By Elsie Singmaster

MARTIN LUTHER. THE STORY OF HIS LIFE. With frontispiece.

THE LONG JOURNEY. Frontispiece in color.

EMMELINE. Illustrated.

KATY GAUMER. Illustrated.

GETTYSBURG. Illustrated.

WHEN SARAH WENT TO SCHOOL. Illustrated.

WHEN SARAH SAVED THE DAY. Illustrated.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston and New York

THE LONG JOURNEY

CONRAD RUBBED HIS EYES—HE LOOKED AGAIN (p. 52)

THE LONG
JOURNEY

BY
ELSIE SINGMASTER

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER LEWARS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Published February 1917

TO

WILLIAM BLACK LEWARS

A DESCENDANT

OF

JOHN CONRAD WEISER

AND HIS SON

CONRAD

CONTENTS

THE
LONG JOURNEY

[I]
THE GROSS ANSPACH COW

On the evening of the twenty-third of June, Conrad Weiser brought home, as was his custom, the Gross Anspach cow. The fact was, in itself, not remarkable, since it was Conrad's chief duty to take the cow to pasture, to guard her all day long, to lead her from one little patch of green grass to another, to see that she drank from one of the springs on the hillside, and to feed her now and then a little of the precious salt which he carried in his pocket. What made this twenty-third of June remarkable was the fact that this was Conrad's final journey from the pastures of Gross Anspach to Gross Anspach village.

Liesel, the property of Conrad's father, John Conrad, was Gross Anspach's only cow. War and the occupation of a brutal soldiery had stripped the village of its property, its household goods, its animals, and, alas! of most of its young men. Gross Anspach had hidden itself in woods and in holes in the ground, had lived like animals in dens. Upon the mountainside wolves had devoured children.

What war had left undone, famine and pestilence and fearful cold had completed. The fruit trees had died, the vines were now merely stiffened and rattling stalks, and, though it was June, the earth was bare in many places. There were no young vines to plant, there was no seed to sow, there were no horses to break the soil with the plough.

Sometimes Conrad had company to the hillside pasture. He was thirteen years old, a short, sturdy, blue-eyed boy, much older than his years, as were most of the children in Gross Anspach. Above him in the family were Catrina, who was married and had two little children of her own, then Margareta, Magdalena, and Sabina, and below him were George Frederick, Christopher, Barbara, and John Frederick. They all had blue eyes and sturdy frames and they were all, except John Frederick, thin. John Frederick was their darling and the only partaker in the family of the bounty of Liesel. The fact that John Frederick had no mother seemed more terrible than the lack of a mother for any of the other eight children.

When Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and George Frederick and Christopher and Barbara and John Frederick accompanied Conrad to the hillside, they all started soberly, the older girls knitting as they walked, Christopher and Barbara trotting hand in hand, and John Frederick riding upon Conrad's back. They had little to say—there was little to be said. When the prospect broadened, when they were able to look out over the walls of their own valley across the wide landscape, then spirits were lightened and tongues were loosed. Then they could see other valleys and other hills and the desolation of their own no longer filled their tired eyes. The little children ran about, the older ones, still working busily, sat and talked.

Their speech was German, the soft and beautiful German of the south. Sometimes they spoke in whispers and with fearful glances of the past and its terrors, and of the cruel French. Sometimes the older girls whispered together of romantic dreams which could never come true, of true lovers and a happy home for each. But most of all they talked—amazing to relate—these little Germans of two hundred years ago—of Indians!

About Indians it was Conrad who had the most to say. Conrad was the oldest boy; though so much younger than Margareta and Magdalena, he could read easily while they could not read at all. While Conrad talked, their thoughts traveled out of their poor valley, down the great river, through strange cities to a mighty ship upon which they should sail and sail until they reached a Paradise. Sometimes Conrad walked up and down before them, his hands clasped behind his back, sometimes he lay on the ground with his hands under his head. He talked and talked and let himself be questioned in the lordly manner which lads assume with their sisters. He carried with him always, buttoned inside his thin clothes, a little book which he knew by heart.

"Is it cold there?" asked Sabina wistfully. Sabina was the last to recover from the fearful winter.

Conrad leafed his little book.

"I will read. 'The climate is everywhere subtle and penetrating. During the winter'—here, Sabina,—'during the winter the sun has great strength.'"

"I do not know what 'subtle and penetrating' mean. Those great words are beyond me."

"They mean that the climate is good," explained Conrad, who did not know exactly either.

"Will we be hungry?" asked Sabina, still more wistfully.

Conrad could hardly turn the leaves fast enough. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks glowed.

"Now listen, you foolish, frightened Sabina, listen! 'The country produces all kinds of cereals, together with Indian corn of various kinds. Peas, kitchen vegetables, pumpkins, melons, roots, hemp, flax, hops, everything. Peaches and cherries'—Sabina, you have never eaten peaches or cherries, but I have eaten one of each—'peaches and cherries grow like weeds.' Here we have nothing, nothing! Our grandfather was a magistrate, but we are almost beggars. My father talks to me as he does not talk to you, Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and—"

Margareta lifted her blue eyes from her knitting and tossed back her yellow braids.

"It is not very long since I spanked you well, Conrad," said she.

At this all the children, even Conrad, smiled. Margareta made a little motion as though she meant to rise and pursue her brother about the high tableland, Conrad a little motion as though he dared her to a chase. But the impulse passed, as all playful impulses passed in this time of distress.

"My father talks to me because I am almost a man," went on Conrad. "He says that if we have another winter like the one which is past we will all die as our mother—" Conrad could not complete his sentence. The children did not cry, their hearts only ceased for a moment to beat as Conrad's speech faltered. "He says there will not be enough animals and birds left after that time to establish a new stock. He says that even if the winter is mild, Gross Anspach cannot all live—even we few that are left."

"But I am afraid," said little Sabina.

"Afraid of what?"

"Of the river and the great sea."

"Thousands have sailed down the river and many have crossed the sea, Sabina."

"I am most afraid of these strange red people."

"I am not afraid of them," announced little Christopher. "Not more than I am afraid of Liesel."

Once more Conrad leafed his little book. It was no wonder that it scarcely held together.

"They are not bad people. They fish and hunt and plant crops. They go farther and farther back into the woods as the white people come. I am no more afraid of them than I am of Christopher."

"But how are we to get there, brother?" asked Magdalena, who spoke least among a family who spoke little.

Conrad shut his book and tied it in its place under his coat.

"That I do not know," said he impatiently. "But we will all see yet the river and the great sea and the deep forests and the red people."

"Old Redebach says—" No sooner had John Frederick began to speak than his lips were covered by the hand of his brother.

"Old Redebach cannot tell the truth. It is not in him. And he is afraid of everything. Ten times he has told me that Liesel would be carried off, that he has had a dream and has seen men watching her. Forty times he has told me that Liesel would die of the cattle plague. There stands Liesel fat and hearty. It is the schoolmaster who is to be believed in this matter. He would start to-morrow if he could. I tell you"—Conrad pointed toward the declining sun—"we are going, we are going, we are going."

Now, on the twenty-third of June, as Conrad, alone, guided the obstinate way of Liesel through the dusk, the words of old Redebach came back to him. Liesel had all the trying defects of a spoiled and important character; believing herself to be the Queen of Gross Anspach, she expected her subjects to follow where she led. She proceeded deliberately into all sorts of black and shadowy places from which Conrad did not dare to chase her roughly for fear of affecting the precious store of milk, upon which John Frederick and other Gross Anspach babies depended.

Conrad recalled now, besides the warnings of old Redebach about present dangers, certain fearful things which were printed in his little book. The savages had learned from the whites to be deceitful, they were frequently drunk, they would not be governed, they used their knives and hatchets for hideous purposes. They were enormous creatures, who increased their height by bunches of towering feathers fastened to their topknots. They stole upon their victims with the quietness of cats, they—was that a stealthy footstep which Conrad heard now to the right of his path?—they celebrated their triumph with fearful cries—what was that strange sound which he heard to his left?

In spite of himself, Conrad hastened the steps of the unruly Liesel through the twilight.

The Weiser family lived in one of the few houses left in Gross Anspach. It was not large, but to the villagers who had taken refuge after the burning of their dwellings in stables and sheds, it seemed like a palace. From its doorway shone now a faint light, at sight of which Conrad felt ashamed of his fear. He heard the rattle of Margareta's milk pail, and felt against his leg the warm, comfortable body of old Wolf, the Weiser dog.

"You are late," called Margareta, in an excited tone. "I have been watching and watching and the children have been more than once to the bottom of the hill."

"What is the matter?" asked Conrad.

"You will hear in good time," answered Margareta in a patronizing way.

"Where is father?"

"In the house."

"If anything had happened he would tell me first," said Conrad. "I do not believe he has told you anything."

Behind the broad table in the kitchen sat John Conrad. He was the younger Conrad grown old and gray with anxiety and grief. His clothes were whole, but mended with amazing invention. His body was still powerful and the fire of energy flashed from his eyes. As Conrad entered, he raised a clenched fist and brought it down heavily upon the table, which, solid as it was, shook under the impact. A stranger might have thought that he was reproving the little row of children who sat opposite him on a bench and who watched him with a fixed stare. But John Conrad was a kind father; his excitement did not find its source in anger with his children. Nor were the children frightened. Their stare was one of admiration and awe rather than of fright.

Seeing his father thus, Conrad asked no questions, though a dozen trembled on his lips. He sat quietly down beside the other children and lifted John Frederick to his lap.

When Margareta came in from milking, the family had their supper of black bread and a little weak broth. It was enough to keep life in their bodies, but not very vigorous life. The children scarcely tasted what they ate, so excited were they by their father's appearance, and by the long and solemn prayer with which he prefaced the meal. Presently Elisabeth Albern came for milk for her Eva, Michael Fuhrmann for milk for his Balthasar, and George Reimer, the schoolmaster, for milk for his little sister Salome. For this milk John Conrad took no pay. He was poor, but his neighbors were far poorer; he regarded Liesel neither as the annoying creature which Conrad considered her, nor as the proud princess that she believed herself to be, but as a sacred trust. If it were not for Liesel half of the poor little Gross Anspach babies would not survive the summer. Even John Frederick was beginning to eat the black bread and broth so that younger and more needy babies might have his share of Liesel's milk.

George Reimer spoke to John Conrad in a way which heightened the children's excitement.

"I will be here," said he.

The children nudged one another. Their father was the leader in what poor little affairs Gross Anspach might still be said to have, and he sometimes assembled his neighbors so that they might encourage and console one another.

Such a meeting was now at hand. The older girls washed the bowls and wooden plates and the cooking-pot and put them on the shelf, and carried a sleepy John Frederick and a protesting Barbara from the kitchen and laid them firmly and tenderly in their corner of the family bedroom. When Conrad nodded to little Christopher that he should follow, the older Weiser bade Christopher stay.

"It is important that all my children who can should remember this night."

Before long the village men and a few of the women began to assemble. They came quietly, with only the simplest of greetings, but eye meeting eye said wonderful things.

"John Conrad Weiser, you are our leader and friend."

"Neighbors, you have been my stay in deep affliction."

A woman with a baby in her arms bade John Conrad look and see how his namesake was growing.

"If it were not for you he would be gone like his father."

Presently the children, giving up their places on the bench for places on little stools or on the earthen floor, began to whisper to one another and to point. From under the thin and ragged coat of George Reimer, the schoolmaster, projected a flute. George's own flute had been taken from him by the French soldiers, but in a few days a much finer one had been found by the roadside, dropped, probably, because the army could not carry all its own possessions in addition to those which it had stolen. It might be said that Gross Anspach retained two valuable articles, John Conrad Weiser's cow and George Reimer's flute. Behind his father's back, Conrad pretended to play a tune upon the air. At once the solemn assembly grew a little brighter. Last of all came Catrina and her husband.

At once John Conrad rose to pray. They still had God, these souls who had little else, and upon Him John Conrad called, that He might bless them in a great endeavor. At this, in spite of his better knowledge, Conrad opened his eyes and fixed them upon Margareta until she opened hers. Conrad clasped his hands tightly, scarcely able to breathe.

"Friends,"—John Conrad had closed his prayer,—"I have asked you to come here so that I might tell you of an important matter. It is not necessary that in beginning what I have to say I should remind you of our miseries and our griefs. You know them as well as I. You know that this life cannot go on; that, presently, unless we do something for ourselves, there will be none of us remaining. Our country is desolate. The soldiers have harried us, the great cold has tortured us, famine has almost made an end of us. We should not too bitterly sigh and complain on account of what has come upon us. It may be that thus God seeks to lead us to another and a better land.

"I need not tell you, either, what land I have in mind. We have spoken of it, we have seen it in our dreams, we have longed for it with all our souls. There is fertile soil, there is temperate climate, there is, above all, thank God! freedom and peace. There is no war there. There—" John Conrad halted, tried again to speak and failed.

"But we cannot get to that country!" cried the young woman with the baby in her arms.

There was a long pause. Deep breaths were drawn and a great sigh filled the little room.

"The way has been opened," announced John Conrad at last. "I and my family will go to-morrow. Let those who will come with us lift their hands."

But no hands were lifted. The thought of deliverance was paralyzing.

"Word has come that the gracious Queen of England will send us and our long-suffering brethren to her colonies in the New World. I have had a letter from our old neighbor the magistrate of Oberdorf. He is in London, awaiting the sailing of the ships. He is well cared for; charitable persons exert themselves for the afflicted people. Probably by this time he is already far on his way."

"But to-morrow, father!" cried Catrina. "Why start to-morrow?"

"As well to-morrow as another day," answered John Conrad. "We have few possessions and they are easily gathered together. To those of our friends who will not come with us we could not express our affection and our farewells in a hundred days. We will go on foot to the river and make our way to the lowlands and thence to England. It is a long and perilous journey, but it is not so perilous as to stay. I cannot advise any one what to do. But for all those who come I will care as though they were my own."

"But Liesel!" cried the young woman with the baby in her arms. "We will die without Liesel!"

John Conrad smiled.

"Liesel will stay in Gross Anspach. She will be the perpetual property of the Gross Anspach babies."

George Reimer spoke next. He sat with his arms folded across his breast, within them his precious flute. Tears were in his eyes and in his voice as he said:—

"I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me."

The company broke up without music. There were those who must go home to tell wives or mothers; there were those who wished to talk to John Conrad in private. There was Catrina, with her husband, weeping and distressed, who did not dare to trust her babies to the sea. She must plan with her sisters the bundles which should be packed for each to carry, the food which must be gathered to last as long as possible. To her and her husband John Conrad forgave a large debt, and his kindness and their inability to pay made the parting more heartbreaking. John Conrad still had a little store of German gulden, long hoarded against the coming day.

When all was done and the children were asleep, John Conrad took his oldest son by the hand and led him up the winding street between the ruined houses to the little Lutheran church which had been saved in the great destruction. The moon shone quietly upon it and the little walled-in space behind it. Thither John Conrad led his son, and beside a new-made grave they paused.

"It is not good to dwell on grief when one lives in the world and has still the work of half a lifetime," said he solemnly. "But there are moments when it is right that we should yield ourselves to our sorrow. The others will come here in the morning, but you and I will then have no time for shedding tears. Your mother looked into the future. She begged me to go when the time came, even though I must leave her here."

"My lad,"—John Conrad laid his arm across the boy's shoulders,—"there are many things I would say to you. You were, as you know, her darling. But she knew your faults, that you are strong-headed and strong-willed. As you are of all my children the quickest to learn, so are you the least obedient and steady, the most impatient and impetuous. Your mother prayed for you daily. Will you remember her counsels, lad?"

To the yearning voice Conrad could make no answer. Arm in arm father and son stood for a long time. Then, when the moon had sunk behind the little church, Conrad felt himself led away.

"Now, my son," admonished John Conrad, "weep no more, but set your face forward."

[II]
DOWN THE RIVER

The night of the twenty-third of June is a short night at best. When one robs its beginning of four or five hours, there is little darkness left. Bidding his son go to bed, John Conrad spent the night in vigil. In spite of his reminder that this was not a time for grief, he went again to the little church. From thence he climbed through the ruined vineyards to the pastures on the hill where his father and his grandfather had pastured their sheep and cattle. There he stood long and looked about him, his mind traveling back to the happiness of their peaceful lives, spent in sturdy labor and sweetened by the honor which they had had among their fellows. Here were the roots of his own life, deep in the soil—would God that he could stay where he had been born! He was no longer young, responsibility and adversity had made him old. Those rosy stories of the new land—might they not be as other travelers' tales, concealing a reality worse than this fearful present of hunger and fear? Five hundred miles of river, three thousand miles of sea, and then an unsettled country! The same shapes of fear which had fascinated and disturbed young Conrad seemed now to await his father behind every tree and bush.

Suddenly John Conrad heard a soft sound on the summer wind. George Reimer, as restless as himself, was somewhere about with his dear flute. John Conrad bent his ear to the direction from which the sound came. It was a German hymn, "A Mighty Stronghold is Our God." John Conrad lifted his head and with it his heart. George Reimer would be with them and George Reimer's flute. Returning to his house, John Conrad lay down for a little sleep before dawn.

But George Reimer did not go to the new country. Upon the indescribable confusion of the Weiser house the next morning, he came smiling.

Into sheets and coverlets the Weisers had tied all their movable possessions, the various articles making curious knobs and projections on the great bundles. The family spinning-wheel must go—surely no article was more necessary! This Conrad was to carry on his back. The few cooking-pots which remained—these must be taken, though all else were left behind. Wardrobes were small, sheets were few, pillows did not exist. The feather beds could not be carried—these were given to the neighbors.

About hovered all Gross Anspach. Each person had brought a little gift, a tiny trinket saved from the pillaging of the hamlet, a little bouquet of the few garden flowers which had survived the cruel winter, a loaf of bread or a package of dried beans for soup. Catrina, a baby on each arm, wept loudly. Each baby had to be embraced many times by its departing relatives and each departing relative had to be embraced by all the village. Under foot, six tiny kittens risked their lives. Old Redebach, tottering feebly about, quoted warning passages of Scripture:—

"As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place."

On the doorstep sat Wolf, his solemn eyes watching the scene in amazement. Everywhere was confusion, everywhere was noise.

For a few moments George Reimer watched quietly.

"Neighbors!" cried he. "If you cannot help these friends, stand back! Here, Conrad, I will tie that bundle. Here, John Frederick, I am to be your horse as far as the river; see that you behave, or I will run away. Sabina, I will keep your kittens if I have to catch the mice for them myself."

With one accord the Weisers turned upon him.

"You are going with us, surely!"

"Only to the river." His eyes sought those of John Conrad. "I cannot go farther. My little sisters are too young, my father too feeble, my mother is sick—I can neither take them nor leave them alone."

"God will reward you," said John Conrad. "But it is a sore loss to us."

In the end no one went beyond the river. From weeping Gross Anspach the Weisers and a dozen accompanying friends separated themselves at seven o'clock, the Weisers carrying nothing, the burdens on the shoulders of their neighbors. At the heels of the procession walked Wolf. At the summit of the first hill all looked back, save Conrad. The little village lay smiling in the sun; to the pilgrims it seemed like Heaven.

"I cannot go," cried Magdalena.

"Oh, father, let us stay," begged Margareta.

Before John Conrad could answer, a cheerful sound restored the courage of the pilgrims and George Reimer's gay "Susy, dear Susy" set their feet moving.

At the village of Oberdorf there was a halt, while greetings were exchanged, explanations made, and messages written down for friends already in America. Among those to whom greetings were sent was the magistrate who must be by this time safely across the sea.

Here the Gross Anspachers, except the schoolmaster, turned back and the Weisers shouldered their own bundles. It became clear now that there were more bundles than persons and the fact occasioned much laughter and readjustment.

At night the Weisers slept by the wayside. The fare on the boat would draw a large sum from John Conrad's store and not a penny could be spent for lodging. Lulled by Reimer's flute, they slept comfortably, and, roused by the same music, were off soon after daylight.

At the river came the most difficult of partings. Here George Reimer played a last lullaby and a final reveillé. A river boat, the Elspeth, had anchored near by for the night and upon it the family took passage. The goods were carried aboard and piled in the center of the deck and John Conrad and his eight children followed. At once came a protest from the captain. Old Wolf could not go, and Conrad was commanded to lead him from the boat. Conrad forgot that he was thirteen years old, forgot that he was the man of the family next to his father, forgot his boasted superiority to Margareta and Magdalena and the rest, and threw his arms round the old dog's neck.

"I cannot leave you! I cannot leave you!"

Then he felt himself lifted up and put aboard the gangplank.

"There, Conrad, there! I will take care of him. I have given your father something for you. Show yourself brave, dear lad!"

Stumbling, Conrad boarded the boat. He saw the schoolmaster wave his hand, he saw the green shores slip away, he heard his father's voice.

"Your teacher gave me this for you, Conrad."

"Oh, father!" cried Conrad.

In his hand lay the schoolmaster's flute.

"He said you were to practice diligently and to remember him."

The message made Conrad weep the more. He threw himself down on the pile of household goods and hid his face.

When he looked up his father sat beside him. In his hand were two books. He looked at his son anxiously.

"Conrad, we are going among strange people. The first are the Hollanders, with whom we can make ourselves understood. But of English we know nothing. Now we will learn as well as we can, I and you. The schoolmaster gave me an English Bible, in it we will study daily, comparing it with our own."

"What will we do about the language of the savages?" asked Conrad, drying his tears. "How will we make ourselves understood by them?"

"There will be time enough for that. It is probable that they compel them to learn English. The savages are a long way off."

For a few days John Conrad and his son studied diligently. There was little else to do in the long hours which glided as quietly by as the stream. The country about them was unbroken and flat; here there went on a simple life like their own. Everywhere were to be seen in the brown fields and the dead vineyards the ravages of the fearful winter.

In return for a little help about the boat, the helmsman, who had served on English ships, did his best to interpret the hardest words for the students. To the surly captain they dared not speak. Once the price for the journey was paid into his hand, he seemed to resent even the sight of his passengers. Frequently he was not sober, and then the helmsman helped the Weisers to keep out of his way. Unlike the rest of his race, he could not endure the sound of music and Conrad and his flute were objects of special dislike. More than once he threatened to throw both into the river.

When the boat stopped at the city of Speyer for a day and night, studying and flute-practicing stopped entirely and, urged by the friendly helmsman, the Weisers went on shore. Now for the first time the children saw a large town; with eager expectation they stepped on the wharf. But here, too, was ruin and desolation. The great buildings, burned by the enemy who had devastated their own village, had not been restored; the cathedral which towered above the ruins was itself but a hollow shell. When they reached the next large town of Mannheim, they did not leave the boat. With increasing longing they looked forward across the ocean to the Paradise where the enemy had not been.

Daily they were joined by other pilgrims who like themselves looked forward with aching eyes to the distant country. The newcomers had each his own story of persecution and famine, of cold and misery. With them John Conrad talked, gathering from them all the information which they had about the new country, comforting them as best he could, and reading to them from Conrad's little book. To the directions they listened earnestly, hearing over and over again that they must be patient, quick to hear and slow to speak, that they must be diligent and thrifty. About the dangers of the sea they talked a great deal and were relieved to hear that a journey on an inland river was valuable as preparation for a journey on the ocean. The little book advised also that those who were about to take a journey by sea should practice on a swing.

Each day the captain was less and less able to navigate the ship. Finally the helmsman took command, and while the captain lay in a stupor, Conrad continued the forbidden flute-playing. Growing careless, he was caught, and the captain, who could reach neither Conrad nor the flute, kicked the family spinning-wheel into the river. The loss was serious and it taught a bitter lesson.

It was the twenty-fourth of June when the travelers left Gross Anspach; a month later they were still far from the mouth of the river. Each day passengers clamored on the banks, each day the number of ships in the river increased, slow packet boats which did not go above Cologne or Mainz, and faster boats which passed the heavily laden Elspeth like birds. The river left the broad meadows for a narrow gorge with precipitous banks upon which stood imposing castles. At sight of the castles the children were overcome with awe.

"There is Bingen, and its mouse tower, children," said John Conrad.

"Not where the bishop was eaten!" cried Sabina.

"Yes; and about here the treasure of the Niebelungen is buried."

"If we could only find it!" sighed Conrad.

"And there"—the helmsman pointed to ruined walls upon the cliff side—"there a brave trumpeter defended his master's life. While his master and others escaped, he blew bravely upon the walls to frighten the enemy, and when they entered, there was no one left to kill but him."

The watching of Barbara and John Frederick in their trotting about the crowded ship grew to be more and more of a task. The first person who was pushed overboard was made much of, and the man who rescued him was considered a hero. When many had fallen overboard and had been rescued the passengers scarcely turned their heads.

As day after day passed and August drew near its close, John Conrad became more and more anxious.

"It is time we were sailing from England," said he uneasily to Conrad. "The journey has taken long, food has been higher than I thought, and we have had to pay tariff a dozen times."

Again and again he took from his pocket the letter of the magistrate of Oberdorf. Of the chief of his fears he said nothing to Conrad. The good Queen of England had offered transportation to the distressed Germans; but had she realized, had any one anticipated that so vast a throng would take her at her word? The river captains told of weeks and weeks of such crowding of the lower river. Would there be ships enough to carry them all to the New World? Would the Queen provide for them until they could sail?

Presently rumors of trouble increased John Conrad's fears. A passing boat declared that the Germans were forbidden to enter Rotterdam, the lowland city at which they would have to take ship for England. The congestion had become serious. The citizens of Rotterdam announced that their patience and their resources were exhausted; the Germans could no longer wait there for English boats; they must return whence they had come.

At this announcement there was a loud outcry. Like the Weisers, the other pilgrims had sold or had given away everything except the property they carried with them; if they returned now, it would be to greater misery than that which they had left. Go on they must. John Conrad reminded them of the Lord in whom they trusted. The Queen had promised and England was rich in resources. The Queen's charity was not entirely disinterested; she expected the Germans to people her new colonies. Nor did John Conrad believe that the Hollanders would see them starve on the way to England. But even as he argued with himself, his heart misgave him. He had seen persons starve, he had seen men and women and children struck down by the swords of brutal soldiers. There was nothing in the world, he believed, too terrible for heartless men to do.

As they drew nearer to Rotterdam, the anxiety of the helmsman was plain to be seen.

"I pay no attention to what passers-by say," he told John Conrad. "But if you see any long, narrow boats, with the flag of Holland flying, then it will be time to be frightened. They will have the power to make us turn back."

Each hour the rate of travel became slower and slower. There was now no current whatever, and for many days the wind did not blow. Finally, when, at nightfall, the Elspeth came into the harbor, John Conrad breathed a deep sigh of relief. In the morning the travelers saw next them at the wharf one of the long boats which the helmsman had described, and heard that it was to start in an hour to warn all the pilgrims to return to their homes.

The passengers of the Elspeth were not allowed to enter the city, but were bidden to wait on the wharf for English ships. Here their quarters were almost as restricted as they had been on shipboard. In prompt contradiction of the statement that their patience and their supplies were exhausted, the kind Hollanders brought food to the guests who had thrust themselves upon them.

Now the helmsman came to bid his friends good-bye. John Conrad gave him many blessings and the children cried bitterly and embraced him.

"If he were only going with us, what fine times we should have on the sea!" said Conrad.

"He seems like our last friend," mourned Margareta. "Everything before us is strange."

"We thought George Reimer was our last friend," said John Conrad. "Perhaps we shall find other friends as good."

For four days, the Germans watched for a ship. When at last two English vessels came into the harbor and they were taken aboard, the Weisers had little food and less money. When John Conrad heard that no passage was to be charged, he breathed another sigh of relief.

"The good Queen will keep her promises," said he to his children. "The worst of our troubles are over."

But within an hour it seemed that the worst of their troubles had only begun. The channel crossing was rough. From their fellow travelers there was rising already a cry, which was to grow louder and louder as the weeks and months went by—"Would that we had suffered those miseries which we knew rather than tempt those which we did not know!"

When the ship entered the smooth waters of the Thames River, the Germans began to smile once more. About them were green fields. They saw pleasant villages and broad stretches of cultivated land and deer browsing under mighty trees.

"If we might only stay here!" they sighed.

John Conrad shook his head.

"Here we should not find rest."

Once more the Germans disembarked, wondering whether their stay on shore would be long enough for a closer view of the fine churches and palaces of London. Of so large a city as this even John Conrad had never dreamed.

"Shall we see the Queen?" asked Sabina in a whisper of her father.

John Conrad smiled.

"We might see her riding in her chariot."

Then John Conrad grew sober. As they stood crowded together upon the quay some young lads shouted at them roughly. The ears which expected only kindness were shocked.

"They say we are taking the bread from their mouths," repeated Conrad. "They call us 'rascally' Germans."

"There are rude folk everywhere," said John Conrad.

He directed the children to take their bundles and follow a man who seemed to have authority to conduct them to some place in which they were to spend the night.

The way thither proved to be long. Again and again it was necessary to stop to rest or to give time for the short legs of the little children to catch up. Again and again the heavy burdens were shifted about. They traveled into the open country—a strange stopping place for those who were so soon to continue their journey! They passed many men and women who looked at them curiously. Presently they heard their own German speech.

"We will have to wait awhile, probably, for ships," said John Conrad to his son. "Of course we could not expect to go on at once. We—"

John Conrad stopped short and let his bundle slip to the ground. They had come out upon a great space, which a few months before had been an open heath. Now, as far as the eye could reach, stretched long lines of tents. It was no temporary lodging, for here and there small frame store buildings had been erected and there were long-used, dusty paths between the tents. Men and women and children were going about, meals were being prepared, there was everywhere the sound of voices. John Conrad stood still in amazement.

"What is this?" he asked.

A single sharp voice answered from the doorway of a sutler's shop.

"We are Germans, lured hither by promise of passage to America. Here we wait. Here we have waited for months. Have you come, oh, fool, to wait also?"

It was not the rudeness of the answer which startled John Conrad, nor the discouraging news which it announced, but the voice of the speaker. For the speaker was none other than his friend the magistrate of Oberdorf, supposed to be by now upon the high seas or in the new country.

[III]
BLACKHEATH

For a long moment Heinrich Albrecht, the magistrate of Oberdorf, and John Conrad Weiser, his friend, looked at each other. John Conrad was the first to speak, in a voice trembling with amazement and alarm.

"Have you returned, Heinrich?"

The magistrate burst into a loud laugh. He was a tall, thin man, of a type to whom inaction is misery.

"I have not been away. Here"—he waved his hand with a wide motion over Blackheath—"here we lie, idle pensioners. Here we have been since May, ever encouraged, ever deluded. Here idleness and evil customs are corrupting our youth. Here we are dying."

Now the full meaning of the crowded Rhine and the warning of the Hollanders burst upon John Conrad. He looked at his children, at the young girls, at the little boys, and finally at plump, smiling John Frederick. He thrust his hand into his almost empty pocket, thinking of the long journey back to Gross Anspach for which he had no money. He thought of his high hopes of liberty and peace and independence. He covered his face with his hands so that his children might not see his tears.

"I am here, father!" cried Conrad. "I am strong! I can work!"

"They feed us," conceded the magistrate of Oberdorf. "And they have given us some clothing and these tents. But cold weather will come and we shall die."

"Cold weather! We should be in the new country by cold weather! You yourself wrote that you were about to sail, that you would sail on the next day. There!" John Conrad drew from his bosom the tattered letter. "I have stayed my soul upon it! I have set out on this journey upon faith in it!"

"I thought we should start. I was certain we should start. They say there are no ships. They have begun to send some of us to Ireland."

John Conrad shook his head.

"This whole land is sick. Across the ocean only there is peace."

"I can get a tent for you beside mine," offered Albrecht. "I have a little influence with those in authority."

Once more the Weisers shouldered their bundles. They crossed the wide camp, greeted pleasantly here and there, but for the most part stared at silently and contemptuously. Finally the magistrate acknowledged grudgingly that the English people had been liberal and kind.

"But they are growing tired. The common people say we are taking the bread from their mouths."

The farther the Weisers proceeded through the city of tents, the more astonished they became.

"The poor Germans have washed like the waves of the sea upon these shores," said Albrecht.

John Conrad shook his head in answer, having no more words with which to express his astonishment.

The Weisers made themselves as comfortable as possible in the tent assigned them. They unpacked the bundles which they had expected to unpack only in the new country, they received a portion of the generous supply of food which was given out each morning and evening, and then, like the thousands of their fellow countrymen, they waited, now hopefully, now almost in despair, for some change in their condition.

But no sign of change appeared. Day after day John Conrad and the magistrate and the friends whom they made among the more intelligent and thoughtful of the pilgrims met and talked and looked toward the Blackheath Road for some messenger from the Queen. The young people made acquaintance; the children played games and ran races up and down the streets of the city of tents. Sometimes Conrad listened to his elders and sometimes he played his flute for the children.

Suddenly the weather changed. The outdoor life which had been pleasant became more and more difficult to bear. The nights grew cold; the Germans shivered in their poor clothes. Now, also, another and a more serious danger threatened them.

The cooking was done over open fires, and the Weisers went daily into a forest a few miles away to gather sticks for their contribution to the one nearest to them. One day a young Englishman, with an evil face, spoke roughly to Margareta, who cowered back. He went nearer to her and she screamed in terror. For an instant Conrad watched stupidly, then, suddenly, his heart seemed to expand. He was, as his father had said, strong-headed and strong-willed.

"Let her be!" he shouted.

The stranger laughed, and approached nearer still. They could not understand what he said, nor did he have opportunity to continue what he had begun to say. Before his hand touched the arm of Margareta, he found himself upon the ground. Conrad was not tall, but he had strong muscles; now from his safe position on the chest of the enemy he was able to dictate terms of peace.

"You get up and run as fast as you can down the road," he shouted. "George Frederick, give me that big stick."

Fortunately the Englishman had no friends at hand. He looked about wildly, first at the Weisers, then toward the camp, and promptly did as he was bid. As he went, he shouted a threat.

"Your whole camp is to be wiped out," he yelled from a safe distance. "Wait and you will see!"

The hearts of the Germans, growing daily more alarmed, were no more disturbed, meanwhile, than were the hearts of Queen Anne and her ministers. While the unexpected thousands lay upon Blackheath, minister consulted with minister, boards of trade met to discuss plans and to give them up, and to discuss other plans and to adjourn and to meet again. It was true that Queen Anne desired to settle her colony of New York, true that the news of her desire had been spread abroad. But she had not anticipated this great migration, like the locusts of Egypt for numbers! Ships were lacking to transport them; suitable asylums were lacking and the Germans themselves, fleeing like helpless children, were not able to take care of themselves.

Scores of wise and foolish suggestions were offered. The Germans were to be sent to distant parishes, together with a bounty for each one. But the parishes did not welcome them; those who were sent returned, poorer, weaker, more helpless than before. There were hundreds of good workmen among them, but even the English workman could scarcely earn his bread. Let them go to Ireland, let them go to Wales, let them return to Germany.

And still, while the English talked, the Germans came. Finally, Her Majesty's Council, meeting almost daily, reached a conclusion and orders were given for the assembling of ships. Action was hastened by an extraordinary incident in which Conrad and his father had a part.

The heavy frosts had begun and there was not an hour when the Germans did not ache with the cold. The quantity of food had become smaller, the quality poorer than at first. But worse than cold or hunger was the danger from the rising resentment of the Londoners, who demanded that this great mass of foreigners be removed.

Conrad, left to himself, with little to do, roamed about the city, staring at its marvels, at strange London Bridge, crowded with shops and houses which hung over the water, at mighty Saint Paul's Cathedral, lifting its round dome, still beautifully white and clean, far above the gabled city roofs, at the other new churches built since the great fire, and at the soaring monument which commemorated the fire. He even looked with awe and horror at the sad and terrible spot where had been buried, in a deep pit, the victims of the great plague.

Conrad's journeys were not always comfortable. English lads taunted him, gayly dressed young men ordered him out of their path, the bearers of sedan chairs thrust him rudely against the house walls. But still he walked about, watching and listening.

Presently he heard terrifying threats. The Londoners determined to wait no longer to wreak their vengeance upon Blackheath. Conrad hurried down the long road to make report to his father.

"They mean to attack us with knives, father. They declare they will have no mercy upon us!"

"They would not dare," answered John Conrad. "We are under the protection of the Queen."

Nevertheless, John Conrad called together his friends, and together they drew up a humble petition, praying that the English people continue to look kindly upon them and to bestow bounty upon them.

But the petition availed nothing. That very night, Conrad, lying in his corner of the tent near the edge of the camp, heard the sound of rough voices and heavy steps. Springing up, he looked out the door. On the heath a large company had gathered, carrying knives and sickles which gleamed in the moonlight. With a shout Conrad roused his family, whose cries in turn roused the sleepers in the neighboring tents. The attacking party was defeated, not so much by the resistance of the Germans, few of whom had arms, as by a warning that the soldiers were coming from London. The Germans were not seriously hurt, but the event was ominous.

Still the days grew shorter, and the dark nights longer, and the air colder. Hundreds gathered round the fires, and among them John Conrad counseled further patience and continued courage. Frequently he read to them from Conrad's little book, at whose directions for life on the ocean and in the new land there were now bitter smiles and long sighs. They had ceased to think of the new country with its rich soil, its mild climate, and its strange, interesting aborigines, except to envy the Indian his indifference to the comforts of civilization.

Upon the day of the first snow, Conrad went early into the city. He had earned a penny a few days before by carrying some bales from a ship to a warehouse, and he hoped to earn more.

Until noon he walked about the streets. Again and again he was cursed and threatened. The Londoners had not finished with the Germans in spite of their temporary defeat. At noon he ate the piece of black bread which he had put into his pocket, and then went into a cold church to rest. Presently he fell asleep, and when he woke late in the afternoon the church was almost dark. He was miles away from Blackheath and he must set out promptly or the dangers of the way would be doubled. The week before he had been caught in a fog and had spent the night inside a garden gate on the ground.

Leaving the church, he hurried on as fast as he could. It seemed to him that another fog was rapidly gathering over the city. His long walks and the insufficient food had made him weak, but it was better to start on the homeward journey than to linger. He might fall into evil hands and never see his father or brothers or sisters again. The words of old Redebach in far-away Gross Anspach came back to him as he stepped out from the church door into an open square,—"As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place." Perhaps old Redebach was right!

In the square, sedan chairs moved about, link boys waved their torches and shouted, rough men jostled him. Presently his tears gathered and began to fall. He lowered his head and plodded on down the street, little dreaming that before him waited one of the strangest encounters, not only in his life, but in the strange history of the world.

Too tired and despairing to remember that traveling with bent head is unsafe, struggling to keep back his tears, he ceased suddenly to feel anything. He came full force against one of the new lamp-posts recently set up, and was thrown backwards.

When he came to himself, he heard but one sound, that of cruel laughter. The amusement of the onlookers was the last drop in poor Conrad's cup of grief. As he staggered to his feet, he said to himself that he wished that the lamp-post had brought him to that death which was approaching for him and his fellow countrymen.

When the dizziness following his fall had passed and he was ready to start on once more, he observed that the steps of the passers-by were unusually hurried and that all led in the same direction. He looked back to see the object toward which they were hastening. At the sight which met his eyes he gave a startled cry. He was dreaming or he had gone mad.

This was England and London, this was the heart of the largest city in the world. America, the longed-for, with its great forests and its mighty hunters, lay far across the sea three thousand miles away. But through the London fog, surrounded by a great crowd above whom they towered, there came toward Conrad four giant creatures, with bronze-colored skins, with deer-hide shoes, with headdresses of waving feathers, and with scarlet blankets. Conrad rubbed his eyes; he looked again. They came nearer and nearer, they seemed more and more majestic and terrible.

Then, suddenly, they vanished, as though the earth had swallowed them. They could not have entered a house since there were no dwelling-houses here, and the shops were closed. Risking a rebuff as cruel as that from the lamp-post, Conrad grasped the arm of the man nearest him and poured out a dozen excited questions.

"These are Indians from the wilds of America," answered the stranger.

"Why are they here? What does it mean? Could I speak to them? Where did they go?"

The stranger's patience was soon exhausted. After he had explained that the savages had gone into the theater, he left Conrad to address his questions to the empty air.

For a moment Conrad stared at the spot from which the Indians had vanished. If he only had money to pay his way into the theater also! But he was penniless. The next best thing was to tell his father, as soon as possible, of this incredible experience. Running heavily, he crossed London Bridge and started out upon the Blackheath Road, saying over and over to himself, "The Indians are here! The Indians are here!"

So tired was he and so much confused by the strange sight which he had seen that it was many hours before he reached his father's tent. He imagined that the long journey had been made and that he was already in the forests of the new country. At last an acquaintance, meeting him at the edge of the camp, led him to John Conrad.

"Here is your boy. He was about to walk straight into a fire."

Fed and warmed, Conrad could only repeat over and over the magic words, "The Indians are here!" His father thought he was delirious; the children cried. For a long time after he had fallen into the heavy sleep of exhaustion, his sisters watched him.

At dawn, when he woke, he found himself stiff and sore and inexpressibly tired. But his head was clear, and slowly the events of the day before came back to him. The Indians were real; to-day he would find them. If they had come from America there would be a way to return. He would beg them on his knees to take him and his family with them. Perhaps they had come in their own ships.

Slipping from between his sleeping brothers, he lifted the flap of the tent and stepped out into the cold morning air. He could not wait for the family to rise; he would take his share of black bread and be gone.

Then, again, Conrad cried out. Last night he had beheld the strangers through the medium of a thickening mist and with eyes confused by his fall. Now he saw them clearly in the bright morning light, here upon Blackheath before his father's tent! The eagle feathers waved above their heads; their scarlet mantles wrapped them round; they stole quietly about on moccasined feet.

For a long moment the Indians looked at Conrad and Conrad looked back at them. It was as though they measured one another through an eternity, the tall savages from across three thousand miles of sea and the little lad from Gross Anspach. The lad's heart throbbed with awe and wonder. What the savages thought it was difficult to say. They made to one another strange guttural sounds which evidently served for speech. It seemed to Conrad that they were about to turn away. It was as though a heavenly visitor had descended only to depart. Conrad ran forward and grasped the hand of one of the mighty creatures.

"Oh, take us with you, father and Margareta and Magdalena and the others and me! Take us with you! We will work and we will learn to hunt. There is no home for us here. We suffer and die. We—"

There was a commotion at the tent door and Conrad looked round. In the doorway stood John Conrad, blinking, incredulous.

"I saw them last night, father. I have asked them to take us with them." Conrad began to make gestures. "Us, with you, far away to the west!" It was a request easy to make clear.

Again the savages uttered their strange guttural speech. They, in turn, made motions to John Conrad and his son, that they should come with them. Not for an instant did John Conrad hesitate. Upon this miraculous encounter important things might depend.

"Conrad," he began, "while I am gone—"

"Oh, father, take me with you! I beg, take me with you!"

"Run and find Albrecht then, my son, and ask him to look after the children."

Conrad was gone like the wind. Now the Weiser children and the neighbors were staring with terrified eyes at the red men. They gave a little scream when John Frederick toddled forward and fell over the foot of one of the Indians and then held their breaths while he was lifted high in the strong arms. John Conrad offered some of his small supply of black bread and his strange guests grunted their pleased acceptance. Then John Conrad and his son set out with the Indians to make the rounds of the camp.

What the savages thought of the assemblage of misery it was hard to say. They walked briskly so that the two Weisers could scarcely keep up with them; they pointed now to a sick child, now to some adult who showed more clearly than the others the effects of cold and anxiety and hunger. Often they motioned toward the west, a gesture which it seemed to Conrad had a heavenly significance.

When the circuit of the camp was complete, they made it plain to the Weisers that they expected them to follow to the city, and father and son, looking their vague hopes into one another's eyes, obeyed eagerly.

Along the Blackheath Road they went, through Southwark and across London Bridge—how many times had Conrad traveled the road in despair! Presently, when, after they had crossed the Thames and were in the city, a man would have jostled Conrad from his place beside the leader, the Indian cried out fiercely, and the stranger dropped quickly back into the long queue of men and boys who had gathered. Now the Indians motioned to Conrad that he should walk behind the leader and his father behind him. Thus strangely escorted, the two Germans went through the streets. Conrad saw in the eyes of the boys whom they passed a look of envy. The course of fate had changed!

A few times John Conrad spoke to his son.

"Are you afraid?"

"Not I."

"Pray God that this strange way may lead to the new land."

"I will, father."

With heads erect the chiefs went on as though they trod the leafy paths of their own forests. Presently they came out upon the river-bank once more, traveled upon it for a short distance, then turned aside. The crowd about them had changed its character. Here were fine gentlemen and ladies on foot and in richly decked sedan chairs. A gentleman came forward with a sharp exclamation and pointed questioningly at the Weisers. One of the Indians answered by gestures and a few incomprehensible words, and the gentleman looked as though he were considering some strange thing. When the Indians walked on without waiting for his answer, Conrad began to be frightened.

"Where will they take us, father?"

John Conrad's voice trembled.

"They are taking us into the Queen's palace," said he.

[IV]
A ROYAL AUDIENCE

At the door of St. James's Palace all but a few of the throng which followed the Indian chiefs and the Weisers were denied entrance. The finely dressed gentleman who had spoken to the Indians, and who evidently knew their own language, was allowed to pass under the stone archway and into the court and thence into the palace itself. The Indians still led the way, traveling quietly along through intricate passages and tapestry-hung halls. Courtiers passed them with curious stares.

Still they kept the two Weisers behind the leader. Presently they halted in a room where there was a fire blazing on the hearth and where fine ladies laughed and talked. On the opposite side from the entrance a thick curtain hung over a doorway. The leading chief walked directly toward it and there paused, the procession behind him coming to a stop. A little lady sitting by the fire accepted a challenge from her companions to salute the strangers, and came across the floor, her high heels tapping as she walked.

"O great King of Rivers," said she to the foremost Indian, "who are these your companions?"

The Indian's answer was interpreted by the gayly dressed gentleman who understood his tongue.

"The King of Rivers says that these are his friends."

"Thank you, Colonel Schuyler. Tell the King of Rivers that his friends need a red blanket like his own and—"

What else they needed Conrad and his father were not to hear. The curtain before them was lifted, and from the other side a high, clear voice announced,—

"The chiefs of the Mohawk Nation!"