that any day might bring an armed force
before the walls of Norwich?
No; there was no spark of fear in her heart, though there was for one
moment a glint of tears upon her long lashes as she saw her lord and
master ride away, and knew that peril threatened him and his comrades in
arms, so soon as it should become known that they were in revolt.
She set herself, as a true soldier's daughter and bride, to see to the
defences of the castle. The Breton garrison were true as steel. They had
no love for Norman or English; but they loved their lord, and for his
sake, as well as her own, they loved his sweet young bride; the sight of
her courage and devotion kindled new ardour in their breasts day by day,
and they toiled with all the energy in their power to strengthen the
stone walls, to obtain supplies of food and such munitions of war as
were needed in those days, and to prepare themselves for whatever might
betide.
Rumours were flying hither and thither, rumours of strife and of
disaster. It was said that Roger of Hereford was cut off from returning,
and was penned in behind the broad waters of the Severn; and again there
was a whisper nearer at home that Odo, the warlike Bishop of Bayeux, was
in the vicinity with a force of finely equipped men. On hearing this
Emma's cheek grew pale; not with fear for herself, but lest some hurt
should befall her lord, whom she had as yet scarcely learned to speak of
as "husband."
The watchman upon the tower had blown a warning blast. Something was in
sight; the horn sounded forth again and yet again.
There was hurrying within the walls of the castle, archers hastening to
their loopholes, and men at arms buckling on their helmets and
breastplates, and seizing their good broad-swords in readiness for the
word of command.
Emma, breathless and dishevelled, raced to the tower herself, and, as
she looked, she beheld a scattered band of fugitives, flying, as it
were, towards the castle; and so forlorn and woe-begone was the aspect
they bore that her heart seemed to die within her.
"Bretons, to the rescue of your brethren!" she suddenly cried aloud, and
the cry was taken up and passed from mouth to mouth. Wide swung the
great gates, down sank the drawbridge; the soldiers streamed forth to
meet the flying Bretons and Saxons, who came in crowds for the
protection of those strong walls, bringing with them the gloomy tale of
death and disaster.
Late in the day, conducting a ghastly company of maimed and mutilated
men, who had been bold stalwart soldiers a few days before, rode Raoul
into the courtyard, the blackness of night upon his brow; and Emma
rushed forth to clasp her husband to her heart, scarce knowing yet what
was the meaning of the things she saw and heard.
"It means ruin to our hopes of life and liberty, if we cannot yet change
defeat into victory," said the young Earl, as he let his bride divest
him of his heavy armour, whilst he told the tale of his overthrow at the
hands of Bishop Odo.
"Many died of their wounds; but some few I rescued, and have brought
them hither to thee, my sweet bride. But for myself I may not linger.
Our only hope now lies in getting help from beyond the sea. I must take
ship with all speed to mine own domains in Brittany, and there, when
this tale is told, methinks they will rise to a man in the defence of
their brethren, in answer to my call, in the hope of vengeance and
plunder! I will return with an army at my back, and William, the
so-called Conqueror, shall yet learn to quake at the names of Raoul de
Gael and Roger Fitz-Osborn!"
"And my brother?--what of him?" asked Emma, "will he go with thee? And
wilt thou take me too?"
"Nay, my life, I must leave thee here to hold this fortress for me.
Roger is penned in the west; albeit he will break loose I doubt not ere
long, and march day and night to thine assistance. But our Breton
garrison must needs serve under one they can trust and love. Sweet, my
bride, hast thou the courage for the task? Though thou art so young in
years, thou hast the heart of a soldier. Wilt thou hold the castle here
against proud William's forces, till I or Roger come to thine aid?"
She looked him full in the face.
"Thou dost think that they will follow and lay siege?"
"They are so close behind me, that with the first dawn of the morning I
must be gone, else I shall be too late to escape them!" answered Raoul;
and his eyes rested with anxious questioning upon Emma's face. "Our poor
Bretons are treated with savage ferocity by the English," he added. "If
I lead them forth hence, and they fall into the Bishop's hands--well,
thou hast seen with thine own eyes how their brethren have fared."
The fire flamed in Emma's eyes; she threw back her head with her own
queenly gesture.
"Go, then, my husband, and I will guard thy castle for thee. I will keep
safe those thou dost leave with me. Go! fly over the water, and return
with the friends of the cause. Thou shalt find thy castle here,
safeguarded as though thou thyself wert at the head of thy soldiers. The
pitiless Bishop shall not lay hands on one of our Breton boys!"
So the brave young bride was left for the second time alone in the grim
castle, to hold it for her lord till he should arrive with succour. But
this time she was quickly ringed round with foemen, who, in the King's
name, bade her surrender; and when she fearlessly refused, they laid
close siege to the castle, vowing to serve every Breton they should
henceforward take as those hapless creatures had been served, some of
whom she was tending now with her own hands within the walls of the grim
old keep.
Emma had grown up inured to perils, to hardships, to the sights and
sounds of warfare, and warfare is always cruel. But her soul revolted
against needless cruelties; and the sufferings of the poor maimed
followers of her husband, who had been rescued and brought back by him,
nerved her to every effort to keep from a like fate those who served her
faithfully here, and looked to her to save them from it.
Parted from her husband upon their very wedding day, wife only in name
as yet, the brave daughter of William Fitz-Osborn played the hero's part
during those three long months of siege. Every day she made the circuit
of the fortifications, careless of the flights of arrows that often made
such exposure of her person a perilous matter; she spoke words of
encouragement to the archers and watchmen; she devised ingenious methods
of frustrating the various attempts made by the wily and determined foe
for cutting off supplies, and for forcing an entrance into the castle.
When it was known that a woman was in command, many devices were
practised for intimidating her and her soldiers; but all in vain; and
free promises of pardon for herself if she would but betray her trust
were answered with indignation and scorn.
The hard part of it to the brave young chatelaine was the uncertainty of
what was passing elsewhere. Penned within the four walls of her eastern
fortress, she knew nothing as to the fate of her brother in the west,
nor how the rebellion against the Conqueror was spreading in the ranks
of the disaffected Norman barons and the dispossessed Saxons. It had
seemed to her, upon their wedding feast, as though all the realm was
weary of the rule of "the Norman." Yet if that were so, if the revolt
were ready to break forth all over the kingdom, why did none come to her
aid? Surely her brother and others must know of the peril in which she
stood. Why did not some of them seek to raise the siege? Why did not
Raoul himself return with his Breton reinforcements?
As the long summer days went by, one after another, and weeks dragged on
to months, brave Emma's cheek grew pale, and her eyes took a wistful
yearning gaze, as of one whose heart is sick with hope deferred. But her
vigilance was never for a moment relaxed. Her courage never faltered.
Day by day she was to be seen upon the ramparts, speaking brave words to
the weary soldiers, hurling lightning glances of defiance at the lines
of the besiegers, and gazing with eager, expectant eyes in the direction
of the sea, asking of the birds of the air whether they had seen the
white sails of the coming vessels that should bring relief to her.
At last the voice of rumour reached even this beleaguered castle. First
it was an isolated whisper, then other whispers followed. Bit by bit the
story of woe was pieced together, and a fugitive from the west, who had
been sent with dispatches for the Lady Emma, contrived to gain entrance,
and to tell all the tale.
It was said that the treacherous Judith, wife of Earl Waltheof, had
learned the secret from her husband and had instantly betrayed it. The
rebellion had been quelled almost ere it broke out. In the west the son
of Fitz-Osborn had been taken captive, and was awaiting his doom on the
return of the King. Others had been taken or slain; Norwich alone was
holding out. Raoul had sent word that to return from Brittany was now
impossible. It would be but to fall into the hands of an implacable foe.
His word to his bride was to secure such terms as she could for herself
and her garrison, and to make her way across the sea with all speed to
join her husband there.
With whitening cheek and sinking heart Emma heard and read all this evil
news. Her brother a captive, her husband an exile, their friends
scattered and dispersed. Surrender inevitable! But what was she to
surrender? This very messenger brought horrid tales of mutilation and
cruelties of all sorts inflicted on hapless prisoners by their
bloodthirsty conquerors. Was she to give up to such a fate the brave men
who had learned to look to her and trust in her? For the castle she
cared little. Where her husband was, there was her home. But her
soldiers and servants, were they to be given up? Never! Never! Never!
"I will go forth and die at their head, fighting to the last, sooner
than that!" she cried.
The Bishop had many times sought to open negotiations with the brave
Emma, but hitherto fruitlessly. Now, with her own hand, she penned him a
missive, offering to surrender to him the castle and its munitions of
war, but only on the condition that every living creature within its
walls went forth unharmed, and that they should be permitted to take
ship unmolested for the shores of Brittany.
"Else will I never give up whilst one stone remains upon another. You
shall see how long the daughter of William Fitz-Osborn can bid defiance
to the man whom her father made England's King."
Was it chivalry, was it admiration for the spirit of the brave woman,
or was it the policy of a soldier wearied by a long three months' siege
of a fortress that seemed no nearer falling now than it had done upon
the first day?
Whatever was the motive for the concession, the answer that came back
was courteously, even generously worded. The brave young wife rode forth
at the head of her whole garrison, and the Norman soldiers who had
fought against the rebels in other places raised a shout of admiration
as she appeared. She sat her horse like an Amazon, and returned the
salutation with a dignity worthy of her name and race.
Saluting and being saluted by the Bishop, and lustily cheered by the
soldiers, she passed through the town on her way to the coast, where
vessels were awaiting her, while her men marched boldly behind her,
singing the songs of their native land to which they were about to
return, and chanting aloud the praise of the beautiful Emma to whose
courage and resolution they owed their lives.
She and her band of devoted Bretons were thus permitted to march to the
coast with all the honours of war, and to take ship for her husband's
domains in Brittany without receiving insult or violence of any kind.
How high her heart was beating as she sighted the shore, and knew that
her lord was awaiting her there, in that home which she had never yet
seen! True, she was sad for her brother, and for the cause which had
been lost in England; but after all, was not her husband safe, and
waiting for her to rejoin him? and might not the tide turn some day, and
they return to England in triumph, to help to overthrow the rule of
Norman William, against whom they had sought to incite this rebellion?
These were fond hopes not destined to be realised. The courage and
state-craft of William the Conqueror carried him safely through all the
plots which assailed him during his stormy reign. Raoul de Gael knew
where he was safe, and abandoned his claims upon English soil.
"I did well indeed to entrust my castle to the keeping of my bride!"
cried the proud husband, when he held her in his arms once more; and the
answer that went up from a thousand throats was a shout of admiration
and praise in honour of their lord's fair young wife, the brave Emma
Fitz-Osborn.
ELIZABETH STUART
A princess, yet a captive in the hands of her father's foes; those foes
who were already whispering their fell intention of putting him to
death!
This was the situation of the youthful Elizabeth, the second daughter of
the ill-fated monarch, Charles I. Her mother and her eldest brother were
beyond the seas, having made good their escape from Cromwell and his
Roundheads; but she, with her two brothers, James, Duke of York, and
Henry, Duke of Gloucester, were captives in the power of the Parliament,
and though treated with courtesy and a certain kindliness, they were
permitted no liberty to come and go, or even to write to their friends.
Every action was carefully observed, and their persons were so closely
guarded that there was little hope of evading the many watchful eyes
that were ever bent upon them.
"If I could but reach my brother and our mother!" was the exclamation
ever on the lips of James, when he and his sister were alone together.
It seemed to the high-spirited boy that once free from these encircling
walls and the vigilance of his warders, once across the sea to join the
others of his name and race, he must surely achieve some great thing for
the deliverance of his father; his restless mind was ever pondering this
theme. The thought of making good his escape was never absent from his
mind night nor day.
Perhaps he plotted almost too much for his own success; for a day came
when he was summoned to an interview with certain of the Parliamentary
authorities, and he returned to his sister's apartments with flushed
face and flashing eyes. Elizabeth saw that he had been deeply angered by
what had passed, and she quickly got rid of her attendant, that she and
her brother might speak in peace together. This liberty was the only one
accorded to the Royal captives. Their rooms were guarded; they never
went abroad unwatched and unattended; but within the precincts of the
palace they had some privacy permitted to them, and they could speak
together without being overheard, though never without a fear of
possible eavesdroppers.
"Sister, I have been grossly insulted!" cried James, with flashing eyes;
"they have intercepted my letter to our sister of Orange; they said they
had discovered treasonable matter in it."
"Treasonable matter!" echoed Elizabeth, her breath coming and going.
"They dare to talk of treason!--They!"
"Ay; that was the very word--treasonable matter! They saw, or thought
they saw it, in my desire to quit the country--to escape to Holland----"
"But the letter was in cypher," interrupted Elizabeth. "How could they
read it when they had it?"
A dark frown clouded the brow of James.
"That I did not condescend to inquire; but I heard some talk between
those knaves themselves. I gathered that they had got the letter, and
had then sent for the Earl of Northumberland, and had shown him how we
had evaded his vigilance; had warned him, that if he could not find the
key of the cypher in which it had been written, he should be committed
to the Tower. Did I not tell you the other day that I was certain my
effects had been ransacked? I did not miss the cypher key. I know it so
well that I scarce ever have to look at it now. Doubtless they found and
took it away; but I did not observe it."
"And they were angry with you, James?"
"Angry? Ay, that they were. They dared to threaten me with the Tower,
too, if they found me plotting escape again!"
Elizabeth clasped her hands closely together, her face worked with the
emotion she strove to master. She came and stood beside James, and laid
her soft cheek against his.
"Jamie, Jamie," she cried piteously, "if they were to take you from me,
I think that I should die!"
He put his arm about her, and they stood together, looking out of the
window, thinking and pondering deeply.
"But, sister, you would have to learn to live without me if I were to
escape this thraldom, and win my liberty. Could you bear to let me go
for that?"
A little tremor ran through the girl's slight frame. She was very frail
and delicate, this gentle, young Elizabeth; little fit to bear the
buffets of outrageous fortune, to stand alone in her strange captivity;
cut off from father, mother, friends, and kindred, and beset with so
many cruel anxieties and fears on behalf of those she loved best. Her
greatest solace in these sorrowful days was the companionship of her
brother James, who, being a year or more her senior, and endowed with
robust health, seemed like a tower of strength to the frail girl, hardly
more than a child in years, though misfortune had given a strange
maturity to her mind and disposition. It could not but be a dismal
thought to lose the constant companionship of this brother, to send him
forth into the perils of the great world without, where so many foes
awaited him. She might well have sought to keep him beside her, fearing
the perils of any project of escape; but despite her natural fears and
shrinkings, and the delicacy of her frame, the spirit of kings and
warriors was within her, and that spirit rose to meet the sacrifice
which might be required of her.
"I would bear to let you go for that, Jamie," she answered. "But it
would break my heart were you taken from me to be immured within the
walls of the Tower."
"It may come to that one of these days," said James, "if I be not able
to effect my escape. I cannot show the patience that you are able to
command; and I am not a child like Harry, there, of whose words and acts
no special note is taken. And did not our father bid me use every effort
to regain my liberty, and reach the side of our mother and brother? It
may be that already they are planning how to invade these shores, summon
all loyal hearts to join them, and set my father on the throne once
more! Oh! if such a thing were to happen, I must be there to help."
His eyes kindled, his frame seemed to expand and grow tense; and an
answering thrill ran through that of the young Princess.
"Ah, Jamie, Jamie, if only it might be!" she cried.
"And why not, sister, why not? Other captives have escaped from far
stricter bondage than any we suffer from. What one has done another may
do. Why not?"
"But they were men, and we are so young. We are scarce more than
children, albeit often I feel so old--so old!"
"You are old enough to have the ready wit of a woman!" cried James; yet
even in his stress of feeling and excitement he kept his voice pitched
in a low key. "I have thought and thought and planned, but everything
falls to the ground; or we are betrayed into the hands of our enemies,
and threatened with stricter captivity than this. Elizabeth, put your
wits to work! Can you think of nothing? In bygone days it has been the
women sometimes who have done the thinking, whilst the men have done the
acting. Why should it not be so now?"
The boy's dark, strenuous face looked earnestly into the fair spiritual
one of his sister, and into the cheeks of the young Elizabeth a faint
colour stole.
"Oh, Jamie, I will try: I will try!" she answered. "But even could I
think of some stratagem or plan by which you could gain the freedom of
the world without, who is there outside that would dare to help you away
across the sea, whom we could dare to trust with such a secret?"
"There is Colonel Bamfield," answered James promptly. "He is the man
whom I would trust for that."
"Colonel Bamfield?" echoed Elizabeth doubtfully. "He who turned traitor
to our father's cause when all was lost? Would you trust such an one as
he?"
"He is not a traitor at heart," whispered James eagerly. "He is the
staunchest friend we have. He has but feigned adherence to the
Parliamentary cause that he may the better serve us. I have had speech
with him, sometimes, for a few minutes. I trow he is to be trusted. And
as our enemies know that none is so bitter as a renegade, they think he
is our deadly foe. They do not suspect him as they would suspect others.
He plays his part right cunningly. He rails upon the King and his brood
most lustily; but all the while he is on the watch to serve us. I know,
could I once escape from these walls, that he would make all the rest
easy."
There were footsteps without, and brother and sister started apart, as
the attendants entered the room on some pretext. They were well used to
this sort of thing. They were seldom left long alone together. The
little Duke of Gloucester, who had been playing quietly in a corner
whilst his brother and sister were talking, now came running up, and
begged for a game of hide and seek.
This was one of the favourite sports of the Royal children; but to-night
Elizabeth excused herself on the plea of fatigue, and the two young
Dukes played alone, running hither and thither, and forgetting their
troubles for awhile, in the interest of the game.
Elizabeth sat alone with her face hidden in her hands, thinking,
thinking, thinking, till it seemed as though her brain would scarcely
stand the strain of the mental conflict going on within her. She was
roused from her reverie at last by little Henry, who came and pulled
impatiently at her dress.
"Come and help me to find Jamie," he begged. "He has hidden so well we
can none of us find him. You come and try!"
Elizabeth rose quickly to her feet; she suddenly felt as though some
inspiration had darted into her heart. At the moment she did not pause
to examine it. She felt that when night came, and she was alone in the
darkness, she must take out this thing that had forced itself with
lightning rapidity into her being, and examine it at leisure. Might it
be that already the clue was in her hands?
The Royal children were, at this time, under the care of Algernon Percy,
the Earl of Northumberland, and his Countess, and it was the desire of
both to make the captivity of the Princess and her brothers as little
irksome and trying as possible. At the same time, since they were held
responsible for their safe-keeping by the Parliament, they dared not but
use every precaution; and it was no easy matter for any of the children
to escape the vigilance of their guardians.
A short time before this they had been at Sion House, and when there had
paid several visits to Hampton Court, to see their father who was in
confinement there. Once, not long since, they had spent two nights with
him in that Palace, to their great and mutual happiness.
Now they had been removed to the Palace of St. James's, then on the
outskirts rather than actually in London itself, and surrounded by
pleasant gardens, in which the Royal children took exercise in fine
weather. They were very kindly treated by the Earl and Countess, and all
the servants of the household were instructed to show due and befitting
respect to the children of the King. So, in one sense of the word, their
life was not an unhappy one; but the shadow lying over their father's
fate, and the knowledge of their own inability to go to him or to go
anywhere, save at the will of their captors, made life somewhat bitter
to all, and roused a fierce sense of revolt in the heart of young James.
It was during the children's sports that they were permitted most
liberty; and certainly James had found a clever place of concealment
this evening, for neither brother nor sister nor attendants could find
him; and it was only when Elizabeth called his name aloud from the
different corridors, and the great bell for supper clanged, that the boy
made his appearance, dusty and half covered with cobwebs, and laughingly
told Harry that he had found a fine hiding-place up near the roof, and
would show it him another day.
The spring days were beginning to lengthen out now. A little while ago
it had been dark when they rose from supper, now it was growing lighter
every day. There was that promise of spring in the air that makes glad
the hearts of all young things. But it is hard to be a captive, penned
within walls and gates, when nature itself seems calling aloud upon men
to rejoice and to come forth into the gay free world without.
"If it goes on much longer, Elizabeth, methinks I shall go mad!" spoke
James one day, when he and she were alone together.
Then it was that, with bated breath and beating heart, Elizabeth
whispered into her brother's ear the thoughts and plans which had given
her so many sleepless nights of anxiety.
"Jamie, have you ever noticed when we have passed Benyion's cottage, the
great key that hangs beside the door? That is the key of the outer
garden leading down to the river. I have seen him use it many times as
we have walked in the gardens."
"Yes, I have seen him unlock that gate too. What of it?"
"Jamie, if you had that key some evening at dusk, and if we had hidden
out yonder in our hollow tree some of my clothes, made to fit you, so
that none could suspect you were a boy, could you so arrange that
Colonel Bamfield should be awaiting you at the river side with a wherry
to take you to some vessel bound for Holland? I have still left a little
of the gold that our father entrusted to me. And I am told that
seafaring folk will brave much for gold. Colonel Bamfield could arrange
all that."
"But how, how could I gain that key and use it at such an hour?"
questioned James, in an eager whisper. "How could such a thing be? Are
we not followed and watched everywhere?"
"Yet have you not eluded all watchful eyes times without number in your
games with Harry? Have we not often searched the house for an hour, and
then have had to call you to come to us? If you can elude watchful eyes
in play, why not in earnest some day, whilst they think the play is
going on, and will make no marvel of missing you for an hour or more?
The days are getting long. Let us have our game after supper instead of
before. Let us so play night by night for a week or more, that they will
not dream we have any motive in the change. Let our friend the Colonel,
if he is to be trusted, make his plans. Then, upon a certain night, when
all is in readiness, and the boat is lying waiting for you, we will play
our hide-and-seek with a difference, and whilst brother and servants are
seeking for James within the house, and even the gardens--he will be far
down the river, making for the vessel that is to carry him hence."
"But the key, Elizabeth, the key!" cried James, in great excitement;
"how can I gain possession of that?"
"Listen, Jamie," answered Elizabeth, "I have thought of that. You must
begin to pretend to have exhausted the hiding-places of our portion of
the house, and you must ask to-day that the house steward will let you
conceal yourself in his pantry. Then the next day get leave of the cook
to hide somewhere in the kitchen. Another day be bolder still, and get
into the hay-loft, where the coachman will be proud and merry to hide
you. And then when the day comes that you ask the gardener for the key
of his cottage, to hide you there awhile, neither he nor any other who
hears will think it aught but a merry jest. Then as Harry will every day
be an hour and more in hunting you, that should be time enough for you
to change your attire and slip away through the gate; and if Colonel
Bamfield only do his part, you should be out of reach ere the pursuit
has fairly begun."
James suddenly flung his arms about his sister's neck.
"Oh! Elizabeth, Elizabeth! and you have thought of all that?"
"I think of nothing else whilst we are playing hide-and-seek night by
night."
"And suppose they find out that you were privy to the scheme all the
while, what will they do to you, Elizabeth!"
She looked into his eyes, a brave smile on her pale face.
"Think not of that, Jamie; in sooth I care little what they do to me. If
you only get safe away let them take me to the Tower, or whither they
will. Little Harry is too young to care greatly, so long as we are
together; and I do not think they will take him from me, even though
they do more straitly confine us."
"But you--what would you do in that grim place?" asked James, with
something of a shudder.
"I think all places are alike to me now," answered Elizabeth, with her
strangely spiritual smile, pathetic on the face of one so young; "God
will take care of us there as well as here. Do not fear for me, Jamie.
We must strive to do what our father wished. I shall be happy indeed in
knowing that you are safe and free. For my part, I am content in feeling
myself near to him, and in knowing that if he is a prisoner--so am I."
Who would have thought, to watch the merry games of the Royal children
during the bright spring evenings that followed, what tumultuous
thoughts were surging within them, and what a daring plan had been
hatched in the brain of that delicate young girl, who so patiently
hunted the house, evening by evening, with her little brother, in
search of that clever hider, James.
The servants were by this time devoted to the children, who treated them
with that invariable high-bred courtesy that never failed the hapless
Stuarts, whatever else they might lack or fail in. Coachman, steward,
cook, pantler--all were ready to assist the young Duke to some new
hiding-place, night by night. They enjoyed the game almost as much as
the children themselves. Indeed, they seemed to take a pride in
lengthening out the search, though in the end some whispered hint would
be given to the little brother if his energies showed signs of flagging,
and he would start forth hot upon the scent that would eventually lead
him to the hiding-place, if James did not spring out upon him first.
The Earl and Countess were well used to the shouts and cries of little
Harry as he ran hither and thither through the house. The Earl generally
visited his young charges early in the evening, often just after supper,
and then he left them to their games till about nine o'clock, when he
attended first the younger Prince, and then the elder to their rooms,
and paid them the compliment of superintending in person their toilet
for the night.
At last came the long-awaited Friday, the twenty-first day of April. The
twilight lingered long now, and the game of hide-and-seek was regularly
played after supper, lasting generally till the bedtime of the Duke of
Gloucester.
[Illustration: He stopped short on seeing the Countess.
_Page 125._]
The Countess of Northumberland visited Elizabeth and her brothers this
evening, and sat awhile with the Princess after supper. Little Harry was
playing in a corner of the room; but the Countess looked rather
anxiously into Elizabeth's face, and remarked how white it was.
"But I am not sick, I thank you, Madam," said the girl gently. "Belike
it is but the first of the springtide heat. I pray you not to send the
doctor. He does but give me physic which I know not how to swallow. I
shall be better anon--in a few days, I trust."
At that moment James came running into the room, as though to speak to
his sister. He stopped short on seeing the Countess; but then, coming
forward, joined in the conversation, and chatted merrily enough. None
noted the quick glances that passed between brother and sister, nor the
strange wistfulness that brooded in Elizabeth's eyes.
Suddenly James started up, as though just bethinking him.
"Why, Harry, we must have our game; shall I hide again? Then give me
five minutes' grace, and come after me!" He looked at Elizabeth, and
said, "Wilt thou go with him? Or art thou tired to-night, sister?"
"In sooth, I think she is aweary," said the Countess; and James put his
hands on Elizabeth's shoulders, boy fashion, and snatched a kiss from
her lips.
"Then go to bed, sweetheart, and one of the servants shall attend
Harry," he said; "but he will not be content without his game of play."
The boy was gone, and Elizabeth was thankful that little Harry now
claimed the attention of the Countess; for she felt as though every drop
of blood had ebbed from her face. What would be the next thing that she
heard of her brother?
She could not be persuaded to remain in her room. She roamed all over
the house with Harry, whilst the Countess went back to her husband.
Harry's bedtime came at last; it was dark outside, save for the light of
the moon; the Earl came out, and asked where the boy was, and learned
that he was still seeking his brother.
"Then I must needs help find him too," said the good-natured nobleman,
taking Harry's hand, and as the child seemed somewhat weary of the
search, he looked inquiringly at the servants.
Then one came forward, and whispered that the Duke was hiding in the
gardener's cottage, of which he had begged the key; and thither they all
proceeded, Elizabeth commanding herself to laugh and chat with Harry,
and wonder where next Jamie would hide, and how many more strange
places were still left for him to find.
Harry ran gaily into the cottage, when somebody had forced open the
locked door for him, at a sign from the Earl, whose face had suddenly
clouded over. But ransack as they might, not a trace of the fugitive
could be found.
With a stifled exclamation of dismay the Earl dashed down to the
water-gate, which he found open. Then the truth flashed across him, and
he bit his lips in perplexed confusion.
"Conduct the Princess and the Duke to the house," he said, "we must make
further inquiries into this matter!"
Then Elizabeth knew at least that James had escaped from the Palace,
though she could not know for many days whether he would succeed in
making good his escape to Holland.
She sought the privacy of her own rooms, and, falling upon her knees,
gave thanks to God for His great goodness in watching over them thus
far.
Every day she expected to hear that some severe punishment was to be
inflicted upon her--perhaps even death itself, so little did she
understand the laws of the land--for the part she had taken in her
brother's escape. But strange to say her own complicity in the plot was
never suspected at that time. Her very calmness and courage, which
enabled her first to plan the clever scheme and then to go through her
own part so tranquilly, averted all suspicion from her.
Even the Earl, when all the facts of the case were known, was exonerated
from blame. He had before told the Parliament that he declined absolute
responsibility with regard to the Royal children, unless he made actual
prisoners of them--a thing he was not prepared to do; and although there
was some angry discussion in the House, and several stringent measures
were recommended by certain extreme men, yet in the end humane counsels
prevailed, and the Princess Elizabeth, together with her little brother,
were permitted to remain beneath the kindly care of the Earl and
Countess of Northumberland.
James escaped after a few perils, and got safe over to Holland; but the
hasty kiss he snatched from his brave young sister upon that April
evening was the last he ever gave or took from her.
The girl Elizabeth never recovered the shock of her father's death two
years later, and though she lingered for more than a year, winning the
hearts of all about her by her sweetness of disposition and the
wonderful courage and fortitude she exhibited in the midst of so many
trials and sufferings, she passed peacefully away to a world where pain
and partings are no more, and where the sorrowful and weary are at
rest.
Little Harry was with her to the last, receiving at her hands such few
poor possessions as remained to her. A while later, by an unwonted freak
of generosity on Cromwell's part, the boy was permitted to join his
mother in France.
CHARLOTTE HONEYMAN
"Pirates! Oh, Charlotte, how romantic! How do you know? Are you sure?
Oh, how I should love to see a real live pirate!"
Charlotte smiled a little grimly.
"I'm not quite so sure of that, Adela; I rather think if you were to
encounter him you would wish he were anything but a live pirate--you
would much prefer him dead!"
"What a horrid idea, Charlotte!" and Adela shivered slightly. "But do go
on! Tell me some more! I thought there were no pirates left now.
Smugglers one knows abound; but pirates!"
"I truly hope that there are not many such wretches in the world as the
man Gow seems by all accounts to be," said Charlotte, who, as the
daughter of the High-Sheriff of the island and county of Orkney spoke
with a certain amount of authority. "If half the tales they tell of him
are true, such a monster in human shape has seldom walked the earth. He
and his mate Williams have been a pair; but he found his subordinate one
too many for him, made him a prisoner, and handed him over to some
English man-of-war, under charge of various crimes, and the wretch has
probably been hanged ere this. But Gow yet goes scot-free!"
"And is his vessel in one of our bays?" asked Adela, in a tremor of
excitement.
"If the man's story be true, who came and asked speech of father last
night. He told a wonderful and a terrible tale. Father has gone off
to-day to make some particular inquiries into the business. He seems to
think very gravely of it."
"And where is this terrible pirate vessel now?"
"We do not know exactly. The seaman who came to seek for a magistrate
does not know the coast, and could not describe the place accurately. It
is not very near to our homes, thank heaven! We do not want pirates for
our neighbours!"
"Oh, but pirates only rob at sea, not upon land," exclaimed Adela; "we
need not be afraid. I should love to see what a pirate ship looked like!
Does it carry a black flag? And do the men wear crimson sashes round
their waists, and black crape masks upon their faces?"
Charlotte laughed a little. From her position as the daughter of the
Sheriff she knew a little more of the grim realities of crime than did
the younger and romantic Adela, whose pretty head was stuffed with a
good deal of nonsense. Sheriff Honeyman was very fond of his "little
child," as he still called Charlotte, notwithstanding the fact that she
had blossomed out into maidenhood of late years, and had left her
childhood behind. She was always ready for a clamber along the cliffs
with him, or a ride across the bare country on her sure-footed little
pony. He talked to her with unusual freedom for those days of his own
affairs, and was often amused by her shrewd comments and questions, as
well as by her little airs of worldly wisdom and fragments of meditative
speculation.
He noted in her with approval, too, an intrepid spirit, and a readiness
of resource in moments of emergency, which she had inherited from him.
He was sometimes caught in storms when his daughter was with him, both
on land and on the sea, and he always admired her fearless spirit on
these occasions, as well as her presence of mind and quickness to think
and act.
Charlotte had no sister, and her brothers were all away either at school
or college; but she was not lonely, for she had always plenty to occupy
and amuse her, and for companionship there was ever Adela to be depended
on; for Adela was an only child, and was devoted to Charlotte, who
seemed to her to be like brother and sister in one.
Adela was the daughter of Mr. Fea, a wealthy gentleman (as wealth was
accounted in those days and in those parts) of the island. He owned
considerable tracts of land there, and he and Mr. Honeyman were
intimate friends as well as near neighbours. In his youth he had been a
poor man, but of late years things had greatly prospered with him, and
he was accounted only second to Mr. Honeyman in importance in that
district. As the two girls were walking up and down, and talking eagerly
together over this matter, Mr. Fea himself appeared coming towards them.
Adela at once darted off, all eagerness to tell the news.
"Oh, papa, papa, what do you think! Charlotte says that there is a
pirate vessel sheltering in one of the bays of our islands, and that we
may all be murdered in our beds any day!"
Adela's face was quite glowing and beaming with excitement, and her
father could not forbear a laugh, in which Charlotte joined.
"Well, my dear, that thought seems to give you wonderful pleasure! As
the old proverb says, 'there is no accounting for taste!'" Then, turning
to Charlotte, he asked: "But what is the sober sense of all this, my
dear? What news has come to your father about pirates?"
"It is this, sir," answered Charlotte, turning to him quickly: "a poor
seaman came early this morning and asked speech of my father, and when
he was admitted he told a most terrible tale. Do you remember there
living once in these parts a man of the name of Gow, who afterwards took
to a seafaring life?"
"Gow? To be sure I remember him," answered Mr. Fea at once. "He and I
were once at the same school--a hot-tempered, rather dangerous lad, of
whom nobody spoke well. We were none of us sorry when he shipped himself
off to sea. I have never heard of him since."
"Well, the man who came to speak to papa told him that Gow had been mate
in a vessel called the _George Galley_, where he was a seaman. They had
a very good captain and officers; but Gow got up a mutiny on board, shot
the captain and some of the officers, got the well-disposed sailors shut
up helpless, took possession of the vessel, and changed its name to the
_Revenge_. Since then he has been scouring the seas, making the seamen
who did not join in the mutiny do the work of the vessel under threat of
cruel punishment or death, taking prizes, robbing and sinking small
vessels of many nations in the most reckless way, and now, by stress of
weather and through lack of water, they have put in here, where they
hope the news of their many misdeeds will not be known. They know
themselves to be in sore peril, for they have committed such
depredations on the high seas that their doings have become notorious,
and they are being watched for in many ports and on many oceans. But
here Gow thinks he may be safe for awhile, and, perhaps, even yet he
may elude justice, for he seems one of those men who carry charmed
lives."
"Pooh-pooh, my dear; I don't believe in that sort of charmed life. Those
fellows always come to the gallows at last. But how did this man dare to
come with such a story? Gow will cut his throat if ever it comes to his
ears."
"Yes; but he is not going back to the vessel. He escaped from her to
give notice to the authorities, and papa took him away with him, and has
promised him protection and help, though he will be wanted to give
evidence when Gow is brought to trial, as we hope to bring him. Papa has
gone off to take counsel with some others, and will not be back till
to-morrow; but the man said there was no fear that the _Revenge_ would
leave her moorings in that time. Gow was resolved to come ashore and
enjoy himself, and there were several more sailors who hoped to escape
from the ship, and to find their way to the mainland, there to give
notice of the pirate vessel."
Mr. Fea was keenly interested in this story. He was a law-abiding
citizen, with a horror of bloodshed and violence, and he made up his
mind that he would do everything in his power to assist in the capture
of the pirate ship. It irked him to think that an Orkney man should have
sunk to the level of Gow, and the very fact of having known him in his
early days made him the more anxious to bring him to justice. It was a
horrible thing that such men were still ranging the seas, plundering and
murdering; and that honest seamen were forced to serve in such vessels
on pain of instant death!
"I will see your father as soon as he returns," said Mr. Fea, "and we
will talk together as to the best method of making the capture. A pirate
sloop is not an easy prey to tackle; but we must see what can be done by
strategy or by force."
Adela's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Oh, papa, will there be a battle? Shall we be able to see it? Will
there be danger and fighting, and all that sort of thing?"
"I hope not, my dear; at least, not too much. There is always a little
risk in these affairs; but I hope most sincerely we may get off without
bloodshed. I should think that Gow was already sufficiently notorious,
without wishing to draw down upon himself the further ire of the
representatives of the law. Perhaps if he finds himself overmatched, he
may yield without much of a struggle."
Mr. Fea was not in any way alarmed for his own or his neighbours'
houses, even though there was a pirate schooner lying hidden in one of
the many indentations of their coast. It seemed to him, from Charlotte's
story, that Gow had run in here in the hopes of lying safe and quiet for
a short spell, and that his aim and object would be to avoid stirring up
any sort of inquiry about himself and his vessel. He appeared to desire
to enjoy himself on shore for awhile, and he certainly would not be able
to do that if he incriminated himself by any acts of violence there. So
again telling Charlotte that he would be over the next day to see her
father, and would meantime think of some plan as to what might be done
to entrap the pirate and his crew, and gain possession of the vessel, he
took his daughter with him, as he turned to go to his house, and
Charlotte sped over the few dividing fields, and reached her own home
just as the dusk was beginning to fall.
She and her mother took their supper comfortably together. Mrs. Honeyman
was an elderly lady, of considerable spirit and strength; but she was
very hard of hearing, though a little sensitive about this failing, so
that she was content often not to understand exactly what was passing,
rather than ask for an explanation.
Charlotte did not mention the pirates to her; for she thought if she
shouted out the story, that some servant would be certain to hear, and
take alarm, and there might be a sort of panic in the house. The butler
knew, as Mr. Honeyman had given him a few extra instructions about
locking up the plate at night; but he did not wish his household
needlessly alarmed; the more so as he was not able to be himself at home
till the next day.
After supper, it came into Charlotte's head that, in her father's study
there was generally on this day a considerable amount of gold, ready for
the payment of the weekly wage to labourers and people of the place on
the morrow. It occurred to her that she would do well to take her
father's cash-box up to her own room that night. Ordinarily, there was
so little fear of robbery here, that many people forgot to lock their
doors at night; but perhaps, with a crew from a pirate vessel lurking
somewhere near, it would be better to be on the safe side.
So after supper she went away quietly, took the heavy cash-box out of
the drawer, and carried it up to her room. She had in her keeping, in an
old-fashioned bureau, a good many family heirlooms in the shape of
jewels, some of them of great value; and beside these there were some
precious family documents greatly prized by her parents.
Charlotte could scarcely have told why it was that she took these out of
their hiding-place, folded them carefully up, and strapped them to the
cash-box, which she wrapped in a cloak and placed the bundle in her
wardrobe, where a dark driving-cloak and hood hung from a peg. She was
conscious of feeling a little restless and excited, though hardly
uneasy.
"It is Adela's nonsense about being murdered in our beds, and all that,"
she said to herself; "I will go down and get a book, and not trouble
myself about those stories any more."
Everything was very quiet as Charlotte and her mother sat beside the
cheerful log fire with their books. The house was rather a rambling
building, having only one upper storey of rooms, and covering a good
deal of ground. The sounds from one part of the house did not easily
penetrate to another; and Charlotte had not heard anything to awaken any
uneasiness, when suddenly, hasty steps sounded outside the door, which
opened to admit of Peter, the butler, who had such a white, scared face,
that, instinctively, Charlotte jumped up and placed herself so that her
mother might not see the man's expression of terror.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Honeyman, being engrossed in her book, did not
heed her daughter's movement, and, of course, had not heard the approach
of the servant.
"The pirates! the pirates!" cried Peter, in strangled tones. "My
mistress--my dear young mistress! Fly for your lives! They will murder
every one who tries to thwart them!"
"How many are there?" asked Charlotte breathlessly.
"Ten; nine are to go through the house and take everything. The tenth
guards the door. They say they will not hurt anybody who offers no
resistance; but they will shoot the first one of us who tries to save
his master's property!"
Charlotte's eyes flashed. Her spirit was rising within her; but she was
no reckless fool to adventure herself and others in a futile struggle.
"The men are armed, of course?"
"To the teeth, with knives and pistols and cutlasses."
"Then, Peter, we cannot tackle them ourselves. We must get your mistress
away at once. She must not even know what is happening in the house,
else I am not certain she would not face the whole pirate crew herself,
and defy and resist them. She must not run that risk. Be ready to follow
up what I shall say. I do not like to deceive; but we must stoop to
subterfuge for once."
Then, turning back into the room, she shouted to her mother--but rather
slurring over her words, and making many breaks.
"Mamma--mamma, you are wanted. Something terrible has happened. Mrs.
Fea--you must go there instantly. Please do not lose a moment. It may be
life or death. Peter will take you. Your cloak and over-shoes are yonder
in the lobby. That is the nearest way; and I will follow you quickly and
see what is the matter."
Now Mrs. Honeyman was the most notable nurse in all the island, and in
all cases of sudden emergency she was always sent for, and delighted to
go and show her kindliness and skill. She was on her feet in a moment
now, and hurried with Charlotte into a little lobby on the other side
of the room, where her walking things for the garden always hung, and
where a side-door led straight out into the garden on that side of the
house nearest to the Feas'. Peter caught up a cap and gave his arm to
his mistress, but bent an imploring glance upon Charlotte.
"Missy, Missy, you must come too. I cannot leave you."
"I will be after you directly. I have but to run up these stairs here to
my own room for something. Don't lose a moment. I shall overtake you.
But I have something I must secure first. Lose not a moment in
acquainting Mr. Fea with what has happened."
Mrs. Honeyman, was by this time unlocking the door, and Peter had no
choice but to follow his mistress. Charlotte, drawing a long breath of
relief in the consciousness that her mother was now safe, darted up the
little stairway to her own room, and already fancied that she heard
strange steps and voices in the house.
Her heart beat to suffocation in the thought that at any moment the
other door might be dashed open, and some ruffian suddenly come in and
snatch away her precious treasure. What a mercy it was that she had
thought of secreting it like this! Here it was under her hand. She was
already wrapped in her cloak; her precious package was in her arms, she
was about to run down the little stairs again, when, to her horror, she
heard rough voices in the parlour below, and the sound of oaths as the
men called one to another in their hasty search.
"'Tisn't here! There's nothing here worth laying hands on. They must
have hid it somewhere. Let's be off upstairs. Here's another staircase.
Let's see where that leads to!"
Charlotte darted back into her room again, and drew the little bolt
across it. But that would only give her a moment's respite, she knew.
One or two heavy blows would bring the door crashing inwards; and what
then? She could not fly out by the other one, down the main staircase,
without encountering the man on guard at the hall-door. The sight of her
precious package would be certain to attract their instant attention,
and they had threatened with death all who strove to resist their
project of robbery.
But if she were to give up the valuables? Then she might well escape.
They had no personal quarrel with her; and nobody had told her to
constitute herself the guard of the family property. For one brief
instant, Charlotte hesitated; then, with a snort of contempt at her own
cowardly thought, she dashed open the window, threw her precious package
down into the garden beneath, and herself vaulted lightly after it.
She had performed this feat occasionally before, in the days of her
tom-boy pranks with her brothers, but she had not often practised such a
leap of late, and the darkness made it more difficult. She was conscious
of a sharp thrill of pain in her foot as she reached the ground, but,
striving not to think of this, she caught up her bundle and fled; a
light instantly flashing from the window of the room she had quitted,
showed her that she had only just made her spring in time.
With a heart that thumped so loud in her ears as to deaden all other
sound, Charlotte sped onwards as fast as the injured foot would allow
over the rough ground that separated her home from that of her friends.
But, in a few moments, she was certain that she was pursued. She heard
angry, threatening voices in the garden behind her. Glancing back she
saw flashing lights, and through the still night air came the sound of
curses, which bespoke very real disappointment. Evidently, the men had
heard of the cash-box to be found in Mr. Honeyman's house, and were
enraged that it was not forthcoming.
"Somebody has taken it and made off!" cried a stentorian voice. "After
him, men!--scatter, and scour the place. He can't have got far! Blow out
his brains if he resists. That money I will have. I don't come all this
way on a fool's errand!"
[Illustration: Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop.
_Page 145._]
Charlotte heard, and instantly was aware of flying footsteps in many
directions, some coming her way. What could she do? Try as she would her
progress was not rapid. The distance to the Feas' house, so short on
ordinary days, now seemed endless. There were no trees to give cover.
That windswept island was bare of any save stunted bushes, and even of
these there were none to serve her purpose. If the moon should shine out
she would instantly be seen. She was not certain that some of those
fierce shouts did not mean that she had been seen already.
Breathless and terrified, but still clutching her treasure tightly,
Charlotte made for a great hole in the bank that she had known from
childhood. Into this friendly, yawning chasm she crept, pushing her
bundle before her, and here she crouched in darkness, covered by the
folds of her sombre cloak, expecting almost moment by moment to feel a
rough hand pulling her forth, or the threat of a bullet through her
brain if she did not instantly give up her treasure.
Footsteps came nearer and nearer. She shrank closer and closer into her
hole. She felt her flesh creep as the ground shook beneath the heavy
tread; it was all she could do to keep from uttering a cry. The horror
of that approaching discovery was so very real to her.
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop. She had been
discovered! She knew she had! Her senses almost forsook her. It was a
moment that she never forgot. Then a voice spoke, a rough, raucous
voice:
"You'd best come back. It's no good staying here. They're coming out
from that other house with lights and servants. They've got wind of
something up, and the sooner we get off with what we've found the
better."
A sudden rebound of feeling made Charlotte almost cry aloud. And as she
strained her ears to hear, the heavy tread of feet shook the ground once
more, now in full retreat. A few minutes later, limping in her gait, her
face as white as death, her dress covered with sand, her hands still
grasping the bundle that held the treasure, Charlotte almost fell into
Mr. Fea's fatherly arms, and told him all her tale.
"I don't know what Mr. Honeyman will say when he hears how near his
little girl went to losing her life for the sake of some valuables," he
said, as he led her into the house; "but one thing I know: he will be
mighty proud of having such a heroine for a daughter."
"If he doesn't think I was only a little goose," panted Charlotte,
beginning to look like herself. "But, oh, I am glad those wretches have
not got the things! And are you sure they have hurt nobody?"
That was the end of Charlotte's personal exploit with the pirates; but
there were many exciting days to follow, for in trying to get their
vessel away quickly, they put out on a stormy night, and were driven
ashore in the bay called Calf Sound, not far from the houses of Mr.
Honeyman and Mr. Fea. There, after much effort and some little
stratagem, the crew was finally captured, and Gow met his richly
deserved fate and perished on the gallows.
MARY BRIDGES
"Eleanor! Sister! There be days when I know not how to bear it. I feel
that I shall do something desperate."
"Nay, hush, Mary! hush! why shouldst thou speak so wildly? We must be
patient! Things will not always be so black!"
"Patience, patience! I am sick to death of the word! We have borne with
these odious men about the house, till sometimes I feel that I can bear
it no longer. And now that our father hath gone, and Robert with him, I
feel that the house is scarce a safe place for our mother or ourselves."
"Come, come, Mary, thou dost go something too far!"
"I trow not. Those bloody, hateful men of Kirke's, what do they care how
they frighten or annoy those who are forced for a time to shelter them?
The maid servants dare never be alone for an instant. They never know
but that one of those half-tipsy fellows will not come lurching in upon
them. And listen, 'twas only just now that I met one of them, smelling
so vilely of beer and spirits that it made me sick to go near him,
wandering up the stairs into our part of the house; and when I bid him
begone to his own quarters, what thinkest thou the wretch did?"
"He did not hurt thee?" quoth Eleanor, with sudden solicitude.
The eyes of the younger girl flashed fire.
"Had he laid a finger upon me, methinks I would have slain him as he
stood!" she cried.
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! hush!" pleaded Eleanor. "It is not good in these
times to speak such rash words."
"A pretty pass things have come to if sisters may not speak freely
together in their own home!" flashed out Mary, whose quick temper was
easily aroused, and whose pent up indignation of weeks was coming upon
her like a flood. "No, the creature did not dare lay hands upon me. I
gave him a look--that was enough; but he vowed with many a vile oath
that he would kiss me ere he did my bidding. If I had shown one mite of
fear, Eleanor, I verily believe that he would have been as good as his
word."
The fair Eleanor shivered with a sense of keen disgust. She had not her
sister's courage and readiness and masterful looks and ways. Suppose she
had met one of these men upon the stairs, and he had spoken thus to
her, would she have been able to escape the hated salute? It turned her
sick to think of it--albeit in those days kisses were given and received
much more commonly than has since become the fashion between men and
women, youths and maidens. Mary read her sister's thoughts, and cried
out:
"Yes, yes, that is how I feel! Suppose it had been thou! Suppose insult
were offered to thee,--or to our mother,--who is there to defend you?
Oh, why was I not born a boy that I could set these surly knaves in
their place? Robert should not have gone and left us, when our father
was called hence too. It is not right or fitting; and with all these
fearful things going on around us. It is enough to make one turn against
the King, when he makes use of such vile instruments!"
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! have a care! It is not safe to talk in that
reckless fashion. Who knows but that there may be some meddling spy
prowling about? And they say men and women are sent to prison and to
death for such small offences now."
"Ah, yes, it is the cruelty, the horrid cruelty we see perpetrated on
every hand that makes me so desperate. Think of that man Kirke, feasting
and laughing on the balcony overlooking the place where his victims were
being hanged and dismembered! think of it, Eleanor! and calling for
music for them to 'dance to' when their poor bodies twitched and swayed
on the gibbets; eating and drinking and making merry when human lives
were passing from the world in all that agony and shame!"
"Thou shouldst not listen to such stories, Mary, it does no good; and it
does but make life seem unbearable sometimes."
"And then, after Sedgemoor!" cried Mary, without heeding; "I heard
another thing of him there. Did they tell it thee too, Eleanor? There
was a man about to die--without trial--without condemnation--just strung
up as so many were on the trees by the moor's edge, at the bidding of
that man of blood! He was one of many; and the bystanders said that he
was the fleetest runner of any on the country side, and could run with a
galloping horse. Colonel Kirke asked him if that were true; and he said
he had done it. Kirke asked if he would like to do it again to save his
life; and he caught eagerly at the proffered hope. He ran with the
horse, he kept up the whole course, he returned breathless, exhausted,
but full of hope of the promise of life, and what does that monster of
cruelty and injustice do?--just has him swung up with the rest, ere the
poor wretch can find breath to plead for the promised pardon! Oh, it
makes my blood boil--it makes my blood boil! I have been loyal to the
King's cause all this while; but how can we help loathing and despising
a monarch who will use such tools as that?"
"Perhaps he does not know," faltered Eleanor.
"Not know!" echoed Mary, in scorn. "It is because he knows all too well
their temper that he sends them here! Hast heard what men are whispering
now?--that soon there will be an assize in the west to try all those who
have been concerned in this rebellion; and they say that His Majesty
will choose for the judge the most cruel, the most notoriously evil, the
most passionate and ungoverned of all the judges on the bench, and that
his name is Jeffreys. And people say if once he come hither, no man in
Taunton, nor in the west country will ever forget his coming. We shall
have such a deluge of blood as has never run in England before."
"Oh, Mary, what fearful tales thou dost get hold of!"
"They are fearful; but they are true. That is what makes them so
terrible," answered Mary. "Oh, how I hate and detest cruelty and lust of
blood! Art thou not glad, Eleanor, that even Kirke himself could not
cozen or threaten any Taunton man into acting as executioner to those
poor wretches taken on the field of Sedgemoor? They had to send to
Exeter or elsewhere to get a man to do that bloody work. Fancy cutting
the poor wretches down ere they were quite dead, and cutting out their
hearts, and flinging them on the fire, whilst the Colonel made merry at
his window, and the music drowned the curses of the crowd and the cries
of the victims or their friends! Methinks we have gone back to the days
of the Druids and their human sacrifices. Oh, how can the King permit
it? It is enough to drive the whole nation to hate him!"
"And yet we do not want a usurper to rule over us, even if the lawful
King be such an one as His Majesty is now. Thou art not foolish enough
to wish that the Duke of Monmouth had been victorious, Mary?"
"N-no, I suppose not! I love not usurpers; and our father hath always
averred that it is an open question whether the Duke is the son of the
late King Charles. No man seems able to say for certain what is his
parentage, albeit he was treated like a son; and there be those who
swear that the King did marry his mother in secret, and that he is
rightful heir to the crown."
"Mary, Mary, thou dost not believe all those foolish stories that thou
hast heard passing about? Men are always ready to believe that which
they desire to believe. But the Duke of Monmouth, if the late King's son
at all, has no claim upon the crown. Had it been otherwise he would have
been acknowledged as heir; for every man likes his son to reign in his
place. Our father thinks that the Duke is the son of one of the Sydneys;
he says he is so strangely like him; and the King never called him son,
though he was so fond of him, except when he presumed too far."
"Oh, I know, I know," answered Mary restlessly, "I have heard it all
argued a thousand times over. No, I do not want the Duke of Monmouth or
any other pretender; but I long for a King who can show mercy and
kindness and generosity; not a man full of the most bitter and
vindictive spite, who chooses as his tools and instruments those to whom
cruelty is a delight!"
It was no wonder that Mary Bridges' soul was stirred within her at this
time. She was the second daughter of Sir Ralph Bridges, of Bishop's
Hull, near Taunton, and when she was a young girl of some fourteen
summers, the whole district was stirred into violent excitement and
violent emotion by the sharp outbreak of rebellion under the Duke of
Monmouth.
The unpopularity of James II. was on the increase in those places where
the Protestant faith had its strongholds. It was openly asserted that
the King was a professed Romanist now, and that, in time, the whole
constitution of the country would be undermined by him, and that
persecutions of a terrible kind would break out under his rule.
The Duke of Monmouth came as the champion of the Protestant faith; and
hundreds who would not, in calmer moments, have admitted his claim, or
have thought it right for a moment to support one whose birth was so
very doubtful, were carried away by religious enthusiasm, and let
themselves be easily persuaded that this young man was the champion of
the faith; and that, be he who he might, he was a heaven-sent messenger
for the truth.
Far-seeing men, however, and men who knew something of the true
character and the past history of the Duke, were not so easily carried
away by the enthusiasm of the moment. Even had his claim been sounder,
he was not the man to push the enterprise to a successful issue. His
first burst of success, which had raised the hopes of his followers, and
had occasioned a certain alarm and uneasiness in the minds of his
opposers, had quickly been followed by a succession of reverses, and on
the field of Sedgemoor the hopes of the Duke and his adherents met with
a final overthrow.
Sir Ralph Bridges had been one of those who had watched the course of
the rebellion with keen interest, and had thrown his influence upon the
side of law and order. He had upheld the lawful King throughout, and had
done good service in keeping order in his own immediate neighbourhood.
But now that the revolt was at an end, and that the proportions to which
it had swelled had not been very great, it seemed to Sir Ralph and to
others as though clemency and consideration might be meted out to the
victims of the ill-timed movement; and he had been greatly scandalised
and shocked by the fury shown by Colonel Kirke and his men--his "Lambs"
as they had been named in fierce derision--for the heartless brutality
of their conduct.
It was, in fact, this indignation on the part of Sir Ralph which had
caused him to leave his home somewhat suddenly, and before the
withdrawal of the King's soldiers, billeted upon his house, in order
that he might post to town with all possible speed, and join with other
influential persons interested in the matter in seeking to win over the
King, through his ministers and advisers, to a milder and less
vindictive policy in dealing with the many persons now under arrest for
having been concerned in the rebellion. He had gone with some
reluctance; but it was told him by Kirke himself that the soldiers would
very shortly be removed from his house, and he had taken his son with
him as a precautionary measure; for he was a hot-headed youth, rather of
Mary's disposition, and the father was afraid that the lad would get
into trouble if he were not there to look after him; his disgust against
the atrocities of "Kirke's Lambs" being almost as great as was Mary's.
It was from her brother she had learned most of the more ghastly tales
of which her mind was full. Eleanor and her mother shrank from hearing
such terrible things; but Mary seemed consumed by that fearful curiosity
that longs, and yet hates, to know.
The very next day, to the immense relief of Lady Bridges, who, though
ever a dignified and self-contained woman, was one of a nervous
temperament, the order came from Colonel Kirke that the soldiers were to
depart from Bishop's Hull. Great was the satisfaction of the household
and its mistress; but equal was the disgust of the men. They had had a
fat time of plenty in this house where everything they demanded was
accorded by its mistress, who, since the departure of her lord, had
found it easier to give than withhold, although Mary's heart often
burned with anger at hearing the insolent demands of the brutal fellows,
who seemed to her to drink and carouse from morning till night. They had
been away during the time of the battle; but they were soon back again,
more swaggering, more insolent, more insupportable than ever; and, in
the absence of Sir Ralph, there seemed no end to their exactions.
The order which came was that they were to depart upon the morrow; and
it was fervently hoped that they would take themselves off at break of
day; but this was an idea which never seemed to enter their heads. They
called for more wine and beer than ever; sat drinking and dicing in the
buttery hall, as though that was their only occupation in life; and when
asked when they were going to take themselves off, replied only with
curses and foul abuse.
So insolent and intolerable did they become at last, that even Lady
Bridges' wrath was stirred within her. She and her daughters and
household had been dining as usual in the upper hall; and when the noise
from below at last became overpowering, she bid her house-steward go and
send the men away, saying that they should have nothing more from her
larder or brew-house, that their Colonel had recalled them, and they had
no longer any right to be there.
Mary clasped her hands together in delight at hearing this message. The
tables in the hall were now cleared. The servants had dispersed save a
few who were setting the place in order, Lady Bridges and her daughters
were standing upon the daïs where was the upper table, when suddenly
several drunken soldiers came lurching towards them in a state of such
anger and intoxication as made them fearful and repulsive objects.
They were swearing and cursing after the foul fashion of the day; and
though sober enough to see the ladies and make straight towards them,
they were not sober enough to choose their words, and continued to pour
out vile and insulting threats and abuse.
Lady Bridges, trembling in every limb, sank down in her chair, giving
hasty and terrified glances round her to see if help were near, and yet
mortally afraid of doing anything that could be construed by spiteful
misrepresentation into a charge of treason. The King's soldiers were the
King's servants. And who knew what power they might not have?
Eleanor cowered behind her mother as the soldiers lurched up the hall,
making gross demands of their hostess, and speaking in violent and
insulting language to all three ladies. The frightened servants crowded
together in the background waited for their lady's orders ere
interfering; and she, fearing to speak the word, only sat there rigid
and trembling, whilst ever nearer and nearer came the threatening
soldiers with their evil faces and foul words.
Mary's eyes were blazing. Her whole frame was shaken with a passion of
fury. If they dared to come up the steps and lay hands upon her
mother,--dared to touch one of them,--she drew in her breat
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