CAPTAIN
JOHN SMITH

FOURTH IMPRESSION

The American Trail Blazers

“THE STORY GRIPS AND THE HISTORY STICKS”

These books present in the form of vivid and fascinating fiction, the early and adventurous phases of American history. Each volume deals with the life and adventures of one of the great men who made that history, or with some one great event in which, perhaps, several heroic characters were involved. The stories, though based upon accurate historical fact, are rich in color, full of dramatic action, and appeal to the imagination of the red-blooded man or boy.

Each volume illustrated in color and black and white

12mo. Cloth.

• LOST WITH LIEUTENANT PIKE
• GENERAL CROOK AND THE FIGHTING APACHES
• OPENING THE WEST WITH LEWIS AND CLARK
• WITH CARSON AND FREMONT
• DANIEL BOONE: BACKWOODSMAN
• BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL
• CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
• DAVID CROCKETT: SCOUT
• ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER
• GOLD SEEKERS OF ’49
• WITH SAM HOUSTON IN TEXAS

[THE TERRIFIED FRENCHMAN DROPPED HIS SWORD AND FELL UPON HIS KNEES]

CAPTAIN
JOHN SMITH

BY

C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

AUTHOR OF “INDIA: PAST AND PRESENT,” “AMERICA’S INSULAR
POSSESSIONS,” “DANIEL BOONE, BACKWOODSMAN,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY
HARRY B. LACHMAN

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Copyright, 1907

By J. B. Lippincott Company

Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

DEDICATED
TO
MY AMERICAN SON
AND
MY BRITISH NEPHEWS

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

FOREWORD

The history of the world furnishes few lives so romantic and replete with stirring incident as that of John Smith, the founder of the first English colony in America—that settlement at Jamestown in Virginia, of which the United States of today is the outgrowth.

John Smith began life in the year 1580, in the glorious reign of Good Queen Bess. It was a world of turmoil into which our hero came, but a most fitting field for so adventurous a spirit. In France, the gallant Henry of Navarre was fighting for a kingdom and his faith against the Catholic League. In the Low Countries, the sturdy Dutchmen, under Maurice of Orange, were defending their homes from the invasion of the arrogant and bigoted Spaniard, who deemed it his duty to punish every Protestant people. In the east of Europe, the Ottomans—Asiatics from Turkestan and other countries—maintained an incessant and savage warfare against the subjects of the Emperor of Germany.

There was but one peaceful spot in all Christendom, and that the “right little, tight little island” of our forefathers. There were, however, thousands of Englishmen who, like John Smith, had no stomach for a life of ease and they were to be found in every army on the continent, fighting for gain or religion, and often for sheer love of the life of action. Moreover Cabot, the first on the coast of America, had started that movement which was to create the greatest colonial empire in the history of the world, and Raleigh had already made his first futile attempt to settle Virginia, where John Smith was destined to play a master part.

On the seas, vessels of each nation preyed upon those of every other, for a tacit condition of enmity prevailed among them regardless of the status of their several countries. Navies were composed mainly of the merchant marine, for every ocean-going ship carried cannon and small arms. Commonly their captains were furnished with letters of marque, commissions issued by their sovereigns authorizing the holders to attack the sails of other countries hostile to their own and to take prizes and prisoners. The possession of letters of marque saved a captain and his crew from the disgrace and the penalty of piracy, but it was often no more than a cloak for the practice. Two ships flying different flags hardly ever met, but the stronger attacked the other and, if victorious, plundered her, and that without any consideration for the friendly relations that might at the time exist between their respective countries. The age of the robber barons had passed away, to be succeeded by a somewhat less immoral state of society in which the powerful refrained from preying upon their countrymen but recognized no law of justice in dealing with foreigners. Judged by our standards, Dampier and Drake were pirates; Pizzaro and Cortes, bandits.

Smith, with a less acute sense of honor and a lower regard for right, might have amassed a ready fortune in the days when such qualities as his ensured wealth to the unscrupulous adventurers on land and sea, whose predatory careers were countenanced and abetted by monarchs and men in high places. In his latter years, when embittered by his failure to secure money for legitimate exploration, he writes:[1] “Had I set myself to persuade men that I knew of a mine of gold, as I know many to have done in sheer deception; or had I advanced some wild scheme for a passage to the South Sea; or some plot to loot a foreign monastery; or the equipment of a fleet to make prizes of rich East Indiamen; or letters of marque to rob some poor merchant or honest fisherman, multitudes with their money would have contended to be first employed.”

[1.] Here, and in a few instances in the following pages, I have made slight changes in the wording, without affecting the meaning, of Smith’s expressions. Although he is a very clear writer, the English of Shakespeare’s time is not always readily understandable by us.—C. H. F-L.

Queen Elizabeth, the wisest and the most humane sovereign of her time, had ample excuse for the license which she extended to her sea captains in the matter of attacking the Spanish possessions and ships. It was a measure of self-defence, designed for the protection of the liberties and religion of her subjects against the aggressive power of Spain, which, after the discovery of America, bid fair, unless checked, to make her the mistress of the world. Smith was in his ninth year when our dauntless ancestors, by shattering the great Armada, scotched the pride of Philip and halted his ambition. This was of all naval battles, perhaps, the most momentous to the Anglo-Saxon race and certainly of vital consequence to America, for had Philip’s fleet gained a victory on that occasion, we, as a nation, had never been. It is more than probable that the old religion would have been re-established in England, with a stop to the march of liberty and independence, and certain that Spain would have found no obstacle to the acquisition of the entire American continent. The immediate effect of England’s victory was to set her on the highway to the naval supremacy of the world, and the generation to which John Smith belonged maintained a constant struggle for the command of the seas. Later generations of Englishmen carried on the contest with Holland and afterwards with France.

We have seen that John Smith lived in a period of the world that afforded the adventurer ample and varied scope for the exercise of talents and energy, but in any other age than his own a man of Smith’s extraordinary parts must have taken a prominent place among his contemporaries. In the period following the decline of the Roman power, when the nations of Europe were in the formative stage, such a man would surely have been one of the great dukes (duces), or leaders who founded dynasties of kings. At the present day he might be an explorer, a captain of industry, or a statesman—for Smith had the qualities that ensure success in any walk of life.

It is a wonderful and inspiring story, that of the stripling who, without money or friends, boldly left his native land and, abandoning himself to the chance currents of a strange world, at the age when the modern schoolboy is seeking distinction on the football field, was learning the art of arms in the practical school of war. Dame Fortune surely smiled upon the errant boy and, whilst she led him into constant adventure and danger, as frequently saw him safely out of them.

During his checkered career as a soldier of fortune his lot is often cast in hard places and his life is constantly endangered. He is shipwrecked and narrowly escapes drowning. Robbed and landed upon a foreign shore with empty purse, he is forced to sell his cloak in order to meet his needs. Like Jonah of old, he is thrown overboard by a superstitious crew, but contrives to swim to an uninhabited island. He is sorely wounded in battle and captured by the Turks, who sell him into slavery.

The life was always arduous, for in those days mere travel was beset by dangers and difficulty, but as we follow the lad in his adventures we are cheered by many a bright spot and many a fine success. For John Smith was never the kind to be depressed or defeated by adversity. Indeed, he reminds one of those toys, called “bottle imps,” that may be rolled over in any direction but cannot be made to lie down. Hardly has he met with a reverse than he sets about repairing it and always with success. To-day he is cold, hungry, and half clad, his purse as flat as a flounder, but soon afterwards we see him going gayly on his way with a pocket full of sequins, his share in a prize which he had helped to capture. He wins his spurs in the Low Countries and in the war against the Turks is granted a coat of arms for the exploit of defeating three of the enemy’s champions in single combat. His military services earn for him the title of captain and the command of a regiment of horse.

All these things, and many more equally remarkable, befall John Smith before he has reached the age of twenty-four. He has now spent eight years abroad, except for a brief return to England, and all this time he is fighting on land and at sea, or roaming through foreign countries in search of experience and adventure. Keenly observant always, he extracts from each occasion—as the bee gathers honey from every flower—some knowledge to be turned to useful account in later life.

Smith has no other purpose during this early period of his life than to learn what he can of the world and the practice of arms—in short to qualify himself for a life of action in an age when brawn is no less essential to success than brain. It is a stern school in which he acquires his training but an effective one, and he makes the most of his opportunities. We see the expansion of his mind keeping pace with the development of his muscle, until the Captain John Smith who joins the colonists bound for Virginia appears as a man of perfect physique and mature judgment. It is not improbable that the hardships and exposure of his life may have sown the seeds of disease but, if so, he has not contributed to such a condition by his habits. In that day the soldiers of all nations were addicted to brawling, drinking, pillaging, and gambling. But these practices had no attraction for Smith. His sword never lagged in the scabbard on good occasion for its use, but he was no swashbuckler seeking unnecessary trouble; he drank wine sparingly but found no pleasure in gluttony; he paid for what he took, even in an enemy’s country and counted it a disgrace to rob a defenceless man; in the matter of money, as in everything else, he was the most generous of mortals and had rather hand a man his purse than to win that of the other by dicing. Withal he did not set himself up to be better than his fellows and we have the testimony of two of his countrymen, who followed him through the wars in Transylvania, that he was respected and beloved by his comrades and the soldiers under his command.

Hitherto Smith has been associated with men whose experience was greater than his own. They have been his masters, both in the sense of teachers and commanders. As a subordinate he has performed his duties so well as to call forth the praise and admiration of his superiors. Now we find him going out to a land which is equally strange to him and to his companions. No man of them enjoys the advantage of knowing more than the others about those distant parts and their people. Rank and money will count for little in the new life. Each man’s worth will be measured by his character and his actions. Under such conditions, a man of Smith’s extraordinary ability must sooner or later become the leader, even among others much older than himself.

The foundation of Virginia and, as I have said, that of the United States was laid by Captain John Smith in spite of tremendous difficulties. Some of these were such as would naturally attend the settlement of a strange land among hostile inhabitants, but it is not too much to say that the greater part of them were due to the incompetence of the colonists and their constant quarrels among themselves. More than once they brought affairs to such a pass that nothing but the prompt and energetic action of Smith saved the colony from total destruction.

These differences broke out before they had reached the shores of America, and we see Captain John Smith landed in chains, a prisoner under absurd charges trumped up by pettifoggers who are envious of his evident fitness for command and accuse him of a design to usurp it. They scheme to send him back to England, but at the very outset they learn that they cannot dispense with the services of this, the ablest man among them. It is he who shows them how to fortify the settlement. He repels the attacks of the Indians. He and he only, dares lead exploring expeditions into unknown regions. Captured by the most powerful chief of that part of the country, Smith converts him into an ally. He makes treaties with the surrounding tribes and secures their friendship for the settlers. Time and again, when improvidence has brought famine upon the colonists, he saves them from starvation by procuring supplies at the risk of his life. In short he continually preserves this mixed company of malcontents and incompetents from the worst consequences of their folly and controls them with the firmness and tact of a master. In his dealings with the Indians, he carefully avoids unnecessary bloodshed or harshness, frequently sacrificing prudence at the dictate of humanity. Yet he gained the respect of the savages by his courage, steadfastness, honesty and—when occasion demanded—by the weight of his strong arm, for Captain John Smith was no less stern than just.

In the days when news traveled slowly and was often delivered by word of mouth, the truth of distant events was hard to ascertain, and great men were frequently the victims of malice and envy. Smith, like many another, failed to receive at the hands of his countrymen the honor and recognition which he deserved. They had been misled by extravagant fables of the wealth of America and were disappointed that Smith did not send home cargoes of gold, spices, and other things which the country did not produce. False tales of his tyranny over the colonists and his cruelty to the savages had preceded his return to England, and he found himself in disfavor. He made two voyages to New England, as he called the region which still bears that name, but little came of them. This was mainly on account of the determination of the promoters to search for gold lodes where none existed. Smith with rare foresight strove to persuade his contemporaries that they had better develop commerce in the products of the sea and the field. Few would listen to him, however, whilst the rich argosies of Spain, freighted with ore from South America, inflamed their minds with visions of similar treasures in the north. The spirit of speculation had taken possession of the country. Smith could obtain money for none but wild or dishonest ventures and in such he would not engage. His generous soul disdained the pursuit of mere wealth, and we see him, after having “lived near thirty-seven years in the midst of wars, pestilence, and famine, by which many a hundred thousand died” about him, passing his last days in the comparative poverty which had been his condition through life. Captain John Smith had not yet reached the prime of life—indeed, he was hardly more than forty years of age—when he was compelled to retire from active life. Despairing of honorable employment, he settled down to write the many books that issued from his pen. It would be difficult to surmise what valuable services he might, with better opportunity, have performed for his country, during this last decade of his life. The time was well spent, however, that he occupied in the composition of his life and historical works. He is a clear and terse writer. We are seldom at a loss to fully understand him, and the only complaint that we feel disposed to make against Captain John Smith as a writer is that he too often fails to give an account of his own part in the stirring events which he records. In fact he combined with the modesty usually associated with true greatness, the self-confidence of the man whose ultimate reliance is upon an all-powerful Providence. “If you but truly consider,” he writes in the history of Virginia, “how many strange accidents have befallen these plantations and myself, you cannot but conceive God’s infinite mercy both to them and to me.... Though I have but my labor for my pains, have I not much reason publicly and privately to acknowledge it and to give good thanks?”

Few men have compassed in fifty years of life so much of noble action and inspiring example as did John Smith. He died, as he had lived, a God-fearing, honorable gentleman, rich in the consciousness of a life well spent and in the respect of all who knew him. He was a connecting link between the old world and the new, and we, no less than England, should keep his memory green.

THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

John Smith
Gentleman Adventurer

[I.]
WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY

Jack Smith is introduced to the reader—He takes part in the rejoicing at the defeat of the Spanish Armada—His relations to the sons of Lord Willoughby—He runs away from school and sells his books and satchel—He is starting for London when his father dies—He is apprenticed to a merchant and shipowner—He tires of life at the desk and deserts the counting-house—His guardian consents to his going into the world and furnishes him with ten shillings—Jack takes the road to London with a bundle on his back—He meets Peregrine Willoughby.

It was the day following that memorable Monday in August, 1588, when the English fleet scattered the galleons and galleasses of Spain and Portugal and chased them into the North Sea. The bells were pealing from every steeple and church tower in Merry England, whilst beacon fires flashed their happy tidings along the chain of hill-tops from Land’s End to John O’Groats. The country was wild with joy at the glorious victory over the Great Armada, and well it might be, for never was a fight more gallant nor a cause more just. It was night and long past the hour when the honest citizens of Good Queen Bess’s realm were wont to seek their couches and well-earned repose, but this night excitement ran too high to admit of the thought of sleep.

In the little village of Willoughby, Master Gardner, portly and red-faced, was prepared to keep the D’Eresby Arms open until daylight despite law and custom. The villagers who passed up and down the one street of the hamlet exchanging greetings and congratulations had more than a patriotic interest in the great event, for at least half of them had sons or brothers amongst the sturdy souls who had flocked from every shire and town to their country’s defence at the first call for help.

Beside the fountain in the market place, interested spectators of the scene, stood a lusty lad and an elderly man, bowed by broken health.

“The Lord be praised that He hath let me live to see this glorious day,” said the man, reverently and with a tremor in his voice. “Our England hath trounced the proud Don, my son. I’ faith! ’tis scarce to be believed that our little cockle-shells should overmatch their great vessels of war. Thank the Lord, lad, that thou wast born in a land that breeds men as staunch as the stuff from which their ships are fashioned. If one who served—with some distinction if I say it—under the great Sir Francis, might hazard a prediction, I would say that the sun of England hath risen over the seas never to set.”

“Would I had been there, Sir!” cried the boy with eyes aglow.

“Thou, manikin!” replied his father smiling, as he patted the bare head. “Thou! But it gladdens my heart that a Smith of Willoughby fought with Drake on the Revenge in yester battle and I’ll warrant that my brother William demeaned himself as becomes one of our line.”

“And thus will I one day,” said the lad earnestly.

“Nay, nay child!” quickly rejoined the man. “Harbor not such wild designs John, for thou art cast for a farmer. Thou must train thy hand to the plow and so dismiss from thy mind all thought of the sea. Come, let us return. Thy mother will be aweary waiting.”

Perhaps it is not strange that Master George Smith, who had followed the sea in his younger days, should have sought to dissuade his son from thought of a similar course. The career of adventure had not resulted in any improvement of the father’s fortune. On the contrary, he had finally returned home with empty pockets and wrecked health to find the farm run down and the mother whom he had loved most dearly, dead. Now, feeling that but few more years of life remained to him, it was his aim to improve the property and his hope that John would grow up to be a thrifty farmer and take care of his mother and the younger children.

Master George Smith came of a family of armigers, or gentlemen, and was accounted a well-to-do farmer in those parts. His holding lay within the estate of the Baron Willoughby, the Lord of the Manor, and he held his lands in perpetuity on what was called a quit rent. This may have consisted of the yearly payment of a few shillings, a firkin of butter, or a flitch of bacon—any trifle in short which would suffice to indicate the farmer’s acknowledgment of the Baron as his overlord.

In the earlier feudal period, lands were granted in consideration of military service. The nobleman received his broad acres from the king upon condition of bringing a certain number of armed retainers into the field whenever summoned. The lord, in order to have the necessary retainers always at command, divided up his domain into small holdings amongst men who pledged themselves to join his banner when called upon. As a reminder of his obligation, each retainer was required to make some slight payment to his lord every year, and this was deemed an acquittance of rent. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, feudal tenure—that is the holding of lands in consideration of military service—had ceased to exist, but the custom of paying quit rent continued and it is observed in many parts of England to this day.

Master Smith sent his son to the grammar school in the neighboring village of Alford. It was perhaps one of the many schools of the kind founded by the wise young king, Edward the Sixth, for the benefit of the great mass of his subjects who could not afford to have their sons educated at the more expensive colleges. John was an apt scholar and made good progress, but even in early boyhood his mind was, as he tells us, “set upon brave adventure.” And so, although he applied himself diligently to learning whilst at school, he was impatient to cut loose from his books and go into the world of action.

This is not difficult to understand when we consider the lad’s temperament and the circumstances in which he was placed. Willoughby and Alford were on the coast. The people were for the most part sea-faring men. Many of them made voyages to the continent of Europe and some had visited more distant parts. Like most seamen, they were doubtless always ready to tell of their experiences, and we may be sure that little Jack Smith was an eager listener to their yarns.

He was nine years of age when England throbbed with excitement at the approach of the great Armada of Spain. He saw all the able-bodied men of his village hurrying south to join their country’s defenders, and without doubt he wished that he were old enough to go with them. A few weeks later, the gallant men of Willoughby came home to harvest their fields, undisturbed by fear of an invasion of the Dons. Every one of them had done his full share in the fight. Jack’s uncle had served on Francis Drake’s ship. That fierce sea-hawk was in the thick of the strife and it was a brave story that Master William Smith had to relate to his delighted nephew.

As the lad grew older, he began to read of the glorious deeds of his countrymen in former days, stories of battle and adventure on land and sea, of knights and sea captains, of shipwreck and discovery. Books were costly and hard to come by in those days and very few would be found in the home of even a prosperous farmer. But Jack Smith was fortunate in the fact that Robert and Peregrine, the sons of Lord Willoughby, were his schoolfellows and playmates. Through them he had access to the castle with its grand hall full of armor and weapons, its gallery of old portraits, and above all its library, containing many of the kind of books from which he derived the greatest pleasure.

More than that, Lord Willoughby was one of the most renowned warriors of his day. On the Continent his name was linked with those of Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh. His feats of arms were recorded by historians and sung in ballads. One of these, which you may find in a curious old book named “Percy’s Reliques,” commences thus:

“The fifteenth day of July,
With glistening spear and shield,
A famous fight in Flanders,
Was foughten in the field.
The most courageous officers
Were English captains three,
But the bravest man in battel
Was the brave Lord Willoughbie.”

This song was composed at about the time that Jack was at school, and you may depend upon it that he with every one else in Willoughby sang it, for they were all right proud of their lord.

Lady Willoughby was, of course, fond of recounting her husband’s brave exploits. He was at this time fighting in the Low Countries, and at every opportunity he sent her word of the adventures that befell him. Parts of these letters she would read to her sons, and Jack was often present. At other times she would sit in a large oaken chair before the great fireplace in the hall, the three lads and two huge stag-hounds grouped about her feet in the ruddy light of the log fire. Many a delightful evening was thus spent, the stately lady telling of the stirring deeds performed by her lord and the boys listening with breathless interest.

During one winter the little circle received a welcome addition in the son of Count Ployer. The young Frenchman was in England for the purpose of finishing his education. His father was a friend of Lord Willoughby and in company with the latter was fighting in the Low Countries. The young nobleman was thus in a position to contribute his share to the stories of military adventure in which they were all so deeply interested.

As he walked home in the dark after one of these recitals, Jack would flourish his staff and shout words of command to imaginary followers, or tilt at a bush, or wage a furious duel with a milestone. The baying of “Sir Roger,” the old watchdog at the homestead, would recall him to his senses, and he would steal up to his truckle bed in the attic wishing that he were a man and his own master.

By the time Jack reached the age of thirteen, the desire to seek his fortune in the world had become too strong to be longer resisted. His mother was dead, his brother and sister were younger than himself and his father’s mind was still set upon making him a farmer. There was no one to whom he could turn for advice or assistance and so, with the self-reliance which he displayed through after-life, Jack determined to take matters into his own hands. The only things of any value which he possessed were his school books and satchel. These he sold for a few shillings. With this money in his pocket he was on the point of setting out for London, when the sudden death of his father upset his plan.

Master Smith left the farm to his son John, but placed it and the boy in the hands of a Master Metham, who was to act as guardian of both until such time as Jack should attain the legal age to inherit. This Master Metham was a trader, and he thought that he was doing very well by Jack when he put him in the way of learning business. He apprenticed the lad to Master Thomas Sendall, a shipowner and merchant of the neighboring seaport of Lynn. At first this arrangement was decidedly to Jack’s liking, for his guardian held out the prospect of voyages to the many foreign countries visited by Master Sendall’s vessels. But in this Jack was disappointed. Sailor-boys his master could easily get, but it was not such a ready matter to find a bright youngster for work in the counting-house. So Jack found himself pinned down to a desk in sight of the busy wharves and shipping. Here for some months he sat chafing at the inactivity and at length he determined to run away.

One night he slipped out of the warehouse in which he slept and, with his bundle of clothes slung on a stick over his shoulder, started for Willoughby, which he reached after a few days’ tramp. Jack went boldly up to his guardian’s house and told him that he had run away from his master, feeling assured that there was little chance of travel whilst he remained in his employment.

“Nor will I return,” said Jack in conclusion, “for I am determined to see the world and I beg of you to supply me with the means.” Now this speech smacked somewhat of over-confidence, for in those days truant apprentices were severely dealt with and Jack was liable to have been sent back to his master, who might then have flogged him. However, Master Metham knew that his friend Sendall would not wish to be troubled with an unwilling apprentice, and a plan occurred to him for curing Jack of his desire to roam. His idea was to give the lad so little money that he could not go very far with it and would soon experience a taste of hardship. This Master Metham thought would bring his ward home, eager to return to his desk and settle down to the sober life of a merchant’s clerk. The scheme might have worked very well with many boys, but Jack was not of the kind that turn back.

“As you will,” said Master Metham, after some thought. “Here is the money, and now go where you please.”

With that he handed our hero ten shillings.

“What is this?” cried Jack in amazement. “Ten shillings! Surely you jest Master Metham.”

“Not so,” replied his guardian, assuming a stern air. “Take the money and begone, or return it to me and go back to Master Sendall within the hour.”

Jack thrust the coins into his pocket and turned on his heel without another word. The next minute he was striding resolutely along the highroad to London.

As Master Metham watched the receding figure of his ward from the window, he could not help feeling admiration for the boy’s pluck, but a grim smile played about the merchant’s lips as he said to himself, “And I mistake not, yon humorist will be coming back in a fortnight or less, with pinched face and tightened waistbelt.”

But Master Metham proved to be a poor prophet. Several years passed before he set eyes on Jack again.

The journey to the capital was not unpleasant. The time was early summer, when the fields are clad in the greenest grass, with a thick sprinkling of wild flowers and the hedgerows give off the sweet smell of honeysuckle and violets. Shade trees lined the road, so that Jack was able to push along, even in the noonday heat, without serious discomfort. He was a strong, healthy lad, to whom a tramp of twenty miles in a day was no great matter. Often a passing wagoner gave him a lift and sometimes shared with him a meal of bread and bacon washed down with a draught of home-brewed ale. Milkmaids, going home with their pails brimful, would offer him a drink, and occasionally a farmer would ask him to the house to join in the family meal. He never failed to find a lodging for the night if it was only in a barn or a stable. Thus Jack, with a thriftiness which would have chagrined Master Metham, had he known of it, contrived to husband his little store of money and, indeed, he had not broken into it when a happy incident relieved him of all further anxiety on the score of ways and means.

He was plodding along one day when two horsemen overtook him. They looked back in passing and one of them suddenly reined in his horse and turned it round.

“Not Jack Smith!” he cried in evident delight. “Whither away comrade?”

“I am setting out on my travels, Peregrine,” replied Jack, trying to put on the air of a man of the world.

“And I also,” said the son of Lord Willoughby, for it was he, “but come, you must join us, and we can exchange the news as we ride along.” He ordered one of the two grooms who followed them to give his horse over to Jack and the other to take the wayfarer’s bundle. Having presented his young friend to the tutor and temporary guardian who accompanied him, Peregrine drew alongside of Jack whilst the latter told his story. The young lord in turn explained that he was on his way to Orleans in France, there to join his elder brother and complete his studies abroad after the manner of young noblemen of that day—and of this, for that matter. He insisted that Jack should accompany him as his guest, saying that it would be time enough to think of other plans after they should have reached their destination.

As we see Jack thus fairly launched upon his adventures, we cannot help smiling to think how it would have surprised good Master Metham to learn how far ten shillings could carry our hero.

[II.]
LONDON TOWN IN SHAKESPEARE’S DAY

Old London as it looked from Highgate Hill—The travelers put up at “Ye Swanne” near New Gate—The start for White Hall to see Sir Francis Walsingham and the Queen—Their wonderment at the strange house signs—The saucy apprentices arouse their anger—Old Paule’s Cathedral and some celebrated mansions—The Royal Palace and a state procession—They go to the Globe, Will Shakespeare’s theatre—The boys see their first play in company with Doctor Hollister—Old London Bridge, its curious houses and its grizzly ornaments.

When our travelers reached the top of Highgate Hill, from which an extensive view could be had in every direction, they halted to survey the scene. London lay below, stretched along the banks of the Thames, and still several miles distant. In Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was a small place compared with what it is today. Its greatest distance across was then less than two miles, whereas, now it is nearly thirty. Nevertheless, London was by far the greatest city in England and amongst the largest in the world.

Jack and his companions looked down upon a closely packed collection of buildings within a wall whose moat, no longer needed for defence, had become half choked with refuse and rank vegetation. The streets were so narrow that, with the exception of Cheapside, which traversed the city from end to end, they were not discernible at that distance. The mass of red-tiled roofs was broken here and there by a market place or a churchyard and agreeably relieved by the gardens which lay at the backs of most of the houses. One hundred and more spires of parish churches shot up in relief against the background of the silvery river, for in those days the Thames was a clear and pure stream upon which swans disported even below London Bridge.

Scattering suburbs extended from the walls of the city in several directions. In Elizabeth’s time, the noblemen and wealthier citizens had deserted their old-time palaces and mansions in the filthy and crowded metropolis for healthier residences among the adjacent fields. Perhaps, Baynard Castle, mentioned in the opening scene of Shakespeare’s Richard the Third, was the only one of the old homes of the nobility occupied by its owner at that time. Most of the others had been given over to tenements in which the poorer people crowded. A large part of the London that the boys gazed upon in wonder and admiration was destroyed by the Great Fire in the year 1666.

It must be remembered that, despite the comparison we have made of the London of Shakespeare’s time and the city of today, the former was relatively of greater importance than the latter and exercised a greater influence on the affairs of the nation. It was the residence of the monarch and of all the important members of the government. Every person of note in the kingdom had a town house. By far the greater part of the business of the country was transacted at the capital. It set the fashion and furnished the news for the whole island. London was, in short, the heart and brains of England at this period.

It was late in the evening when the travelers, tired and hungry, passed through New Gate which, like Lud Gate and some others of the many entrances to the city, was used as a prison. A little later and they must have remained at one of the inns outside the walls for the night, or have left their horses and entered by the postern, for the portcullis was closed at sundown. They put up at “Ye Swanne” on Cheapside and hardly one hundred yards from the gate. It was a hostelry much frequented by north-country gentlemen. Master Marner, the host, gave them the best accommodations his house afforded for the sake of Lord Willoughby, who had often been his guest and, in fact, always lodged with him when in London. That nobleman, long accustomed to the freedom and frank comradeship of the camp, found himself much more at ease in one of Master Marner’s cosy rooms than in a chamber at Whitehall.

Neither of the lads had ever been in London, and after they had supped in the common room—which corresponded to the café of a modern hotel—they were eager to go out and see the great sights of which they had heard so much. But to this Doctor Hollister, the tutor, would not consent, for in those days the capital was infested by footpads and brawlers after nightfall and the patrols of the watch afforded scant protection to wayfarers in the unlighted streets. The explanation of all this only whetted the desire of the lads to go abroad on the chance of witnessing some duel or fracas but Peregrine, at least, was under the authority of the Doctor and Jack by accepting his friend’s hospitality had placed himself in a similar position. So they restrained their impatience and went early to bed as all honest folk did at that period.

The following morning Doctor Hollister, accompanied by his young charges, set out for Whitehall carrying a letter from Lady Willoughby to Sir Francis Walsingham. The royal palace was at the extreme western end of London, whilst the Swan Inn stood hard by New Gate, at the eastern extremity, so that in order to reach their destination the travelers had to traverse the full extent of the city. A citizen of London at that time, having such a distance to cover, would most likely have taken a wherry at one of the many water stairs, where numbers of such boats were in waiting at all hours of the day and night. Jack and Peregrine, eager as they were to see the sights of the metropolis, would not hear of anything but walking and so the party set out at an early hour, taking their way along Cheapside, or the Cheap as it was then called.

Everything they saw was novel to the boys, neither of whom had ever been in a town larger than Lynn. The gable roofs and projecting upper stories of the houses were much like what they were accustomed to at home, but they had seldom seen one of three stories and here were many rising to four and five. In the narrow side streets which they passed, the dwellings approached so closely that persons sitting at their upper windows might easily converse with their neighbors across the way, or even shake hands with them by leaning out.

Before almost every house hung a painted board suspended from an iron bracket, similar to the sign of the “D’Eresby Arms” displayed by the village tavern at Willoughby. For a moment the boys thought that they must be in a town full of inns and Doctor Hollister was mightily amused by the puzzled expression with which they looked from one to another of the crude and curious pictures. The explanation was simple enough when the tutor made it. In the reign of Elizabeth the simple device of numbers to distinguish the different houses of a street had not yet been thought of and so one saw all manner of things pictured and hung over the entrances. There were angels, dragons, castles, mountains, Turks, bears, foxes, birds, books, suns, mitres, ships, and in fact every conceivable kind of object. So, a man wishing to indicate his place of abode might say: “I lodge with the widow Toy, at the sign of the Bell in Paule’s Churchyard” and, since there was at the time a veritable widow Toy, living in a house on the east side of the churchyard and distinguished by the sign of a Bell, who doubtless took in lodgers when favorable opportunity offered, it is not impossible that one or another of the acquaintances made by our party during their stay in London uttered precisely such a remark to them.

As our friends passed along the street, apprentices standing in front of their master’s shops invited their patronage or made saucy comments upon their appearance for, although they were dressed in their best clothes, it was easy to see that a country tailor had fashioned their garments.

“Ho Richard! Dick Hopple!” cried one of these prentices to an acquaintance across the street. “Cast thy gaze upon his worship and the little worshipfuls going to Paule’s to buy a sixtieth.” This was an allusion to the lottery under royal patronage which was conducted in a booth set up in the churchyard of the cathedral. It attracted many countrymen to the capital, who could generally afford to purchase no more than a fractional share, perhaps one-tenth, of a ticket.

“Peace boy!” said Doctor Hollister, sternly.

“Honorificabilitudinitatibus!” glibly replied the lad with a mock obeisance. This extraordinary word, which Shakespeare had put into the mouth of one of his characters, caught the fancy of the London populace as a similar verbal monstrosity—Cryptoconcodycyphernostamata—did about twenty-five years ago.

Doctor Hollister had the greatest difficulty in restraining the boys from replying to these gibes with their fists and Jack, in particular, begged earnestly to be permitted to “lay just one of them by the heels.” But the Doctor had been a chorister of Paule’s in his boyhood and he knew the formidable character of the London apprentices and how, at the cry of “Clubs! Clubs!” they would swarm with their staves to the aid of one of their number.

Presently they came to the great cathedral, and were surprised to find that the holy edifice was used as a public thoroughfare, even animals being driven across its nave, whilst hawkers displayed their wares around the columns and gallants and gossips lounged about on the seats—all this, too, during the celebration of divine service. The lads who had been brought up in reverence of their country church were shocked at the sights around them and little disposed to linger in the building.

Leaving the churchyard of the cathedral, Doctor Hollister led the way down Dowgate Hill to the water front, wishing to afford the boys sight of two unusually interesting buildings. One of these was Baynard Castle, of which mention has already been made, but the other had the greater attraction for Jack on account of being the residence of his hero, Sir Francis Drake. It had formerly been known as Eber House, when it was the palace of Warwick, the “Kingmaker,” whom you will remember as the titular character of “The Last of the Barons.” Later the place was occupied by that “false, fleeting, perjured Clarence” whose dream is one of the most impressive passages in Shakespeare’s tragedy, Richard the Third.

Passing Westminster and the little village of Charing Cross, our travelers came upon the Palace of Whitehall fronting upon the Thames and with Saint James’s Park at its back. In Elizabeth’s time this royal residence was the scene of such splendid entertainments as marked its occupancy by her father, Henry the Eighth. At this period it stood outside of London on the outskirts of what was the distinct city of Westminster.

Sir Francis Walsingham received Doctor Hollister kindly and promised to facilitate the journey of the party to France. The Queen was about to go to the royal chapel in state and the minister secured a favorable position from which the country visitors had a good view of Elizabeth and her attendants. In the meanwhile a secretary was instructed to write the passports and letters to be delivered to the Doctor before his departure.

The royal procession appeared to the sound of trumpets blown by six heralds who walked in advance. First, after them, came gentlemen of the court and noblemen, richly dressed and bareheaded; next the Chancellor, bearing the state seal in a red silk purse, on one side of him an official carrying the royal scepter, on the other one bearing the sword of state in a red velvet scabbard, studded with golden fleur de lis. Then followed the Queen with majestic mien, her oval face fair but wrinkled; her black eyes small but pleasing. Her nose was somewhat aquiline and her lips thin and straight. She wore false hair of bright red topped by a small crown.

As she moved slowly along between lines of courtiers and representatives of foreign nations, she spoke graciously to one and another and, when occasion needed, with fluency in French or Italian. When one spoke to her, he did so kneeling, and whenever she turned toward a group, all fell upon their knees. It was these ceremonies that made the Court such an irksome place to bluff soldiers such as Lord Willoughby.

The Queen was guarded on each side by the gentlemen pensioners, fifty in number, with gilt battle axes. Following her came the ladies of the Court, for the most part dressed in handsome gowns of white taffeta or some other rich stuff.

In the antechamber a number of petitions were presented to Her Majesty, who received them graciously amid acclamations of “Long live our Queen!” to which she replied, smiling, “I thank you, my good people!”

Upon the return of the royal party from the chapel, Sir Francis Walsingham ordered a meal, of which the principal features were roast beef and ale, to be set before Doctor Hollister and his charges. They were hungry and did ample justice to the minister’s hospitality. Sir Francis then handed the Doctor his papers and wished the travelers godspeed and a safe return.

It was high noon and the sight-seers still had a good half of the day before them. The boys had never been to a theatre—indeed, there were none outside of London—and the Doctor determined to take them to the Globe which, under the management of William Shakespeare, was fast becoming famous. The playhouse stood on the Surrey side of the river a short distance above the bridge. The party took boat at the palace stairs and were quickly rowed down and across the stream. They landed near a circular tower-like building, topped by a flag-staff and ensign, which the Doctor informed them was their destination. At that period plays were performed only in the daytime and the party was just in time for a performance. The enclosure—for it could hardly be called a building—was open to the sky. Around the sides were tiers of seats which accommodated the better class of spectators whilst the “groundlings” stood in the central space before the booth-like erection which contained the stage. There was no scenery, though the costumes were rich and various, and the back and sides of the stage were occupied by young gallants seated upon stools, for which privilege they paid sixpence extra. The audience commented freely and loudly upon the play and the acting and not infrequently the actors replied. Boys took the female parts and bouquets had not come into use to express favor, but an unpopular actor was sometimes subjected to a shower of ancient eggs and rotten vegetables from the pit.

No doubt the play, crude as we should consider it, was a source of wonder and delight to Jack and Peregrine who had never seen acting more pretentious than the antics of the village mummers at the New Year festival.

On the return home the party walked over London Bridge. At the entrance tower they were startled to see the heads of some eight or ten criminals stuck on the ends of spears. Two of these were quite fresh and had a peculiarly ghastly appearance with their eyes staring open and hair blowing in the breeze. But their attention was soon distracted from this gruesome sight to the bridge itself which was one of the most extraordinary structures in the country. It was entirely built over by houses two and three stories in height. Through the centre ran an arcade like a tunnel lined with shops. This strange viaduct, therefore, was at once a bridge and a street as well as a roadway for heavy wagons. In the stories above the shops, lived the owners of the latter. They were also occupied by offices and in a few instances as private lodgings.

Tired as the boys were when they reached their beds that night, they lay talking for hours of the wonderful sights they had seen. At length their remarks came in snatches and with mumbled speech as sleep overtook them against their will.

“Jack,” said Peregrine, drowsily, “if you were Lord Mayor of London, what would you do?”

“Give myself leave to fight a prentice,” muttered our hero, with closed eyes.

[III.]
THE SOLDIER APPRENTICE

Jack goes to France with Peregrine—Is persuaded to turn homeward—He starts for Paris and meets David Home—Sees the capital and spends his money—Takes boat on the Seine for the coast and arrives without a penny in his pocket—Enters the service of Captain Duxbury and begins to learn the practice of arms—Sees service in the army of Henry of Navarre—Goes to the Low Countries and fights against the Spaniards—Sails for Scotland and is shipwrecked—Returns to Willoughby and continues his training with Signor Polaloga.

Our friends arrived at Orleans without adventure or mishap. Sir Robert Bertie, the elder son of Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, was unaffectedly pleased to see his old playmate, Jack Smith. On reflection, however, and after consultation with Doctor Hollister, he decided that the young truant could not do better than return to his guardian. When a few days had been spent in seeing the sights and the tutor had intimated that it was time the young noblemen settled down to their studies, Robert frankly expressed his opinion with regard to Jack.

Peregrine was moved to tears at the thought of losing his companion and thoughtlessly charged his brother with a selfish desire to be rid of their guest. “Nay,” said Robert, kindly laying his hand upon our hero’s shoulder, “Jack knows me too well to believe that. In truth nothing would better please me than that he should stay with us, but he has work to do at home. No, Willoughby is the place for thee lad—and would I were going with thee. Tomorrow we see Jack started on his way Peregrine, and when we come back in a year or two it shall be to find him a full-blown farmer, with a buxom wife perchance.”

Jack was anything but pleased at the prospect, but he had too much sense to raise an objection to the suggestion, and besides he was duly grateful for the generous hospitality he had enjoyed at the expense of his friends for some weeks.

The following morning the sons of Lord Willoughby accompanied Jack for some distance beyond the town on the first stage of his journey to Paris which lay about seventy miles to the north of Orleans. When at length they bid him good-bye with genuine regret at parting, Robert put a well-filled purse into his hand and Peregrine gave him one of the heavy, cumbersome pistols that were then in use. It was the first weapon that Jack ever owned and he stuck it in his belt with a great deal of satisfaction.

A few years later, in the course of his wanderings, Jack accidentally came across Robert and Peregrine Bertie at Siena in Italy. There they lay recovering from severe wounds received in an affair that reflected greatly to their honor. After that meeting it is doubtful if the paths of these early friends again crossed in life, but the young sons of the famous Lord Willoughby played such important parts in our hero’s career that the reader will surely be interested in knowing something of their fate. In 1601 Robert succeeded to the title and estates of his father on the death of the latter. As the twelfth Baron Willoughby he upheld the military prestige of the family and added fresh laurels to those gathered by a long line of soldier ancestors. He was created Earl Lindsay in the reign of James the First and during the civil war that terminated in the execution of Charles the First, he held the post of commander-in-chief of the royal forces and was mortally wounded at the battle of Edgehill. Peregrine became a barrister—a truly strange occupation for a Bertie in those days—and practised law with some distinction until his death in 1640.

We left our young hero on the road to Paris. His condition was very different from that in which he left Willoughby for London, but he had set out upon that journey with a light heart and abundant hope. Now he was plodding towards the capital of France in a gloomy state of mind. The idea of abandoning his venture and returning to the plow or, worse yet, the dingy counting house of Master Sendall, was utterly distasteful to him and his pride was touched by the thought of so lame a conclusion to the boastful display of independence he had made to his guardian. Having taken Robert Bertie’s money on the understanding that he would use it to return to England he felt bound to do so, but he began to wish that he had declined the gift and had gone on his way as poor in purse but as free in action as when he turned his back on his native village. Indeed, before he had finished his supper at the inn where he stopped at nightfall, Jack had almost decided to retrace his steps on the morrow, hand Robert his purse untouched and regain his freedom. But one of those chance circumstances that lead to the most important results in the lives of all of us, decided the matter in another way.

Only persons of distinction, who were willing to pay for the privilege, occupied private rooms in the hostelries of those days. Jack was pleased to find a fellow countryman sharing his bedchamber. David Home, for such was the young man’s name, proved to be an adventurer following just such a life as our hero was desirous of entering upon. He was a gentleman of good family, but at this time his fortunes were at a very low ebb; in fact, he was not only penniless but weak from the effects of a recent fever. Home was an entertaining talker and delighted Jack with the recital of his exploits and experiences. Before they fell asleep it had been agreed that they should continue the journey to Paris in company. This they did, arriving in the course of a few days. Home knew the city well, and under his guidance time passed quickly in sight-seeing and amusement. Since their meeting Jack’s purse had been generously placed at the disposal of his new friend, and when at length our hero awoke to his obligation to continue the journey to England his money had run very low.

Home was naturally sorry to see Jack, for whom he had acquired a strong regard, leave, but he agreed with him that it was his duty to do so. Home was far from ungrateful for the kindness he had experienced at Jack’s hands and made all the return that was within his power when he gave our hero letters to friends in Scotland who stood high at the court of James the Sixth and might use their influence to further the fortunes of the bearer. Jack sewed the letters in the lining of his doublet and, taking boat on the Seine for the sea coast, arrived at Havre de Grace without a penny in his pocket.

Whilst Jack was looking about for an opportunity to work his way across the channel, not having the means to pay his passage, he fell in with a Captain Joseph Duxbury, in the service of Henry of Navarre. When the captain had heard the story of his young countryman he declared that it would be a pity to return to the farm without any further taste of adventure than had so far fallen to our hero’s lot, and he proposed that he should enter his employment as an apprentice in the art of war. It is needless to say that Jack could not resist this offer. The camp was in sight and the captain assured him that he might at least defer his return to England without breaking faith with his friend, Sir Robert Bertie.

Jack thus found himself installed as page to Captain Duxbury who, besides having taken a fancy to the lad, was really in need of such a servant at the moment. The duties consisted chiefly in looking after the captain’s arms, accoutrements and horse. They afforded Jack his first introduction to the implements of war and gave him an opportunity to learn to ride. In spare time his master taught him the use of the various weapons and instructed him in sitting and managing the charger. All this was interesting enough to Jack, who soon had his mind set upon becoming a soldier, but, aside from a few skirmishes, he saw no fighting before the end of the war threw his master out of employment.

Captain Duxbury was one of the many free lances of various nationalities who at this period made a business of fighting and, if the truth must be told, were generally ready to sell their services to the highest bidder without regard to the cause of the conflict. Whilst this was true in some degree of all, the English adventurers were usually found fighting against the Spanish for whom they cherished the most intense hatred. Following the peace in France, Captain Duxbury decided to go to the Low Countries and Jack gladly accompanied him. But in the ensuing campaign, although our hero remained in the troop commanded by his old master, it was in the capacity of a fighting man in the ranks. In the army commanded by Maurice of Nassau, Captain Duxbury’s troop of horse had an ample share of work and Jack took a creditable part in several battles of more or less importance.

Thrown out of service by another treaty of peace, our hero resolved to try the effect of the presentation of the letters he had received from David Home. Accordingly he made his way to Enkhuisen on the Zuyder Zee and thence set sail for Leith. The vessel in which Jack—now usually addressed as “John Smith”—had embarked was a small one, and when it encountered a terrific storm in the North Sea it was at the mercy of wind and water. The master and crew despaired of weathering the gale, and after lowering the sails allowed the ship to drift whither it would. It ran ashore and was totally wrecked, John being among the fortunate few who escaped drowning. The land upon which they were thrown was Lindisfarn, called the “Holy Isle,” near Berwick. Here John, who had received injuries in the wreck from which a fever followed, lay ill for some weeks. Upon recovering sufficiently he proceeded to Scotland and called on the friends of David Home to whom he bore introductions. They received him kindly and did all in their power to make his visit pleasant, but they told him frankly that they had neither the money nor the means to secure his advancement at court. Under these circumstances John, whose health was still poor, determined to return to his native place.

Somewhat to his surprise John found the good people of Willoughby disposed to treat him as a hero, although he protested that he had accomplished no more than to gain some little insight to the ways of warfare. His estate under the able management of Master Metham—who was now disposed to accord him the deference due to a man—had flourished during his absence abroad. He had the means to dress and live as a gentleman, which in those days was of even more consequence than it is now. John was now in his twentieth year and had developed into a strong muscular young man. Although not tall he was well knit and had acquired from his military service an upright and graceful carriage and an air of self-possession. When tricked out in new velvet doublet and trunks, with ruff and feathered cap, and rapier dangling by his side, he made a gallant figure and set the hearts of the maids of Willoughby aflutter as he paced, not without pardonable pride, along the streets of the village.

But there was too much sound sense in John’s composition to permit him to enjoy this frivolous holiday life for long. Besides he had now fully made up his mind to follow the calling of arms, and with that decision came the determination to make of himself as thoroughly capable a soldier as possible. Circumstances forced him for awhile to pursue a life of peace, but he resolved to improve the interim by the study of military tactics and the practice of arms. With this design he betook him to a forest some miles from Willoughby and there went into seclusion. It was summer time and a hut of boughs sufficed for habitation. His servant supplied him with food and for occupation he had brought a horse and some books and an assortment of arms. The horse he first broke to the step and manœuvres of a military charger and then used him in tilting with a lance at a ring suspended from the branch of a tree. Among the books were “Polybius” and Machiavelli’s “Art of War.” From these he learned a great deal of the theory—the science and strategy—of his chosen profession.

Some of Captain John Smith’s biographers have affected to find cause for amusement in the contemplation of this period of his career, but we shall take another view of it when we find the lance practice and the riding exercise showing their fruit in one of the most accomplished soldiers on the Continent who is as a result enabled to defeat in three successive encounters the champions of the Turkish army. Again we shall appreciate the wisdom and foresight exhibited by our hero at this time when we see the information gained in his studies turned to such good account in the service of his superiors as to affect the issues of battles and lead to his promotion from the ranks to an important command.

The retreat to which John had betaken himself, although in the depths of the forest, was not beyond the ken of human eye. Woodcutters and charcoal burners carried to the surrounding towns strange stories of a fierce horseman mounted on a gigantic steed who charged through the sylvan avenues at a pace so terrific as to shake the earth for miles round. At length the rumor of this weird cavalier reached the ears of Signor Theodore Polaloga, an Italian who occupied the position of master of horse to the Earl of Lincoln at his neighboring castle. Whilst this gentleman discredited the supernatural features of the story, he was forced to believe that a horseman for reasons of his own was practising riding in the privacy of the forest. Being himself the most expert equestrian in that part of the country and one of the best in the kingdom, his curiosity to know more of the stranger was naturally great.

Signor Polaloga had no difficulty in finding the military hermit and John, who was beginning to weary of his retirement, received the Italian cordially, and all the more so since he was well acquainted with that gentleman’s reputation as a superb horseman. Such simple hospitality as lay at his command John extended cheerfully to his visitor, who accepted it with an air of frank comradeship and partook heartily of a venison pasty, the contents of which he strongly suspected to have been poached from the Earl’s preserves. When, after a conversation that each found sufficiently interesting to prolong, the equerry proposed a friendly joust, Jack was delighted to comply. Whilst our hero soon learned that he was no match for the Italian, he had no cause to be ashamed of himself, for the master of horse pronounced him surprisingly proficient and declared that few young men of his age could excel him in horsemanship or in handling the lance.

The following morning Signor Polaloga returned with an invitation from the Earl to John to come and stay at Tattershall, as the castle was named. John, who had heard of the Earl of Lincoln as an eccentric nobleman and hard to please, might have respectfully declined this flattering invitation had not the equerry clinched the matter by mentioning the extensive stable of fine horses, the assortment of various arms and the tilt-yard that would be at the disposal of the guest. So John went to Tattershall, and to his surprise found the Earl a very pleasant gentleman who bade him make himself as much at home in the castle as though he owned it. John spent several weeks at Tattershall. Signor Polaloga entered zealously into the instruction of the young man, declaring that he had never before had so apt a pupil. But with the progress of his skill the desire to exercise it in actual conflict grew and, hearing rumors of renewed hostilities in Holland, John bade adieu to his patron, the Earl, and his friend the master of horse and returned to Willoughby with the intention of fitting himself out for a campaign on the continent.

[IV.]
DUPED AND ROBBED

John returns to the Netherlands—Determines to go east and fight the Turks—Meets a bogus French nobleman and his attendants—Goes to France with them—They steal all his belongings and with the assistance of the ship-master decamp—John sells his cloak and pursues the thieves—A friend in need—Finds the robbers but can get no redress—Alone in a strange land without cloak or purse—Secures some clothes and money and turns back to the coast—Still determined to get to the Turkish war by some means.

John entered upon his second campaign in the Netherlands under more promising circumstances than at first. He was furnished with good arms and accoutrements, an ample supply of fine clothing and a considerable sum of money. Moreover, he was no longer a greenhorn. It is true that he could not boast of much actual experience of warfare, but he had learned to handle his weapons with unusual dexterity and was prepared to give a good account of himself. He had, however, few opportunities for display of his skill before the winter put an end to hostilities for the time.

When the camps began to break up, John followed the stream of travel towards the coast without any definite plan for his future movements. He was beginning to tire of service in Holland, which had disappointed his expectations, and was anxious to find a fresh field for adventure. Rudolph the Second, Emperor of Germany, was waging war against the Turks in Hungary and Transylvania. Here was an avenue to new scenes and experiences, but the seat of war was on the other side of Europe and the journey thence a long and expensive one. For that reason he could find none among his late companions in arms who was going to the Turkish war. Still he continued his journey to Rotterdam, hoping that he might there fall in with some nobleman bound for the East, to whose train he might attach himself. He allowed his desire to become known as widely as possible, thinking that it might come to the ears of some leader willing to engage his services.

The port was full of soldiers, real and pretended, waiting to take ship in various directions. There were veterans seeking their homes for a spell of rest after hard fighting or returning to recover from severe wounds. There were others to whom the sole attraction presented by the scene of war was the prospect of loot. There were traders and camp followers innumerable, desperadoes and outlaws, gamblers who used loaded dice and sharpers of all sorts. John was fated to fall into the hands of some of those smooth but dishonest characters who, like vultures, hung in the rear of every army and preyed on the soldiers returning from a campaign rich with pay and plunder. Our hero was an easy victim, for, whilst his common sense rendered him sufficiently cautious where an open enemy was concerned, his frank and generous disposition prevented his suspecting the good faith of a pretended friend.

John had his heavy iron-bound chest taken to one of the best inns in the town and there he settled himself comfortably to interested contemplation of the bustle and movement about him. Although he makes no mention of being conscious of the trait, John Smith evidently had the habit of awaiting events when circumstances failed to supply him with a basis for a reasonable plan of action. When we can not see our way clearly ahead, generally the wisest thing we can do is to do nothing, as Handy Andy might have said. We seldom force a situation without making a mess of it. It did not often happen to John, in the course of his eventful life, that he had long to wait for something to turn up, and the present occasion was no exception to the rule.

He was seated in the common room of the inn one day when he was forced to overhear a conversation in French, with which language he had become tolerably familiar. The speakers were four men who had the appearance of being soldiers in good circumstances. One of them, in particular, was richly dressed and seemed to be of superior station to the others, who were receiving his directions for the voyage to France, which was to be the first stage in a journey to Hungary, where they proposed taking part in the campaign against the Turks. John heard this with delight, for it seemed to afford the very opportunity for which he had been longing.

Presently the three subordinates went out, and no sooner were they alone than John eagerly approached the remaining Frenchman. After apologizing for overhearing the conversation, which, in truth, was intended for his ears, the young soldier stated his circumstances and ventured to express a hope that the gentleman, whom he surmised to be a nobleman, might find a place for him in his train. The Frenchman, who stated his name and style to be Lord de Preau, at first affected to be annoyed at the discussion of his private affairs, but as John proceeded with his story the supposed nobleman relaxed, and at its conclusion with amiable condescension invited our hero to be seated and join him in a bottle of wine.

“I may be able to further your design,” said “Lord de Preau” with thoughtful deliberation, whilst John hung eagerly upon his every word. “It is in my mind to help you, for a more likely young gallant I have never met. But I have not the means, as you seem to think, of supporting a large train.”

Here his “lordship” broke off to raise his goblet to his lips, and John’s heart sank as he imagined that he saw an objection in prospect. The “nobleman” noted the look of disappointment on the young man’s mobile countenance and smiled encouragingly as he continued:

“It may be contrived I ween and thus. The Duc de Mercœur—as is doubtless beknown to you—is now at the seat of war with a company raised in France. I have letters to the Duc’s good lady who will, I doubt not, furnish me with the means to continue my journey and also commend me to the favor of her lord.”

“And the Duchesse? Where may she be?” asked John.

“The Duchesse de Mercœur sojourns with her father, Monsieur Bellecourt, whose lands adjoin my own poor estate in Picardy,” replied the pretended nobleman, “so that first we repair to my chateau and there lay our plans for the future. It is agreed?”

Agreed! Why John was fairly ready to fall on “Lord de Preau’s” neck and embrace him in the ecstasy of his delight. That accommodating individual undertook that one of his attendants should make all the preparations for departure and notify our hero when everything should be in readiness.

At noon the following day the three retainers of the French “nobleman” appeared and announced the approaching departure of the vessel upon which they were to embark. They gave their names as Courcelles, Nelie and Montferrat, and each expressed his satisfaction at the prospect of having the young Englishman as a companion in arms in the coming campaign. Preceded by four colporteurs, carrying John’s baggage, they went on board and, De Preau shortly after joining them, the master weighed anchor and sailed out of port.

The vessel on which John shipped with such great expectations was one of the small coasting luggers, common at the time, which bore doubtful reputations because they were as often engaged in smuggling, or other illegal venture, as in honest trade. Upon this particular occasion the craft was full to the point of overcrowding with passengers bound for various points upon the coast of France.

Night had set in when the ship cast anchor in a rough sea off the coast of Picardy. The landing was to be made at St. Valèry, where the inlet is too shallow to permit the entry of any vessels larger than fishing smacks. There was but one small boat available for taking the passengers ashore, and this the master placed first at the disposal of “Lord de Preau.” The baggage of the entire party was lowered into it and then they began to descend, the supposed nobleman in the lead. When the three retainers had followed their master, the captain, who with the aid of a seaman was going to row the boat to land, declared that it was already laden to its utmost capacity and, promising to return immediately for John, he pushed off into the darkness.

Hour followed hour without bringing any sight of the ship’s boat to our hero impatiently pacing the deck, nor did the return of day afford any sign of the captain and his craft. By this time John’s anxiety had reached a painful pitch. With the exception of his small sword and the clothes upon his back everything he possessed had left the ship in the boat, which he began to fear had foundered in the storm that was not yet exhausted. If this were true his plight was a sorry one, indeed. With straining eyes he spent the day gazing across the mile of water that lay between the ship and the little village of St. Valèry. The waves gradually subsided as the day wore on, and when evening approached the sea was running in a long heavy swell. John felt that he could not abide another night of uncertainty and was seriously debating in his mind the chances of safely reaching the shore by swimming, when he perceived a boat putting out from the port.

A very angry set of passengers greeted the master as he came over the side of his vessel and they were not altogether appeased by his explanation that the boat had been damaged on the outward trip, and he dared not entrust himself to it for the return until after the water and wind went down. He reassured John by the statement that his friends had gone forward to Amiens to avoid the poor accommodation at St. Valèry, and would there await him. Having made his excuses, the master proceeded to get his passengers ashore as quickly as possible and offered John a seat in the first boat which he was only too glad to accept, for, though his mind was somewhat easier, he felt impatient to rejoin his new patron—and his chest.

John’s first thought on landing was to procure a horse to carry him to Amiens, but when he thrust his hand into his pocket he discovered that he had not a single penny—even his purse was with his baggage. He might walk, but Amiens was nearly forty miles distant and it would take him two days to cover the ground on foot. Moreover, he would need food on the way and was already hungry and faint, having in his anxiety of the previous hours neglected to eat. Clearly he must get some money, and the readiest way to do so seemed to lie in selling his cloak, which was a very good one. He disposed of it to the innkeeper at a fair price, ate a hurried supper, and was in the act of arranging for the hire of a horse, when one of his fellow passengers entered the tavern and expressed a desire to speak with him privately.

The man who thus claimed John’s attention was a soldier of middle age with an honest and weather-beaten countenance. He had arrived on one of the last boat trips but had sought our hero with as little delay as possible. He now expressed his belief that John was the victim of a plot to deprive him of his money and belongings. De Preau he said was slightly known to him as the son of a notary of Mortagne, and he believed the other rascals to be natives of that town. He had not suspected any mischief until he heard the master on his return from shore refer to De Preau as a nobleman. He doubted not the ship captain had connived at the swindle, but nothing could have been proved against him in the absence of the chief culprits.

John was at first disposed to be angry with Curzianvere, as the soldier was named, for not having spoken sooner and denounced the master on the spot. He readily excused the other, however, when he explained that he was an outlaw from the country on account of a political offence and now secretly visiting his home at great risk. It was natural that he should have hesitated to get mixed up in a scrape that would necessitate his appearing before a magistrate at the hazard of being recognized. By divulging this much about himself he had confided in the honor of a stranger, but so great was the confidence with which John’s frank demeanor inspired him that he would go still farther and, as his road lay past Mortagne, would guide him thither. He warned John, however, that he could not venture to enter any large town in Picardy or Brittany, much less appear as a witness against De Preau and his companions, should they be found.

With this understanding the two soldiers set out together, and after several weeks’ tramping, during which Curzianvere had shared his slender purse with John, they arrived at Mortagne. Here the outlaw, perhaps fearing complications that might arise from his companion’s errand, decided to continue his journey. Before parting with the young wayfarer, however, he gave him letters to some friends residing in the neighborhood from whom he might expect hospitable treatment.

John entered the town, and so far as the first step in his quest was concerned, met with immediate success. Almost at once he encountered De Preau and Courcelles sauntering along the main street. John’s bile rose as he perceived that both were tricked out in finery abstracted from his chest. He strode up to them and in angry tones charged them with deception and the theft of his goods. The sudden encounter confused the rogues, but De Preau quickly regained his composure.

“Does Monsieur honor you with his acquaintance?” he asked of Courcelles with a significant look.

“Had I ever seen that striking face before I must have remembered it,” replied the other, taking the cue from his leader.

John was aghast at their effrontery, and turning to a knot of townsmen who gathered around, he cried:

“These men have robbed me of my possessions. Even now they wear my garments upon their backs. If there be justice——” but speech failed him at sight of the unsympathetic faces of the bystanders.

“Mon Dieu! But the fellow is a superb actor,” drawled De Preau.

“Most like some knave who would draw us into a quarrel,” added Courcelles.

The onlookers, too, began to make menacing remarks, and poor John realized the hopelessness of his position. He was a foreigner without a friend, and he suddenly remembered that to be locked up and found with Curzianvere’s letters upon him would not mend matters. He could not support a single word of his story with proof. He was cloakless and his clothing worn and travel-stained. Who could be expected to believe that he ever owned a purse filled with gold and a chest of rich raiment? He was quivering with just rage, but he had sense enough to see that his wisest course lay in retreat. So without another word he turned his back on the two villains and walked rapidly out of the town.

A few miles from Mortagne John found the friends to whose kind offices the letters of Curzianvere recommended him. He met with a cordial reception and sincere sympathy when he had told his tale, but these good people were obliged to admit that he had no chance of recovering his property or causing the punishment of the thieves. Being thus fully convinced that the matter was beyond remedy, John determined to put it behind him and seek relief for his feelings in action. He declined the invitation of Curzianvere’s friends to prolong his visit but, accepting a small sum of money and a cloak from them, set out to retrace his steps to the coast, in the hope that he might secure employment upon a ship of war.

[V.]
A DUEL WITH A DASTARD

John reaches Havre after a long dreary tramp in mid-winter—Fails to find a ship going to the East and turns south along the coast—Falls exhausted by the roadside and is picked up by a good farmer—Regains his strength and resumes his journey—Encounters Courcelles, one of the Frenchmen who had robbed him—They draw swords and fall to—John completely overcomes his antagonist, punishes him and leaves him repentant—An unlooked for meeting with an old friend—John is set upon his feet again—Goes to Marseilles and takes ship for Italy—Is thrown overboard in a storm by the fanatical passengers—Swims to a desert island.

It must not be supposed that John had abandoned his project of going to fight the Turks. His was not the temperament to be easily discouraged or diverted from a purpose. He was not now in a position to pursue any very definite plan, but he walked coastward in the hope that some favorable opportunity for going farther might present itself. If he should find some ship of war or large merchantman bound for a Mediterranean port he would be willing to work his way on her in any capacity. Honfleur and Havre being the most likely places thereabouts in which to find such a vessel as he sought, he made his way northward and visited each of those ports in turn without success. It was winter, and peace prevailed in western Europe for the time being. There was little movement among the large ships but smaller vessels, in considerable numbers, were plying between the Continent and England. John might readily have secured passage to England, and no doubt his wisest course would have been to return home and procure a fresh supply of clothing and money. But John could not brook the thought of appearing at home tattered and torn and confessing to his guardian that he had been duped and robbed.

The shipping men of Havre advised the anxious inquirer to try St. Malo, and so he turned back over the ground he had already twice traversed and faced several more weeks of weary travel with a purse now nearly empty and clothing almost reduced to rags. Coming up from Mortagne he had selected the poorest inns for resting places; now even these were beyond his means, and he had to depend upon the charity of the country people for a night’s lodging or a meal. Occasionally his way led past a monastery, when he was always sure of simple hospitality for, to their credit be it said, the fact that John was an Englishman and a heretic never caused the good monks to turn him from their doors.

When at length he arrived in the neighborhood of Pontorson in Brittany it was in a condition bordering on collapse from the effects of the exposure and hardship of the preceding weeks. St. Malo was but a short two days’ journey away, but it did not seem possible that he could hold out until that port should be reached. He staggered on for a few more miles but at last his strength utterly gave out and he sank unconscious to the ground by the roadside. Here John Smith’s career well nigh wound up in an inglorious end, for had he lain neglected for a few hours he must have frozen to death. Fate directed otherwise, however. A kind farmer chancing by in his wagon picked up the exhausted lad and carried him to his house. There he was nursed and fed and, some weeks later, when he resumed his journey it was with a show of his natural vigor.

John left the farmhouse with a wallet sufficiently stocked to stay his stomach until he should arrive at St. Malo—money he had refused to accept from the good farmer. The air was mild. It was one of those sunny days in late winter that give early promise of spring. Under the influence of the cheery weather our hero’s spirits rose, and he had a feeling that the tide in his affairs was about to turn. This presentiment was strengthened by an adventure that immediately befell him and which will not so greatly surprise us if we remember that he was once again in the vicinity of Mortagne, having gone forth and back in his long tramp.

John had been following a short cut through a wood and had just emerged into the open when he came suddenly face to face with a traveler who was pursuing the same path in opposite direction. Each recognized the other immediately, and on the instant their swords flashed from the scabbard. They flung aside their cloaks and engaged without a word. Furious anger surged in John’s breast as he confronted Courcelles, one of the four French robbers to whose perfidy he owed his present plight and all the misery of the past months. For a moment he was tempted to rush upon the rascal and run him through, but that caution and coolness that ever characterized our hero in the presence of danger, soon took possession of his reason and prompted him to assume the defensive.

Courcelles was no mean swordsman, and he saw before him a bareface boy whom he could not suppose to be a master of fence. Moreover, he was moved by the hatred which mean souls so often feel for those whom they have wronged. He made a furious attack upon the stripling intending to end the affair in short order.

John calmly maintained his guard under the onslaught with his weapon presented constantly at the other’s breast. With a slight movement of the wrist he turned aside Courcelles’ thrusts and stepped back nimbly when the Frenchman lunged. The latter, meeting with no counter-attack, became more confident and pressed his adversary hard. But the skill with which his assault was met soon dawned upon Courcelles. He checked the impetuosity that had already told upon his nerves and muscles and resorted to the many tricks of fence of which, like most French swordsmen, he was an adept. He changed the engagement; he feinted and feigned to fumble his weapon; he shifted his guard suddenly; he pretended to slip and lose his footing; he endeavored to disengage; but John could not be tempted from his attitude of alert defence. Courcelles beat the appel with his foot but John’s eyes remained steadfastly fixed upon his and the firm blade was ever there lightly but surely feeling his. Courcelles tapped the other’s sword sharply but John only smiled with grim satisfaction as he remembered how Signor Polaloga had schooled him to meet such disconcerting manœuvres as these.

Courcelles was growing desperate and determined as a last hope of overcoming his antagonist to try the coup de Marsac. This consisted in beating up the adversary’s weapon by sheer force and lunging under his upthrown arm. Gathering himself together for the effort, the Frenchman struck John’s sword with all the strength he could command, but the act was anticipated by our hero, whose rapier yielded but a few inches to the blow. The next instant the point of it had rapidly described a semi-circle around and under Courcelles’ blade, throwing it out of the line of his opponent’s body.

It was a last effort. Chill fear seized the Frenchman’s heart as with the waning of his strength he realized that he was at the mercy of the youth he had so heartlessly robbed. With difficulty he maintained a feeble guard whilst he felt a menacing pressure from the other’s weapon. John advanced leisurely upon the older man, whose eyes plainly betrayed his growing terror. He was as helpless as a child and might have been spitted like a fowl without resistance, but although our hero was made of stern stuff there was nothing cruel in his composition and he began to pity the cringing wretch who retreated before him. He had no thought, however, of letting the rascal off without a reminder that might furnish a lesson to him.

With that thought he pricked Courcelles upon the breast accompanying the thrust with the remark:

“That for your friend Nelie, if you please!”

Almost immediately he repeated the action, saying:

“And that for your friend Montferrat!”

“For your master, the Lord De Preau, I beg your acceptance of that,” continued John, running his rapier through the fleshy part of the other’s shoulder.

[The terrified Frenchman dropped his sword and fell upon his knees] with upraised hands.

“Mercy for the love of heaven!” he cried. “Slay me not unshriven with my sins upon my head.”

“Maybe we can find a priest to prepare thee for the journey to a better land,” replied John, not unwilling that the robber should suffer a little more. “Ho, there!” to a group of rustics who had been attracted by the sounds of the conflict. “Know’st any holy father confessor living in these parts?”

The peasants declared that a priest resided within a mile of the spot and one of them departed in haste to fetch him to the scene.

As we know, John had no intention of killing Courcelles, nor did he desire to await the return of the shriver, so finding that the Frenchman had no means of making restitution for the theft of his goods, he left him. But before doing so, he extorted from the apparently repentant man a promise to live an honest life in future.

The encounter with Courcelles had a stimulating effect upon John and he entered St. Malo the following morning, feeling better pleased with himself than he had for many a day. He at once set about making enquiries as to the vessels in port and was engaged in conversation with a sailor on the quay when he became aware of the scrutiny of a well-dressed young man standing nearby. The face of the inquisitive stranger seemed to awake a dim memory in John’s mind but he could not remember to have met him before. The other soon put an end to his perplexity by coming forward with outstretched hands.

“Certes, it is my old playmate Jack Smith of Willoughby! Thou hast not so soon forgot Philip, Jack?”

John instantly recollected the young son of Count Ployer who, as you will recall, had passed several months at the castle as the guest of Lady Willoughby. The young men repaired to a neighboring tavern where, over a grateful draught of wine, John recounted his adventures. When John spoke of his wanderings in Brittany Philip listened with a puzzled expression, and when his friend had finished said:

“But why didst thou shun me and my father’s house? Surely not in doubt of a welcome? It was known to you that the Count Ployer possesses the castle and estates of Tonquedec.”

“Truly,” replied John, “but where is Tonquedec?”

Philip lay back in his chair and laughed long and heartily. When his merriment had somewhat subsided he silently beckoned his new-found friend to the window. St. Malo lies at the entrance to a long narrow inlet. Extending a finger Philip pointed across this bay. Upon the opposite shore John saw the gray walls of a large battlemented castle.

“Behold Tonquedec!” said Philip with a quizzical smile.

By the Count, John was received at the castle with the most hearty welcome. That nobleman was, as his son had been, moved to immoderate amusement at the thought of Jack—as Philip persisted in calling him—having been in the neighborhood of the castle so long without knowing it.

“Your friend is doubtless a gallant soldier,” he said to his son, “but a sorry geographer I fear.”

John spent a pleasant week at Tonquedec Castle but declined to prolong his stay, being anxious to pursue his journey to Hungary now that the means of doing so expeditiously lay at his command. For the Count generously supplied all his immediate needs and lent him a considerable sum of money on the security of his estate. Thus equipped our hero set out for Marseilles, whence he purposed taking ship for Italy. In after years John proved his grateful remembrance of the kindness of the Count and his son by naming one of the headlands of Chesapeake Bay, Point Ployer.

John arrived at Marseilles just in time to take passage on a small vessel filled with pilgrims bound for Rome. They encountered foul weather from the moment of leaving port and day by day the storm increased in fury until the danger of going down became hourly more imminent. At this critical juncture both seamen and passengers abandoned hope and sank upon their knees loudly calling upon the saints for succor. John stood for awhile watching this proceeding which revolted his common sense. At length his patience gave out and he soundly berated the sailors for their cowardice and imbecility. Their saints, he declared, would much more readily aid men than cravens, and if they turned to and helped themselves, God would surely help them.

This ill-advised interference drew the attention of the mixed crowd of passengers to the Englishman. Half mad with terror and despair they turned upon him a shower of abuse couched in the foulest terms and voiced in a dozen different dialects. They cursed his country and his Queen. Then some one announced the discovery that he was the only heretic on board, and the superstitious peasants at once became convinced that the storm was attributable to his presence and that the ship could only be saved on condition of getting rid of him.

Cries of “Overboard with the heretic! Throw the renegado into the sea!” rose on every side, and many approached him menacingly flourishing their staves. John set his back against the mast and drew his sword, determined, if he must, to sell his life dearly. For awhile the threatening weapon held the crowd at bay, but one crept up from behind and knocked it from our hero’s hand. Immediately a rush was made upon him. He was seized by many hands and dragged to the side of the vessel. With their curses still ringing in his ears John sank beneath the waves.

All this occupied some time during which the master had, with the assistance of two of the seamen, contrived to run his vessel under the lee of a small island. When John, who was a strong swimmer, came to the surface, he made for the islet which was scarce a mile distant. A few strokes satisfied him that he must rid himself of his heavy cloak, which was easily done since it fastened only at the neck. He next kicked off his shoes and cast away his belt and scabbard. But it was still doubtful if he could make the goal in the rough sea. Every ounce of dead weight would count, and at last he reluctantly took his heavy purse from his pocket and allowed it to sink. When at length his feet touched bottom and he staggered out of the water our adventurer was completely exhausted.

John threw himself behind a large rock which gave shelter from the chill wind, and there he lay for an hour or more before he could gather sufficient strength to walk. When he arose the night was falling and a driving rain had set in. A brief survey of the little island satisfied him that it was uninhabited. With that knowledge he faced the prospect of a night in the open air under the beating rain. What might lie beyond that he did not care to surmise.

[VI.]
DARKNESS AND DAWN

A lonely night with cold, wet and hunger—John falls over a goat and is heartened—A friendly ship and rescue—John sails with Captain La Roche in the Britaine—Learns how to navigate a ship and handle big guns—La Roche cruises in search of adventure—Falls in with a Venetian argosy—The Venetian fires a shot and draws blood—A fierce fight in which the Britaine is finally victorious—John is landed in Piedmont with a fat purse—He journeys to Gratz and secures an introduction to the leaders in the Archduke’s army—Gives an exhibition of superb horsemanship and is appointed ensign in the regiment of Earl Meldritch.

Cold and hungry, wet and weary, John spent what seemed to him to be an endless night, pacing about to keep his blood in circulation. He dared not sleep, for that would be to court death, and so he could find no relief from his gloomy thoughts in the pitchy darkness. Here he was on an unoccupied island and here he might remain until starvation—but no, he would not believe that Dame Fortune, who had so often displayed a kindly disposition towards him, proposed to desert him in this extremity.

“My faith!” said John, speaking aloud to hearten himself, whilst he drew his waistband tighter. “If the good dame knows aught of the craving of my stomach she will surely hasten her ministrations. Would I had saved my shoes or e’en my swordbelt! Leather, though not o’er palatable I ween, will, so I have read, keep life in one’s body for a spell but one can scarce eat fustian.” Here John’s soliloquy was suddenly interrupted as he tripped over an object lying in his path. As he lay upon the ground he heard some animal scampering away in the darkness. “A goat!” said John, when he had recovered from his surprise. “Where there is one goat, there are two. And where there are two goats, there is a she-goat. And where there is a she-goat, there is milk. My lady,” he continued, rising and making a low bow, “your humble servant will do himself the honor of calling upon you as soon as decency and light permit.”

This incident cheered our hero as it relieved his mind of the chief anxiety that beset it. He had no wish to shirk the accidents and hardships of life; in fact, he rather enjoyed them, but the thought of death is naturally repugnant to a robust youth and especially to one full of ambition and love of action. He was always of a philosophic turn of mind, and as he reflected on the recent incident the significance of it caused him to smile.

“In the direst straits,” he thought, “the remedy is at our hand if we will but find it, though it be by falling over it. What babes we be! We cry though the pitcher but rock and we cry when the milk is spilt. Many a man dons mail when swaddling clothes would better befit him.”

With the first streak of dawn, John, now ravenously hungry, began to look around for the she-goat which he felt confident of finding with many companions on the islet. He had pursued this quest but a few minutes when his heart was delighted by the sight of a ship lying at anchor near this refuge. It had taken shelter behind the island from the storm of the day before and was now making preparations for departure, as John could see from where he stood. [He hastened down to the water’s edge and shouted lustily.] The wind was fortunately favorable and at length he attracted the attention of the people on board. A boat was lowered and our hero, with scarce strength enough to stand, soon found himself on the deck of a French merchantman. The master, perceiving his condition, had him taken below, where he was fed, dressed in dry clothes and left to sleep.

[HE HASTENED DOWN TO THE WATER’S EDGE AND SHOUTED LUSTILY]

When John awoke, refreshed after a long rest, the vessel was scudding along under a brisk breeze and the setting sun proclaimed the close of another day. Our hero went on deck, blithe and eager for what new adventures the strange whirligig of life might have in store for him. The captain, after the fashion of seamen, extended a hearty greeting and invited John to sup with him. Over the meal the young Englishman told his story. At its conclusion, Captain La Roche, for such was his name, rose and shook his guest warmly by the hand.

“Fortune has thrown you in my way,” said the captain, with a genial smile. “I am from St. Malo and Count Ployer is my dear friend and patron. For his sake I would do much for you, if your story and bearing had not drawn me to yourself. You shall be put ashore this night if that be your wish, but it would please me greatly should you decide to continue on the voyage with me. I am bound for Alexandria and thereafter may seek some profitable adventure. In the space of a few months I shall land you somewhere in Italy—with a fat purse, and I mistake not. What say you?”

John had always felt a strong desire for the life of the sea, and in those days the complete soldier was more than half a sailor. The experience would be profitable and, in any case, the proposition seemed to hold out a better prospect of eventually reaching Hungary than by starting penniless to walk across the Continent. Besides, if the truth be told, John’s recent term of tramping had more than satisfied him with that mode of travel for awhile. He accepted Captain La Roche’s offer without hesitation.

La Roche was the owner, as well as the master, of his vessel, which he called the Britaine, in honor of his native province. It was a heavily armed ship of two hundred tons burden, carrying a crew of sixty men. Such a number were not of course needed to manage a ship of that size. The excuse for their presence was found in the prevalence of piracy but, as we shall see, their duties were not entirely of a defensive character. The truth of the matter is that La Roche, like many another reputable ship-captain of his time, was himself more than half a pirate. His vessel was a combination of merchantman and privateer with authority to attack the ships of nations at war with his country. The condition was very laxly observed, however, and might, more often than political considerations, governed in such matters. When the relations of the powers to one another were constantly changing and a voyage frequently occupied a year, a captain’s safest course was to treat every foreign sail as an enemy and either to attack it or to run from it. With a valuable cargo such as La Roche had on this occasion, the master of a vessel would generally try to make a peaceful voyage to the port of destination. If a similar cargo could not be secured for the return voyage, he would try to compensate himself for the failure by taking a prize.

The voyage to Alexandria was completed without incident of importance. John improved the opportunity to learn all that he could about seamanship and the handling of big guns. Before the vessel made port Captain La Roche pronounced his pupil a very creditable mariner and almost capable of sailing the ship himself. Having discharged his cargo, the captain proceeded to the Ionian Sea for the purpose, as he said, of learning “what ships were in the road,” or, in other words, to see if there was anything about upon which he could prey.

A few days had been spent in this quest, when a large Venetian argosy was sighted in the straits of Otranto. Now the Venetians, sinking all other considerations than those of greed and self-interest, had entered into a treaty with the Turks. In this fact Captain La Roche might have found sufficient excuse for attacking the richly laden ship, but a better was forthcoming. It was one of those great unwieldy craft in which the merchants of Venice sent cargoes of fabulous worth to all parts of the world. Its size was more than twice that of the Britaine and its armament at least equal to hers. The latter, however, had all the advantage in speed and ability to manœuvre—a highly important quality, as the Spaniards had learnt a few years previously when their great Armada was destroyed by the comparatively small English ships.

The Venetian, seeing the Britaine lying in his path and realizing that he would have little chance in flight, endeavored to frighten the other off with a shot. As luck would have it, the ball took off the head of a seaman on the deck of the French vessel. This furnished La Roche with an ample pretext for attacking the argosy. Running across her bow, he raked her fore and aft, in passing, with his starboard guns. Putting about, he returned under her stern, but as the high poop afforded an effective bulwark, less damage was done by his fire. The Venetian’s mast and rigging were now too badly damaged to permit of her sailing and the Frenchman, who had so far escaped hurt, determined to board. He brought his vessel alongside the other and made fast with the grappling irons. The Venetian had a larger crew than her enemy and they repulsed the attack of the Frenchmen with determination. Twice the boarders succeeded in gaining the deck of the larger vessel and each time they were beaten back after a furious hand to hand combat. Captain La Roche, with John by his side, led the second of these assaults. They were the first on the deck, and shoulder to shoulder fought their way towards the poop where the commander of the argosy stood. They had almost reached the spot, when La Roche glancing back, saw that they were cut off from his men, who were retreating to their own vessel. To return was out of the question. The only hope lay in breaking through the men who stood between them and the farther side of the ship.

“It is overboard with us lad, if we would not be taken prisoners,” he cried. “Gare de là! Gare de devant!”

The seamen fell back before the fierce charge of the two men whose swords whistled through the air in sweeping strokes. In less time than it takes to tell, they had reached the side and had plunged into the sea. Swimming round the stern of the Venetian, they came upon the Britaine, which had cast off and was preparing to sail away with the idea that the captain had been killed.

As soon as he regained the deck of his vessel, Captain La Roche ordered the guns to be reshotted. When this had been done he poured two broadsides into the argosy with such effect that she was on the verge of sinking. Once more the Frenchman ranged alongside and sent his boarders to the attack. This time they met with little resistance, for half the crew of the injured vessel were engaged in stopping the holes in her side. The fight had lasted for an hour and a half and when the Venetian surrendered, twenty of her men lay dead upon the deck and as many more were wounded. On his side Captain La Roche had lost fifteen of his crew and eight were incapacitated by sword cuts.

La Roche could not spare a prize crew to man the argosy even had he been willing to face the enquiry that must have followed taking her into port. Therefore he first secured his prisoners and then proceeded to transfer as much as possible of the cargo of the Venetian to his own ship. This task occupied twenty-four hours, and when the Britaine had been filled, there remained upon her prize at least as much as had been taken out of her. With this handsome remainder the Frenchman abandoned her and her crew to their fate, which was probably to be rifled by the very next ship that chanced along. The spoils consisted of silks, velvets, and other rich stuffs, jewels, works of art, and a considerable quantity of money. John’s share of the prize amounted to five hundred sequins and a box of jewels, in all worth about twenty-five hundred dollars—a much larger sum in those days than in these. Shortly after this affair Captain La Roche landed our hero in Piedmont, with “a fat purse” as he had promised.

John had now accomplished one more step in his project of engaging in the campaign against the Turks and was at last within easy distance of his goal. Had he been of a mercenary disposition his experience with Captain La Roche might have induced him to attach himself permanently to the person of that gallant sailor, but during all his life John Smith displayed a disregard for money, except in so far as it was necessary to the attainment of some important end. Therefore it was with no reluctance that he turned his back on the sea and set forward for Gratz where the Archduke maintained his headquarters. On the way he had the opportunity to see many Italian cities and passed through Rome, but he did not linger unnecessarily on the road.

At Gratz John had the good fortune to fall in with a countryman who enjoyed some acquaintance with the leaders in the Christian army. This gentleman presented the young adventurer to Lord Ebersberg, Baron Kissel, the Earl of Meldritch and other generals attached to the Imperial forces. These officers were attracted by the young man’s soldierly bearing and impressed by the persistent manner in which he had pursued his project and the pains he had been at to reach the seat of war. They were, however, very busy with preparations for the campaign and would likely enough have forgotten so humble an individual as John Smith but for a fortunate incident that, although trivial in itself, had an important influence upon our hero’s future career.

One day as he was passing by a large mansion on the outskirts of the city, John was attracted to a crowd which had gathered round two footmen who were with difficulty holding a plunging horse. It was a magnificent Barbary steed with coal black silky coat, but it was apparent at a glance that the animal had not been broken in, if, indeed, it had ever had a saddle upon its back. John had hardly reached the spot when the Earl of Meldritch and a companion came out of the house and approached. The Earl displayed annoyance when he saw the wild creature plunging and lashing out with its hind feet. He had, it appeared from his remarks, bought the beast without seeing it and was thoroughly disgusted with his bargain.

“It is a fit charger for Beelzebub, if, indeed, it be not the fiend incarnate,” he cried. “I would not trust myself upon the back of such a beast for all the wealth of the Indies.”

Hearing this John stepped up to the nobleman and said with a respectful salute:

“If it please your lordship, I should like well to try conclusions with yon animal.”

“You would ride it!” cried the Earl in amazement.

“With your lordship’s consent I would essay to do as much,” replied John.

Permission having been granted, a saddle was sent for. In the meantime our hero stroked the horse’s head as well as he could for its prancing, whilst he spoke to it in a low caressing tone of voice. The animal seemed to yield somewhat to the influence of this treatment, for it grew quieter, but the saddle was not put on without great difficulty. John sprang into the seat, at the same time ordering the grooms to let go. Immediately the horse began to act as though possessed. It stood upright upon its hind feet. It tried to stand upon its head. It leapt here and there. It spun around like a cockchafer on a pin. It darted forward and suddenly stopped. In short, it tried all the tricks with which a horse endeavors to throw its rider. But John had not learnt riding from one of the best horsemen in England for nothing. He sat his saddle easily through all the animal’s antics and when its fury began to abate he urged it forward at full speed and dashed over the neighboring plain and out of sight.

It was an hour later when John rode up to Earl Meldritch’s residence. The nobleman came out to meet him and was surprised to see that he managed the now-subdued steed without difficulty. He rode it back and forth, made it turn this way and that, start and stop at will, and, in fact, had it under almost perfect control. The Earl did not attempt to disguise his admiration. On the contrary, he then and there made our hero a present of the black charger and gave him an appointment as ensign in his own regiment of cavalry.

John was now attached to the Imperial army in an honorable capacity, and in the course of his duties he made the better acquaintance of some of the higher officers. This was the case in particular with Lord Ebersberg, who found that the young Englishman had made a study of those branches of tactics in which he himself was most interested. These two had many discussions and on one occasion John imparted to the general some ideas of signalling which he had gathered from the pages of Polybius. This particular conversation had an important bearing on the issue of a great battle at a later date.

[VII.]
SOME STRATAGEMS

John marches with the army against the Turks—Helps the commander-in-chief out of a dilemma—The signal message with torches—“At the alarum, sally you”—John’s dummy battalions of matchlock men deceive the enemy—Baron Kissel attacks the Turkish army and routs it with great slaughter—The campaign in Transylvania—Alba Regalis is attacked—John devises a scheme for entering the city—His “fiery dragons” work havoc within the walls—The place is taken by assault after a fierce fight—Sixty thousand Moslems advance to retake it—John is promoted.

John Smith’s brief experiences in Holland had merely served to whet his appetite for soldiering. He was now in a fair way to see fighting of the hardest kind. The year 1601 was drawing to a close. It had been distinguished by constant conflict of the fiercest description between the Christian and Turkish armies, with the advantage on the whole on the side of the latter. The Turks had ravaged Hungary, had recently taken the important stronghold of Caniza, and were threatening Ober-Limbach. Lord Ebersberg was despatched to the defence of that place with a small force, whilst Baron Kissel followed as soon as possible with an additional body of ten thousand men, including the Earl of Meldritch’s regiment.

The Baron arrived to find that, although Ebersberg had contrived to enter the town, its investment was now completed by an army of twenty thousand Turks, which effectually shut out the intended reinforcement. The situation was extremely critical, for Ober-Limbach is but a few miles to the north of Caniza, whence a force of the enemy might issue at any time and attack the Baron in the rear. Prompt action was absolutely necessary, but how to act was difficult to decide upon. To retreat would be to abandon the town and its garrison to certain capture. To openly attack a strongly posted army of twice his strength appeared too hazardous for consideration by the commander. However, something had to be done, and that right quickly, so it was determined to make an assault under cover of night when the advantage of numbers would be somewhat lessened. Indeed, if the co-operation of the garrison could be secured under such circumstances, the chances of success would be considerable. But how to communicate with Lord Ebersberg was beyond Baron Kissel’s conception, for it was practically impossible to pass through the Turkish lines.

These matters were discussed in a council of the principal officers, and when he returned to his tent the Earl of Meldritch explained the situation to the young ensign who was upon his staff and of whose good sense and knowledge he began to entertain a high estimate. When John understood the dilemma in which the Commander-in-Chief was placed, he expressed a belief that he could convey a message to Lord Ebersberg, provided it was short and simple. To the astonished Earl he related his conversation with the German general on the subject of signalling which had not yet found a place in the tactics of European armies. John had no doubt that Lord Ebersberg would remember the simple code of signals which he had suggested to him, since he had shown a keen interest in the matter. The Earl immediately informed the Commander-in-Chief of his young subordinate’s idea, and the Baron wrote a message which was, if possible, to be transmitted to the garrison.

As soon as darkness had set in, John, accompanied by the principal officers of the army, who were of course deeply interested in the trial, made his way to the top of a hill which overlooked the town. He was supplied with a number of torches by means of which he proposed to send to Lord Ebersberg the following despatch: “Tomorrow at night I will charge on the east; at the alarum sally you. Kissel.” As a first step, which would answer to the “call up” signal of modern heliographers, three lighted torches were fixed at equal distances apart and left exposed, awaiting the answer from the other end to indicate that the signal was understood and that the receivers were on the alert to take the message. The minutes lengthened into a quarter-hour, into a half, and at length a full hour had slowly dragged by without any sign from the garrison. The torches burnt low and the disappointed officers turned to leave the spot. A captain laughed derisively, but was sternly checked by the Earl of Meldritch.

“The fault is not with the lad,” he said. “He hath done his part but I fear the essay goes for nought.”

“Nay,” replied John promptly, “Lord Ebersberg hath not seen my lights, else he would have understood. Yonder sentries be dullards. The next relief may bring one of sharper wit and the general will surely make the round of the ramparts before he seeks his couch. I keep my torches burning though it be through the night.”

With that he set up three fresh lights and folded his arms with an air of quiet determination.

The young soldier’s confidence infected his colonel and though the others departed hopeless of the experiment, the Earl remained with John. They had not long to wait for a reward of their patience. Hardly had the party of doubters reached the bottom of the hill when three torches set in a row appeared upon the ramparts of the besieged town. They were surely in answer to his signal, but in order to be certain John lowered his lights. The others were immediately lowered and again set up in response to a similar action on his part. He now proceeded to send the message in German which was the native language of the general and the tongue in which he had conversed with John.

The letters of the alphabet were indicated in a very simple manner and on the principle that is employed at this day in heliographing or in signalling with lamps. Two of the standing lights were extinguished. The letters were made by alternately showing and hiding a torch a certain number of times to the left or right of the standing light. Dividing the alphabet into two parts from A to L and from M to Z, a torch shown once to the left would mean A; to the right M. A torch alternately exhibited and hidden to the left of the standing light three times would signify C. The same thing on the right would be read as O and so on. The end of a word was marked by showing three lights and the receivers indicated that they had read it successfully by holding up one torch. At the conclusion three torches set up by the receiving party as originally, signified that they had fully understood the message.

The despatch went through without a hitch, and it was with proud satisfaction that John saw the three final lights displayed telling that his important task had been accomplished with perfect success. The Earl of Meldritch expressed his delight in no measured terms as they hurried to the tent of Baron Kissel to apprise him of the happy conclusion of the experiment. The news soon spread through the camp, and whilst it made John Smith’s name known to the army, it inspirited the troops with the prospect of support from their beleaguered comrades in the morrow’s attack.

Whilst the communication with Lord Ebersberg had greatly improved the situation, it left Baron Kissel still seriously anxious with regard to the issue. Even counting the garrison, the Christians would be inferior in numbers to the enemy who were, moreover, strongly entrenched. Scouts had ascertained that the Turkish army maintained a complete cordon of outposts at night, so that there was little prospect of taking their main body by surprise.

The morning after the affair of the torches, the Commander-in-Chief and his staff stood upon an eminence commanding the scene of the conflict and discussed plans for the attack. John was present in attendance upon the Earl of Meldritch and overheard enough of the remarks to realize that the generals were far from confident of success. In fact, Baron Kissel was anything but an enterprising commander, and his timidity naturally infected the officers under him. Young as he was, John had a considerable knowledge of military tactics but, which was more to the purpose, he possessed the eye and the instinct of a born soldier. As he gazed across the ground occupied by the Turkish army, to the town beyond, these qualities enabled him to estimate the position and the possibilities of strategy with surer judgment than even the veterans beside him. He noted that the river Raab divided the Ottoman force into two equal bodies and he realized that the key to success in the coming action lay in keeping these apart. Before the party returned to camp he had formed a plan which he imparted to his colonel at the first opportunity.

The flint-lock had not yet come into use. Foot soldiers went into action carrying their cumbersome guns with a piece of resin-soaked rope attached to the stock. This was called a “match,” being used to ignite the powder in the pan. It burned slowly, and of course could be replenished at will. John’s plan was to counterfeit several regiments of men standing with matchlocks ready to fire. The Earl heartily approved the suggestion, as did Baron Kissel, and placed the necessary men and material at the disposal of the young ensign. John stretched between posts a number of lengths of rope at about the height of a man’s waist. Along these he tied, at intervals of two feet, “matches” similar to those which have been described. As soon as darkness set in these were lighted and each contrivance was carried out by two men and set up in the plain of Eisenberg, which lay to the west of Ober-Limbach. To the Turks the long lines of flickering lights must have looked like companies and regiments of soldiers marching and taking up position.

Whilst this stratagem was being carried out Baron Kissel advanced his entire force of ten thousand men against that portion of the Turkish army that lay on the east bank of the river. Upon these they charged vigorously, and at the same time Lord Ebersberg, with his garrison of five thousand, attacked them in flank. The Turks thus assailed on two sides and being unable in the darkness to ascertain the strength of the enemy, fell into confusion and were slaughtered with ease. The other portion of the Ottoman army, confronted as it imagined itself to be by a strong force, had not dared to move from its position and stood alarmed and irresolute until Baron Kissel fell upon its rear after having completely routed the former body. The Moslems offered no resistance but fled panic-stricken into the night, leaving their camp and thousands of killed and wounded in the hands of the victors.

A large quantity of provisions and other necessities were found in the Turkish camp and removed to the town. Thus furnished and reinforced by two thousand picked soldiers from Kissel’s command, the place was in good condition to withstand further attack, and so the Baron left it, proceeding north to Kerment. John Smith’s share in this important engagement was not overlooked. The Earl of Meldritch publicly declared himself proud of his young protege and secured for him the command of two hundred and fifty horse in his own regiment. Thus before he had reached his twenty-second year John had earned a captaincy and the respectful regard of his superior officers.

Winter brought about a temporary cessation of hostilities and on their resumption, early the next year, a reorganization of the Imperial army was made. Three great divisions were formed: One, under the Archduke Matthias and the Duc de Mercœur, to operate in Lower Hungary; the second, under Archduke Ferdinand and the Duke of Mantua, to retake Caniza; and the third, under Generals Gonzago and Busca, for service in Transylvania. The regiment of the Earl of Meldritch was assigned to duty with the first division and attached to the corps commanded by the Duc de Mercœur. Thus strangely enough our hero found himself after all serving under the very leader to whom the trickster De Preau had promised to conduct him.

With an army of thirty thousand, one-third of whom were Frenchmen, the Duc addressed himself to the capture of the stronghold of Stuhlweissenburg, which was then called Alba Regalis. The fortifications and natural defences of the place rendered it well-nigh impregnable. It was held by a strong and determined force that bravely repelled attacks and frequently sallied forth to give battle to the besiegers. The Christian army can not be said to have made any progress towards taking the place when John gave another exhibition of the fertility of his mind and devised a plan which led to the fall of the town.

The young cavalry captain made frequent circuits of the walls studying the fortifications and the various points of attack. He found that a direct assault could not be made at any point with hope of success, save, perhaps, one. Here the defence was lax owing to the fact that a morass, which extended for some distance from the wall, seemed to preclude the possibility of approach. Testing this quagmire under cover of darkness, John found that it was not so deep but that a few hundred men laden with stones and logs of wood could in a short while fill in sufficient to make a pathway across it. But they would necessarily have to work by daylight, and the next thing was to devise a scheme by which the attention of the garrison could be diverted from them long enough to allow of the accomplishment of the object.

The bomb-shell had not yet been devised, but somewhere in his extensive reading John had gathered the idea of such a missile. He set to work to make what he called a “fiery dragon” and constructed a sling to send it on its way. At the first attempt the thing worked to his satisfaction. He then detailed to the Earl of Meldritch his plan for taking the city by stratagem. The Duc de Mercœur having consented to the scheme—the more readily since he had heard of John’s previous exploits—preparations for putting it into effect were pushed with haste, for just at this time news was received of a strong relieving force which was on the march for Alba Regalis.

Fifty bombs were manufactured under John’s directions, and, together with the slings, were conveyed to a side of the town remote from that on which the attack was to be made. Meanwhile the Earl of Rosworme had gathered a force of picked men to make the assault and five hundred others with large baskets filled with material to be dumped into the morass. This body assembled in eager expectation of the diversion which the English captain promised to create.

John had selected one of the most crowded quarters of the city for the destination of his “fiery dragons” and he let them loose in the market hour when the crowd would be greatest. One after another, with flaming tails, they pursued their hissing flight over the ramparts and, as they struck the ground, burst, scattering death on every side. The air was immediately filled with the cries of the affrighted Turks who fled from the spot and the groans of those who lay wounded and dying. But by the time the stock of bombs had become exhausted the townspeople and garrison were hurrying to the spot from every direction to put out the flames which had broken forth in several places and threatened to sweep the city.

Whilst the defenders were thus engaged with the fire that spread rapidly in the strong wind, the Earl of Rosworme’s party completed their causeway without interruption and his fighting men gained within the walls and opened one of the gates before they were discovered. The besieging army poured into the doomed town and a fearful carnage ensued. The Turks fought like demons and neither asked nor received quarter. Hardly a man of the garrison escaped. A last remnant of five hundred made a stand before the palace with the Turkish commander in their midst. He counselled them not to surrender and himself determined to die fighting. His men were cut down one after another and he, sorely wounded, was about to be slain by the infuriated soldiers, when the Earl of Meldritch rescued him and made him prisoner despite his protests.

Alba Regalis, one of the most valued strongholds of the Turks, was in the possession of the Christian army but sixty thousand Moslems, determined to retake it, were approaching by rapid marches.

[VIII.]
THE DIN OF BATTLE

The battle of Girkhe—The Duc de Mercœur pits twenty thousand Christians against sixty thousand Turks—The conflict rages from morn till night—Meldritch’s men do valiant service—John’s horse is killed under him—He is rescued by Culnitz and saves the latter’s life in turn—Duplaine dies fighting one to ten—The Earl’s fearful plight—Seven hundred against three thousand—“For faith and Meldritch!”—The Earl is cut off—“Culnitz! Vahan! Follow me! To the Chief, my men!”—Count Ulrich turns the scales—The Turks break and flee from the field—Victory and night.

Alba Regalis had been in the hands of the Turks for thirty years, and during that time had become virtually a Moslem city. Turkish mosques, palaces and market place had been constructed in it and its fortifications had been strengthened until the place was well-nigh impregnable. The Turks had come to consider Alba Regalis a permanent possession and its fall was a great blow to their pride as well as a serious setback in their military operations. As soon as the Sultan was informed of the Duc de Mercœur’s advance against the stronghold, he hastily raised a force of sixty thousand men and sent it to the relief, under Hassan Pasha, the commander-in-chief of the Turkish army. Hassan had pushed forward with all possible expedition but, as we know, Alba Regalis fell whilst he was still a considerable distance away. This did not check the advance of the Turkish general. On the contrary it induced him to hurry on in the hope of arriving before the Christians should have time to repair the breaches in the walls and other damages to the defences which their assault must, as he naturally supposed, have made. Thanks, however, to Captain John Smith’s stratagem, as we should now call him, the artillery had been comparatively little used in the reduction of the city and a few days sufficed to put it in its former condition, so far as the outworks were concerned.