Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
The Golden Story Book
The Golden Story Book
BY
G. Manville Fenn, D. H. Parry,
G. A. Henty, Sheila Braine,
L. L. Weedon, etc.
ERNEST NISTER • LONDON E. P. DUTTON & CO. • NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
[How Jean Became a Soldier] L. L. Weedon
[Defending the Fort] Sheila Braine
[A Border Raid ] D. H. Parry
[A Pair of Brave Maids] Sheila Braine
[On Board a Pirate Ship] Sheila Braine
[How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment] G. A. Henty
[Never Trust a Stream] . . . . . .
["Jean-Pierre" The Story of the St. Bernard] Lilian Gask
[The Jailer's Little Son] E. Everett-Green
[A Ride for Life] L. L. Weeden
[A Debt Paid] Geraldine R. Glasgow
[The Tale of Prince Tatters] May Byron
[Lost on the Fells] Geraldine R. Glasgow
The Golden Story Book
IT was early June in the year eighteen hundred and fifteen, and the warm sun shone down upon the little farmhouse of Monsieur le Grand and touched the old red brick walls lovingly. The bees hummed in the garden, and there was no other sound except the lowing of the cattle and the occasional merry noise of children's laughter.
It all seemed very peaceful and quiet, and yet a short distance away two great armies were preparing for the great battle which was shortly afterwards fought upon the field of Waterloo.
It seemed strange that the little farmhouse had escaped observation, for most of the farms and cottages round had soldiers quartered in them, but le Grand's house was tucked away in the hollow of a hill and was far off the beaten track, about fifteen miles from the town of Nivelle.
Little Jean le Grand came trudging up the garden path, sighing, as he wiped his hot brow with the back of his sunburnt hand, for he was very weary. The work of the farm was too much for such a lad, but the good mother, who usually did her share, was ailing, and as for the father—well, he was away, no doubt drinking and making merry with the soldiers quartered in the next village, for Monsieur le Grand was somewhat of a ne'er-do-well and could never be made to work whilst others would work for him.
As Jean entered the house-place, he saw his mother stooping over the hearth, stirring a pot, the odours from which made Jean realise how very hungry he was.
"Supper is quite ready, dear one," said his mother. "I will call those rascals in."
But the two young children had had apparently scented supper from afar and came racing in to take their share.
In a very short space of time the food was all eaten, and the pot and plates cleared away; the two younger children crept away to bed, and Jean and his mother sat by the ingle nook to discuss the farm work, and the best remedy for a sick cow.
"I wish the father were home," sighed the mother. "Celeste needs watching to-night, and you are far too weary, and I fear I should but increase my rheumatism."
At that moment the door opened and Monsieur le Grand came in—"Jean, my lad," he cried jovially, "saddle the grey the grey mare and take a sup of the mother's cordial to hearten you, for you have a long ride before you; but there will be an ample reward to pay you for your trouble. It has come my ears, no matter how, that the English General is at St. Etienne with but a small escort, and the soldiers down at the village tell me that Napoleon would give a fortune for the news—well, what matters it to us who wins, English or French, we are safe enough away here, and I mean to earn the French gold; but away with you, for, if I mistake not, old Jacques Casson is off already to try his luck, but I'll back you to reach Limal before he is two leagues on the way."
Jean and his mother looked at each other in horror—le Grand had committed many foolish acts, but never had they dreamt he would turn traitor and betray his country.
The mother went out and beckoned Jean to follow her.
"You must indeed ride far and fast to-night, Jean," she said—"it is useless to argue with your father, the soldiers have given him too much wine, or he would never have done this thing. Ride as fast as the grey mare will carry you to St. Etienne and warn the English General his whereabouts are known. You must not let them be taken in a trap, and Jacques Casson must be well on his way by now."
She kissed her boy and in five minutes' time the echo of the grey mare's hoofs was dying away in the distance.
Jean never forgot that ride. On, on, on, mile after mile, past sleeping villages, past meadows and rivers, fearing a foe in every shadow that fell across the white moonlit road, for oh! if he fell into the hands of the French, he would never be able to save the English General and his father would be disgraced for ever.
By the time the grey mare's speed began to slacken Jean was sobbing frantically—would he ever reach St. Etienne in time?
"Halt! Who goes there?" the dreadful challenge rang out at length.
Jean pounded his heels into the grey mare's flanks, she made a gallant bound forward, but to no purpose: a hand seized the bridle and dragged her back upon her haunches, and Jean was hauled roughly from his seat, and hurried into a hut near by, where a number of French officers were sleeping by the fire. They were soon roused and bade Jean give an account of himself.
Desperate with fear Jean lied as he had never lied before and never would again.
"I come from Villeton," he said, "and am riding to Bousval—the English General is at Villeton with but a small escort and my father sends me to the French Captain Goulet with the news—he is in Monsieur le Capitaine's pay."
Jean had scarcely finished speaking when the order to mount was given, the commanding officer being so anxious to steal a march on Captain Goulet and secure the General himself, that he did not even remember to take Jean with him as a security for his good faith, and as soon as they were away Jean mounted his tired mare and in an hour's time was riding into St. Etienne. Here he told his story to the first English soldier who could understand him, and then, having done his duty, he fainted away from sheer exhaustion.
When he came to himself again he found he was in the midst of a group of English soldiers, who began to question him eagerly, but he shook his head, he could not understand them. Very soon an interpreter was found, and on Jean eagerly enquiring if the General were safe the young office laughed and told him he had never been near the town—"But don't look so downfallen," he said kindly, "you have saved my life, I do not doubt; I have no mind to be caught in a French trap, and we are off now to join the General, and you, my lad, had best come with us, for I fancy you would have too warm a reception if you fell into the hands of those same hussars you sent upon a wildgoose chase."
And so it fell out that Jean rode away with his new friends and shortly afterwards became attached to the English army as a drummer boy.
He did not go home until long after the war was ended, and then only on a short leave, but what was his amazement to find his father a completely altered man. Being firmly convinced that he had sent his son to his death, for the one letter Jean had managed to send had never reached the farm, poor le Grand never ceased to blame himself. He gave up drinking too much wine and took to tilling the ground and looking after his farm, and when the terrible remorse he had suffered from was removed, he found he did not care to revert to his former habits.
As for Jean, having served his time in the English army and covered himself with honour and glory, he returned one day to the old farmhouse in the little Belgian village and lived there in ease and plenty for the rest of his days.
L. L. Weedon.
A SOLDIER in the uniform of a French grenadier was clambering up the side of a steep ravine. His face and hands were covered with scratches, and he was hot and breathless, but still he pressed eagerly after his guide, a young goatherd, only pausing for a second to ask, "Does the fort lie over yonder?"
"But half a league further," answered the boy, tossing back his shaggy hair, and on they plunged through the underwood, by a path that nobody but one born and bred among those mountains could have found.
They had come six miles across country at a desperate pace, but fatigue was nothing to the grenadier, La Tour d'Auvergne, a name already known for valour throughout the length and breadth of France. He had a mission to accomplish, and his duty came before all else.
"Yonder is the fort; you have but to follow the path up the pass," said his guide at last.
La Tour's eyes brightened, he put some money into the lad's hand, and the latter disappeared among the bushes. Inspired by fresh courage the weary grenadier pounded up the narrow rocky way, but he was surprised, as he approached the building, that no sentinel challenged him. What was the garrison doing that it took no precautions against a sudden attack? La Tour had an inward feeling that all was not right: his heart misgave him as he rushed up to the door.
Why he had come was that he had received news that a regiment of Austrians was pushing forward to get possession of the fort. If they succeeded, it would be a serious matter for the French army, and La Tour had set out instantly to warn the garrison. The fort was ten miles distant by road, but he had found a young goatherd to take him a short way across the mountains.
The door yielded as the grenadier flung his weight against it: he gave a shout as he burst into the court, but no one answered it. "The cowards!" he exclaimed in indignation, "they have deserted the place! The mean-spirited rascals! Would that I had the hanging of them!"
It was but too true: the garrison had evidently been warned of the approach of the enemy, and had fled after the main body of the French army. They had gone off in a great hurry, for muskets lay scattered about on the ground. "Villains!" muttered La Tour, and, having completed his survey of the place, he began to prepare for the Austrians. The dauntless soldier knew that if he could delay the enemy's movements for even twenty-four hours, it would be of enormous value to his countrymen. The fort was in a fine position, at the head of a steep pass, and La Tour meant to hold it as long as there was life in his lean, strong body.
There were some thirty muskets, and these he loaded; he then barricaded the heavy door as well as he could, ate a hearty meal—plenty of provisions were left fortunately—and sat down to await the enemy.
The night came on, and presently the grenadier caught the sound of footsteps tramping up the narrow pass. Instantly he fired a couple of shots into the darkness and heard the footsteps retreating. Although desperately weary, the defender of the fort did not dare to close his eyes, and he was glad enough when morning dawned.
"We shall see what will happen now," said La Tour to himself.
As soon as it was light, a soldier with a flag of truce came up the path: the Austrian Government had sent to summon the garrison to surrender.
La Tour naturally did not let the messenger inside. "You can go back and inform your Commandant," he called out, "that we are here to defend the pass for France, and that as long as there is a man left, this fort will not yield."
The envoy retired, and the bold grenadier made ready for action. Presently he found that the Austrians were hauling a small cannon up the pass, and as soon as the gunners came in sight he let fly at them, taking care to keep well under cover himself. Five men went down, one after the other, and the rest beat a retreat.
"Ah, ha! 'tis not as easy as you fancied, my fine fellows," said La Tour, re-loading his guns.
He guessed pretty well that the enemy's next move would be to make a sudden dash and try and take the fort by storm, and he guessed rightly. But the pass was so narrow that the men could only come on two abreast, and La Tour, an expert at quick firing, picked them off until fifteen were lying dead or wounded on the ground. Scared, the rest fled down the pass once more, leaving the "garrison" a victor. The Commandant was furious, and later a third assault was made, but with the same result as before. By sunset more than forty of his men were killed. The rest were getting discouraged too: for it was like walking into the jaws of certain death to march up that narrow path.
Once again the white flag was seen before the main entrance of the fort, and the garrison was called upon to surrender. By this time La Tour was almost worn out: he knew that he could not possibly hold out much longer, so he proceeded to make the best terms he could.
"The garrison is to be allowed to march out with their arms, and retire unmolested to the French army," was his stipulation.
After a good deal of parleying, the Commandant agreed to this, and La Tour promised to give up the fort at break of day. Then he dropped down, half dead with fatigue, and went to sleep; he had done all he could, and had gained a certain amount of time. Probably if the real garrison had been there, they might not have been able to accomplish much more.
The grenadier was so weary that the sun was already high when he woke, and a furious battering at the great door reminded him of his compact. The Austrians were outside clamouring for the fort to be delivered up to them.
"You are in too great a hurry, my friends," muttered La Tour, grabbing an armful of muskets, "come, a little patience"—as the blows re-doubled—"the garrison is not ready yet," and he went on calmly gathering the guns together. Then he picked up a couple of straps and fastened them together.
Outside, on the little plateau at the head of the pass which the Austrians had vainly attempted to gain, the troops were now drawn up in line. They left a space for the garrison to march through, and waited impatiently for them to appear.
"What on earth are the fellows about?" growled the Colonel, who was in command, "do they mean to keep us here all day? Here, go and tell the Captain that if the fort be not instantly given into my hands, I shall hold the agreement at an end."
At that moment the heavy door was pushed slowly open, and, to the astonishment of the Austrians, a solitary man appeared, a grenadier. He staggered along with thirty muskets strapped on his back, and, as the Colonel stepped forward, La Tour d'Auvergne saluted.
"But where is the garrison?" cried the Colonel quickly.
"It means that you behold here the garrison, Colonel."
"What!" thundered the Austrian, "do you expect me to believe that we have been held at bay all these hours by one man? Where are your comrades?"
La Tour explained, and, for a moment, the officer stood dumb-founded: then he raised his hand to his cap, saying, "Grenadier, you are a hero! Your emperor is indeed fortunate to possess so valiant a soldier," and a ringing shout of approval went up from the troops as La Tour, again saluting, went slowly onwards, with his load of weapons. He had killed a number of their companions, but they knew how to respect a brave soldier.
La Tour was one of the most modest of men, and would never accept the honours and dignities offered him as a reward for his many deeds of valour. One title, however, was given to him, by which he was known both in his own country and in others, that of "The First Grenadier of France."
So one reads of him in the pages of history, and at Carhaix, in Brittany, his birthplace, a memorial ceremony was kept up for about fifteen years after his death in 1800.
The roll-call of the Grenadiers began each day with the famous name of La Tour d'Auvergne. There was an impressive silence that lasted a few moments, and then the colour sergeant, stepping forward, saluted gravely, and made answer: "Dead on the field of honour!"
Sheila Braine.
LONG John o' the Limp sat with his back against the mounting-block, polishing a pair of steel gauntlets.
The sun, not a great way as yet above the low peat hills that edged the little valley to eastwards, flung the shadow of the grey peel-tower far along the grass, and Long John o' the Limp shifted his legs to bring them into the sunshine.
"Hey! but I must be growing old, for I get as fond of warmth nowadays as a cat of the fire," grunted the moss-trooper, his keen eye following the course of the stream that gurgled among its rushes as it flowed from the Scottish border, "and yet—if those reiving loons came riding here I doubt not they would find some bite still left in these withered jaws!"
"Good-morrow, Long John," said a sweet girl voice behind him, and there in the doorway of the Tower stood little Mistress Alison Langley, hawk upon fist, and her riding skirt gathered up in the other hand.
"Grammercy, child, and where be ye going?" said the moss-trooper, getting slowly to his feet, for he was sadly lame from the slash of a Jedburgh axe in an old border raid.
"Jocelyn flies his new falcon on the Red Moss, and I go with him," said the pretty little maid, her golden hair all a-curl about her cheeks, and looking mighty charming in the ancient doorway.
Before Long John could open his mouth, Jocelyn came down the narrow stone stairs which wound in the thickness of the wall, and burst out into the sunshine—a brown-faced boy in a green doublet, a heron's feather in his flat cap, and a pair of silver spurs on his heels.
"Have a care, Master Jocelyn," said Long John, "the Red Moss is not the safest place for your father's son, and if Wat Armstrong should spy you, there will be wiping off of old scores."
"Black Wat has not dared to show his nose on English ground since my father burned his tower and harried his lands three years ago," said Jocelyn proudly; "and why should he be on the Red Moss to-day?"
"Laddie," said the old man, smiling, the while he shook his grey head, "the Langleys were ever venturesome; but go your own road, only, mind ye, the Flower o' Langley goes wi' ye, and if she come to harm whilst your father is away I would not face his wrath for all the gold in Northumberland!"
"My sister will never meet hurt or harm while I am beside her," cried Jocelyn, touching his sword significantly; "but I promise you we will ride no farther than the White Stone, and here comes Halbert with the horses."
Through the ford, and up the valley they went, scaring the feeding cattle, scattering the snowy tufts of the cotton grass, over the springy heather that purpled the hillside, and so to the moss, three miles away.
There, with eyes dancing and cheeks aglow, they reined in beside a clump of gean, or wild cherry, and scanned the sedgy marsh that bordered the lonely moorland.
"Yonder is our quarry, Ally—see, a grey heron rising from the reeds!" and the boy unhooded the gerfalcon in haste. "Hooha—ha—ha!" he cried, tossing the bird free, and away it raked, with the musical jingle of bells, and graceful trail of jesses.
The heron changed its seemingly slow flight and mounted rapidly, up, up; but the falcon, winging in circles, rose high above the quarry, and poised for the stoop with quiver of sails and train wide spread. Then, dropping with the rapidity of light, set his pounces into the heron.
With a mighty whir of wings, and showering of feathers, the two birds came to earth, and Jocelyn gave a loud "whoop," which, in the language of falconry, meant a kill.
"Come along, Ally," he shouted, setting his pony over the trickle of a tiny burn, "you shall have a fine bunch of tail coverts." But the words had scarce left Jocelyn's lips when Alison saw him pull the grey jennet well nigh on to his croup and toss his arm up for a danger signal.
There were armed men upon the moss and the glint of the sun upon steel caps.
Alison had already leaped her pony across the burn, where the treacherous quagmire was soft and spongy, and she gave a cry of alarm as the frightened creature sank over his fetlocks and floundered wildly.
"Have no fear, little lady," said a deep voice beside her, and a strange man rose out of the hazel copse and grasped her rein.
A plunge and a squeal of terror from the pony, and then the stranger had plucked the pair from all danger, and set them safely in the bed of the burn.
"By my faith, pretty lassie, ye hae a fine spirit and a soft cheek," said the bearded man, patting the one as he praised the other; "but your confounded moss is a fearsome spot, and I came none too soon—nay, look not sae scared—Wat Armstrong will do ye nae hurt, and maybe ye'll tell me if we ride in the way for Langley Tower?"
Jocelyn came spurring back.
"If you follow us we will show you the path you seek," he said, his face scarlet, and his eyes meeting Alison's. "You have saved my sister from peril, and one courtesy deserves another," and thus speaking, he led her pony up to the bank top, as the reiver's band came straggling out of the hazel copse, forty moss-troopers with spears and axes.
"Now for our lives, Ally," he cried, striking her pony with the flat of his sword, and away tore brother and sister up the grassy valley before the reiver had inkling of their design.
"By the rood!" shouted Black Wat, smiting his thigh, "they hae baith of them the fair hair of the cursed Langleys—ride men, ride, else our trouble is a' for naught—we shall cut them off at the brae heid!"
From forty throats went up a yell that sent the curlews wheeling over the moss, and the earth trembled with the thunder of iron hoofs, but the ponies were fresh, and pacing like the wind, and already they had good start of their pursuers.
"Beware the heather roots, Ally," cried Jocelyn between his set teeth, "one stumble, and they will burn our Tower; if aught happen me, ride on and warn Long John!"
She nodded, and no other word was spoken, as they tore side by side past the rowan trees that showed their red berries, and the clumps of silver birch.
* * * * *
"Hey, but the times are soft as tow on a distaff," said Long John o' the Limp, out upon the parapet that girdled the top of the peel; "I have seen the day when three bands have been in sight i' the same morning coming to our undoing, and the burn running red before noon; ay, and I mind me when Surrey marched up to fight the Scots, wi' glaives and spears bristling like reeds in a mere; but now, men have other ways, and look where these old eyes may—"
The old eyes roving round the horizon of Pet Hill and Autumn Wood suddenly dilated, and Long John o' the Limp grasped the parapet with a giant's grip.
"Horsemen, and riding on the spur!" he cried, "and hey, what is this?—the children flying through the stream—bravely ridden, Flower o' Langley—ho, there! Jock, Halbert, Tam Foster, all o' ye—a raid, a raid—drive in the kye and stir yersels, the reiving loons are upon us!"
Long John descended the stairs at infinite risk of his neck, and reached the ground floor as Jocelyn rode in at the doorway and sprang out of the saddle.
"Armstrong and a couple of score at his back," panted Jocelyn, and, outside at a bound, he stayed Alison, who was on the point of dismounting.
"Nay, Ally," he cried, "you must rouse the countryside and send us help; away up the loan, and you'll be over the brae top before they see you—warn them at the Long House, and they will fire Lattfell beacon, then on to the Charltons and bid them send to the Musgraves—go, go, I hear their gallop now!"
"Ay, go, lassie," said the old moss-trooper, "we'll need all the help we may; let the sick cow bide, Jock, they're welcome to her; and now, within boys, we've saved all we can, and yonder comes Black Wat hissel."
Jocelyn watched the whisk of the blue riding skirt disappear beyond the orchard trees, and ran into the Tower, the iron grille swinging to with a clang as Halbert secured it.
Five minutes before all had been peace, and the sun shining on the green of the grass; now, they stood in the peculiar coolness of the stone walls, watching the ragged reivers splash through the ford, and pull up in a bunch in front of the doorway.
The Tower, strongly built of grey stone, was dimly lit by arrow slits, and in the lower story the frightened cattle lowed.
About it clustered the outbuildings, byres and stabling; but on occasions like the present, all the livestock were driven within, and grille and door stoutly barred.
The door stood half open now, as Black Wat Armstrong reined in before the square entrance, laughing aloud.
He was clad in breast and back piece, and had riding boots reaching above his knee, and in addition to the long sword at his hip, he carried a Jedburgh axe hanging by a thong from his saddle.
"Come forth, Ned Langley," he said, in a great voice, "Wat Armstrong of Bannockbrae has somewhat to say to ye!"
"Get ye gone, Black Wat," replied Long John, derisively, from the interior; "Captain Langley is away, and we like not Scots thieves around the peel, being very particular of our acquaintance."
"Say ye so, Long John o' the Limp, for I ken your croak weel; ye shall not be ower burdened wi' my company, man, for we'll e'en hang ye in ten minutes," and the borderer laughed at his own rough jest. "In with the door, lads, and the loons shall hae shorter shrift than they gied to our ain puir folk!"
A dozen moss-troopers dismounted and ran towards the grille, and the little garrison clanged the inner door to, but not before Halbert's arbalist twanged, and a bolt flew into the midst of the attacking party, stretching one of them lifeless, his steel cap ringing against the horse-block as he fell.
"Up wi' ye, boys!" cried Long John, "we've plums for their pudding in plenty above there, and they who come to meat at Langley peel, unbidden, must bring lang spoons."
Jocelyn led the way, scampering like a rabbit up the steep, well-worn stairs; and bursting out on to the parapet, his first thought was of his sister.
Far away southward he saw a tiny moving object which vanished round the shoulder of the hill, and he knew she was safe, and that help would not be long in coming; then he crept to the parapet and looked over.
A shower of ringing blows from a heavy sledgehammer was falling upon the grille.
"Lads," said Long John, crawling out upon the roof, with a grim smile, "they knock over loud to our fancy, being unmannerly Scots, but they shall taste a 'Langley loaf,'" and he picked up a great fragment of rock that lay upon a pile that had evidently been brought there for precisely such a purpose.
"Back!" shouted Armstrong, sitting on his horse, and spying five figures appear on a sudden, each outlined against the blue sky above him; but the warning came too late, and the huge stones fell among the surge of men that sprang away from the door.
"That's Hal o' the Cleuch, wi' his neck broken," cried Long John, looking down, "'twas he gave me the lick on the shinbone when we rode back from Bannockbrae, and I'll now die happier for to-day's work!"
"I'll no take away from my father's joy, though 'twas my stone killed him," whispered Halbert to Tam Foster. "Ha, the rogues have fired the byre!"
A tremendous shout rose from the reivers, as a tongue of flame leaped upwards from the outlying buildings; and the soft wind wreathed the peel itself in smoke.
"We'll no want for a beacon now to raise the countryside, Wat Armstrong!" called Long John o' the Limp. "If ye've a mind to come in, take an old man's advice and delay not; we're five here and you two score—fie on ye! Wat, we'd hae brent your rat hole sooner than this!"
Black Wat's eyes sparkled savagely.
"Sim Salkeld," said he, to a red-haired reiver, "yonder window will serve us while the smoke hides it; set a ladder cautiously and I'll up and in."
The window lit the living room in the second story, and was good five-and-twenty feet from the ground: under cover of the burning byre they lashed two ladders together, and followed their leader, while the rest engaged the attention of the little garrison by a bold attack on the main door.
A powerful, bearded man was Wat Armstrong, and his grasp was on the iron bars of the window when a shrill cry made him look upward.
"Help! Long John," screamed Jocelyn, peering over the parapet as the wind suddenly curled the smoke away and revealed the danger, and Black Wat closed his eyes involuntarily as a jagged rock came hurtling through the air.
It struck the second reiver standing on the rungs below him, and with a terrible yell the man fell backwards, dragging the ladder away to fall crashing into the blaze.
"Hold, boys," said Long John, checking the avalanche of missiles that was about to descend on the wretched man clinging to the iron bars, "this comes o' a man climbing above his station; how are ye feelin' now, Black Wat Armstrong?"
The two enemies glared into each other's eyes, and the reiver's reply was drowned in a cry of triumph from the Tower, and the clamour of dismay that rose from the moss-troopers below.
A man clad in half armour, with a steel basinet on his head, must needs pause before he drops twenty-five feet on to the hewn rock, but already his men were racing to the ricks and returning with huge armfuls of hay to break his fall.
"Father," cried Halbert, poising a slab of freestone that he had torn from the roof, "he'll be away in a trice!"
"Fool, Halbert," said the old man, "cock your eye to the loan-head, and tell me what you see!" and Long John o' the Limp sent a screech of laughter into the clear air.
They looked, and saw, and the reivers saw it at the same moment; for, galloping as hard as horse could go, came Captain Langley, with full fifty stout men of Northumberland behind him, and, at his side, brave little Alison on her sorrel pony.
A thunder of hoofs, a whoop, and a flashing of steel, and then a wild ride round the smoking byre, and through the ford, and the invaders fleeing with hotspur for the "Bateable Land," leaving their leader still grasping the iron bars and glowering at the spear points beneath him.
Captain Langley pulled up and laughed aloud. "Let fall your axe, Wat Armstrong, and we'll let you down," he called. "I have a word to sav to you; bring ladders here."
The baffled reiver descended slowly with his bloodshot eyes on his captor's, expecting nothing less than death, but Langley motioned back the spears, and rode forward a pace to meet his old enemy.
"You saved my lassie, Armstrong, and you spake her fair: go your ways, man; you'll leave horses and harness enough to pay for yonder burnt byre," said he.
The reiver looked hard at him, and there was silence for a moment.
"Ye brent my Tower o' Bannockbrae," he said, and then paused, as though bewildered.
"Ye slew my brother before that," replied the Captain sternly, as Alison drew beside him.
"Gie me your hand, Langley, for ye're a guid mon, an' a forgiving," said the grizzled raider, drawing off his gauntlet; "but ne'er shall it be said that a Scot fell short o' an English borderer in generosity, an' ye hae my word that Langley Peel gaes free o' Wat Armstrong henceforward!"
The two strong men gripped hands, and a right blithe shout went up from the onlookers.
"Take your horse, friend," said the captain, "'tis far to fare afoot," and when the reiver turned at the head of valley and waved his arm, Long John o' the Limp on the Tower top led the ringing cheer that sped him on his way; and the sun came out, and the grass grew green again, and all was peace on the lonely border.
D. H. Parry.
"GILES, my lady bids you drive more warily!"
Lady Saxilby's coachman turned a wrathful face, red with exertion, towards the speaker, Phoebe. But the coach gave a lurch, and the waiting-maid's head disappeared. The road was terrible, and Giles had his work cut out for him. By his side sat my lard's new servant, Roger Clobery; while inside the lumbering vehicle were Lady Saxilby, her two daughters, and the maid, Phoebe. They were travelling down to Iver Hall, the family country seat, and had already been five days on the road.
Joan Saxilby was fourteen, her sister Letty a year younger, and both were pretty, dark-haired lassies. Their father, Lord Saxilby, lay in the Tower, accused of being concerned in a Jacobite plot, and the girls were surprised at their mother leaving town at such a critical time. If the accusation were proved it would certainly go ill with him. There was a son, nineteen, but he had managed to disappear at the time when Lord Saxilby and some others were arrested, and no news of Dick had come for many a day.
The party were descending a hill within a few miles of Iver when Letty, flung bodily on the top of Phoebe, shrieked, "Mother, we are over!"
It was no fault of Giles that the linch-pin should come out of one of the wheels. He could do nothing, and the coach toppled heavily over on its side, dragging down the struggling horses with it. Giles himself was pitched into a bush; Clobery saved himself by an active spring, and hurried to extricate the young ladies and the weeping Phoebe through the window that was uppermost. When Lady Saxilby was got out it was found that she had hurt her shoulder severely, and they were obliged to carry her to the nearest shelter, a tumbledown farmhouse.
Giles went off on one of the horses to try and find a doctor, and Joan, hovering round her mother in great concern, heard her murmur in a tone of bitter distress:
"It may be too late now."
"Mother, dear, can I not do anything?" said Joan, earnestly.
Lady Saxilby looked at her hesitatingly.
"Joan, would you be afraid to go to Iver to-night by yourself?"
It would soon be dusk, but the girl, impressed, answered sturdily:
"No, mother; I will go."
"The pain gets worse," said Lady Saxilby, faintly; "put your ear close to my lips, Joan. You—you must try to save your father; now, listen."
Joan listened, and her face grew grave and eager. She understood now why someone in the secret ought to go to Iver as soon as possible.
"Burn every scrap," concluded her ladyship, and closed her eyes, exhausted.
Phoebe came back at that instant. Joan beckoned Letty out into the garden, and whispered to her for a few minutes. "I must go with you," said Letty, with decision. "Giles mayn't be back yet, and Clobery—" she paused and looked at her sister.
"I don't like him either," said Joan. "Very well, Letty, we will go together."
She felt that she had a good deal on her shoulders; her mother had been too ill to give her any counsel. And she must not fail either, for brave men's lives were at stake.
The reason of Lady Saxilby's hurried journey was this. She had received from her husband, by the hand of Clobery, a scrap of paper with three crosses marked on it. One cross signified, as she knew, "Destroy all papers at Iver," two that it was urgent, three that his life depended upon it. Lady Saxilby told Joan where the secret hiding-place was, and particularly bade her burn a paper with a long list of names on it. It was hard to leave their mother in her present state, but the girls knew they must not linger; so without saying anything to Phoebe, who was a chatterbox, they stole down the lane, hoping to find their way back to the high road and reach Iver before nightfall.
It was a long and lonely tramp, for dusk came on, and they wandered about a common for nearly an hour before they could discover a path. Tired to begin with, they grew desperately weary, and hungry too into the bargain. The tears came into the girls' eyes, but they struggled on, cheering each other as best they could, and at last their courage and perseverance were rewarded, and they crept up to the side entrance of Iver Hall.
It was a huge, rambling old building, standing away by itself, and many a Jacobite meeting had been held in secret beneath its roof. An ancient servitor and his wife had been left in charge while the family was away, and greatly astonished were they when Joan's voice begged for admittance. Old Doggory unbarred the door, holding a light in one hand. Before he could say a word Joan had snatched this light from him, and was making for the staircase, Letty following her closely. The girls had forgotten their fatigue, they only thought of their father's danger.
Yes, the papers were there. Joan, with trembling fingers, drew them from the cunningly-contrived hiding-place. "Quick, Letty, the light," she murmured.
A step was heard behind them; Letty gave a startled cry, while Joan felt her arm clutched. Looking up, she met the triumphant gaze of Roger Clobery, and in a second he had snatched the bundle of papers from her.
"Nicely trapped," said the fellow, mockingly. "I have been waiting for someone to show me the trick of that sliding panel. We guessed the papers we wanted were down at this old owl's nest."
"You spy!" cried Joan, indignantly, turning very white.
"Call me what you will, young mistress," returned Clobery, grinning, "it matters not. We have got what we have been waiting and working for, and there will be a rare clearance of the rebels, I warrant you, when I get back to town."
The hearts of the two girls died within them; they had failed, and at the last minute too, which made it all the more bitter. Their father would be executed, and who could tell how many more with him? The list of names looked a lengthy one. Joan made one despairing effort. Drawing herself up, and trying to look much older than she was, she said, haughtily:
"Perhaps you need money. How much will you take to give me back those papers?"
Clobery laughed insultingly.
"How much, pray, have you to offer? A couple of gold pieces and a pair of earrings? No, these papers go straight to King George's own hands; he will pay for them fast enough."
With a sob Letty dropped on her knees, and Joan followed her example; together they besought the spy for mercy.
He jeered at them, and, catching up the light, cried: "Farewell, my pretty mistresses, I will e'en borrow this as far as the window, where I made my entry. You have helped me much and I am beholden to you."
He left the room, waving the bundle of priceless documents derisively. Joan and Letty rushed after him, not to be left in total darkness. There was more light in the long corridor, and suddenly they caught sight of a tall figure advancing towards them. It was clad in a long brown cloak with a hood drawn over its head, and for a moment the girls, in terror, fancied it might be a ghost. Then Letty gave a loud cry: "Dick, Dick, get the papers from him!"
The spy dashed the light on the floor and took to his heels; but he had someone after him who knew the house better than he did. Clobery was armed, but so was Dick Saxilby, and when they met, just by the open window by which the traitor had entered, it became a fight to the death. The young Jacobite was a good swordsman, and presently his weapon shot under the other's guard, and Clobery fell with a shriek to the ground.
"You have beaten me," he muttered, and rolled over and died.
There was so little light that young Saxilby could not tell who was his fallen enemy, but the two girls quickly put him in possession of the facts of the case.
"He deserved what he got," was Dick's comment; "and now we must get a fresh light from old Doggory and burn the papers. Faith, I could have managed the business before, but I knew not where they were hidden."
When the deed was accomplished, Joan and Letty heaved a sigh of great relief. What a case of touch-and-go it had been! If Dick had not been in hiding in his own home, which boasted of as many as three secret chambers, and so was as safe a place as any, the papers would assuredly have been carried off.
As it happened, the accusation against Lord Saxilby and his fellow prisoners fell to the ground for want of evidence, and after some months they were released. It was a happy family party that met then at Iver; but Joan and Letty never forgot that night when their father's life hung upon a single thread.
Sheila Braine.
"HAS the boy eaten his fill?"
"Ay, enough for six, the young villain."
"Then pass him along here, Patch," and Captain Firebrace turned to look once more across the tranquil ocean at a half-dismantled vessel, which his own was slowly leaving behind it. The sky was so blue, the air so warm, and the sea so calm that it was difficult to believe that only a couple of days before they had been tossed about by a furious hurricane. Yet so it was, and although the "Morning Star" had weathered the storm, it appeared that other vessels had not been equally fortunate.
"A sail on the weather-bow," had shouted the man at the mast-head, a warning which put Captain and crew instantly on the alert, looking to the priming of the guns. It was for no good and peaceful ends that the rakish-looking "Morning Star" sailed the high seas, as more than a dozen unlucky merchantmen had found to their cost.
On this occasion there was no resistance, for the schooner espied by the watcher was drifting about helplessly, and when Firebrace and his men boarded her, the only living soul they found was a boy locked in a cabin, and half dead of hunger. It was clear that the crew and passengers, expecting the ship to go down, had taken to the boats.
Roger Cary, fortified by a good meal, was able to stand up and reply to the Captain's questions. The ship, he declared, was the "Speedy Return," bound for Jamaica; his uncle, Austin Cary, being the Captain. He himself hailed from Devonshire,—Roger, only son of Squire Cary of Paignton, and he had run away from home, being wild to go a sea trip. He could not say who had locked him into the cabin.
"H'm," remarked Captain Firebrace drily, "failing you, I presume this uncle of yours is your father's heir, is he not? Well, you would have starved like a rat in a trap had we not chanced upon your ship. And now, my young cock-o'-the-west, the point is, what are we going to do with you."
"I will gladly work," began Roger eagerly, but he was interrupted by a hoarse voice, and the huge giant, Patch, thrust forward his grim-looking visage.
"Cap'n," he cried, "'tis our opinion, me and my mates, that the boy should go overboard to the sharks without more ado. We want no spies and mealy-mouths here: our necks be none too safe for that."
Roger turned a shade paler, and fixed his eyes imploringly on the Captain's handsome, reckless face.
"Ay, Cap'n, let him walk the plank," roared Long Andrew, the bo'sun.
Captain Firebrace drew a pistol from his belt and played with it carelessly.
"I'd have you know, Patch and the rest, that I am master here, and if any man disputes it, let him step forward." He paused, but no one accepted the invitation. "Well, then, this lad is going to stop here as ship's boy, and he'll earn his victuals that way, or the rope's end will teach him how. As for being a spy, if we are taken, he will swing the same as we shall, take my word for it."
Roger breathed more freely, for he understood that the Captain was on his side. But he was a shrewd lad and he felt certain that he had fallen in with what was politely termed a gentleman adventurer and his company, otherwise a band of pirates, and he wondered greatly whether he would ever see his home again.
A life of hardships, such as he had never dreamed of, now began for the squire's heir. Instead of being waited on, he was at the beck and call of every one, kicked and cuffed by the sailors, badly fed and overworked. His clothes were soon in rags, and his face and hands tanned a deep brown. His worst enemy was Patch who seemed to bear him a special grudge.
The "Morning Star" had a treacherous trick of flying whatever colours seemed best at the time, and it was under cover of the French flag that it seized a merchant ship sailing from Rouen, and plundered it. The French captain and all the sailors were made to "walk the plank," and Patch, dragging Roger maliciously to the side made him watch them leap, one after another, into the swirling waters below. They died like brave men, shouting. "Vive la France!" but Roger, after that sight, had no mind any more for the joys of a pirate's life, of which he had so often dreamed at home.
Time wore on, and still Roger found no way of escaping from his bondage. The "Morning Star" only put into port at out-of-the-way places, and even then, a strict guard was kept and he had no chance of getting away. And how could he hope that their vessel might be seized by some other, since, if taken, he would certainly be hanged with the rest, as the Captain declared?
Captain Firebrace seemed made of different stuff to Patch, Long Andrew, and the others. He was, in fact, a gentleman adventurer, and dominated his lawless crew by virtue of a stern will and reckless courage. Openly he showed the "ship's boy" no favour, Roger felt nevertheless that the Captain was his friend. Once, when nearly all the men were sleeping after a carousal, he called the boy into his cabin, and plied him with questions about his home and the folks of Paignton.
A year passed, and his own mother would hardly have recognised Roger in the ragged, sunburnt lad who swabbed the decks and helped the cook. One small ray of hope lingered in his mind: the Captain had once whispered in his ear. "Keep up a good heart, lad: thou'lt see Paignton yet." But the time seemed far off, for now the "Morning Star" was cruising in Spanish waters, having had news of a galleon laden with treasure. This put the crew in high spirits, but their chief was plainly uneasy.
"There is a storm brewing," he cried, and presently Roger heard him roar out the order, "Furl all sails!"
"We shall get it hot and strong directly," said Long Andrew, as he went aloft. A white sheet of foam enveloped the waves, the wind shrieked in the rigging, and the men could not secure the flapping canvas to the yards. A furious squall struck the ship; there came a loud crash, and the top-mast snapped and fell with its spars into the sea.
Roger crawled up from below, and saw that Captain Firebrace was at the helm. The waves rose to a terrific height, and it seemed to the boy that every minute would see them engulfed.
They were not far from the shore, which bristled with dangerous rocks, and in spite of the Captain's efforts, it was evident that the "Morning Star" was drifting towards them. One of the crew, a Spaniard, Pedro by name, was acquainted with the coast, and a look at his anxious face was enough to show Roger that their danger was great.
They were so near the land now that they could see a white sandy beach, with a high barrier-reef against which the waves were furiously dashing.
"See, there is a passage between those two rocks," yelled Pedro, "yonder lies St. Diego, and if we can get through we may be saved."
The next minute the "Morning Star" was racing towards the rocks. Roger could distinguish people standing on the shore. A sudden shock was felt, the ship, striking on a rock, quivered, stopped short for a brief instant, then heeled over, and was sucked into the depths below. Roger was swept away on the crest of a huge wave; but he felt an arm clutching him, and in the moment before he lost all knowledge of things, saw the Captain's pale, dauntless face close to his own. They were whirled on together by the torrent of heaving water, which closed over their heads.
After long ages, so it seemed to the boy, he woke again, coming back to life slowly. A Spanish woman was looking at him earnestly, and by her side stood Long Andrew. When Roger was sufficiently recovered to hear what had happened, he found that he and Andrew were the only ones who had been saved. Some of the fishermen had rushed into the surf, and dragged out himself and Captain Firebrace, who had been swept through the opening between the rocks, fast locked together. But the pirate Captain had been battered against the rock, and when they drew him out, he was dead.
It would take too long to relate Roger's adventures before he reached his home, which he eventually did. Long Andrew kept to himself the fact that the wrecked ship was the redoubtable "Morning Star," and when he took service again, it was in a more honest way. One thing Roger learned from him, namely that Firebrace was an assumed name, not the pirate captain's true one.
"He was Devonshire born, same as you and me," said Andrew, "and I believe he hailed from Paignton. Otherwise, my lad, likely you'd ha' been given a berth in Davy Jones's locker, 'stead of on the 'Morning Star.'"
Sheila Braine.
[How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment]
by G. A. Henty
HOW A DRUMMER BOY SAVED A REGIMENT.
By G. A. Henty.
"ARE you tired, Tommy?" a soldier asked a little drummer boy who was seated on a rock watching a regiment that had just fallen out preparing to bivouac. It was a newly-arrived corps, and had come up from the coast by forced marches to join the army which, having won the battle of Vittoria, was now engaged at various points among the Pyrenees with the enemy, who were trying to bar their passage.
Tommy Pearson was the youngest member of the regiment, being but eleven years old. His father had been the drum-major of the corps, and Tommy was a general favourite, and at his father's death, three weeks before the regiment left England, the colonel was asked by a deputation from the men to allow Tommy to accompany them, promising that he should be no trouble on the march. Young though he was, the boy could handle the drumsticks as well as many of those years older than himself, and the colonel, after some hesitation, granted the request, saying to the major: "One can always find a place on one of the baggage-wagons for him; his weight will make no difference one way or the other to the team; he is a bright little chap, and we may consider him a legacy to the regiment from his father, whom we all liked and respected."
So Tommy, to his great elation, was permitted to go. For the last three years he had, although not on the strength of the regiment, marched in uniform like the other drummers, and many an exclamation of amusement or admiration had been uttered as the little chap walked stiff and upright in the front rank.
The promise the men had given had been carried out on the long march from the sea-coast. Tommy had each morning for some miles marched with the band, and when he had to give up, which he never did until absolutely unable to go farther, he was hoisted on to the top of a baggage-wagon, or, if these happened to be far in the rear, his drum would be taken by one of the buglers, and the boy himself would be carried by the soldiers in turn. During the latter part of the journey he had seldom been obliged to give in, but had manfully struggled on till the regiment reached the end.
"I am a bit tired," he said; "but that doesn't matter. It has been a long march and very much up hill, but it has been cooler than it was, and I could go a mile or two farther, though I don't say I wasn't glad to stop."
The regiment, which now formed part of a column consisting of a brigade of infantry, cavalry regiments, and a battery of artillery, had bivouacked on a plateau a quarter of a mile from the road, which here passed through a defile.
As soon as the men had fallen out, they scattered in search of dried bushes that would afford firewood. The baggage-wagons had not come up, and it would be an hour or two before the bullocks which followed them would arrive; but the men had the day before had three days' rations of cooked meat and bread served out to them, and were therefore independent of the train. Tommy, after a rest of half an hour; joined the other drummer boys, and, after eating his ration, wandered about among the soldiers, most of whom had some cheery remark to make to him.
"I expect, Tommy," one said, "it won't be long before we catch sight of the French, and then we shall have bullets whistling about our ears. You will have a better chance than the rest of us, seeing that you offer such a small mark."
"Tommy will be safe enough," said another; "I expect he will be told off to wait for the baggage and to help to give the wounded water."
"I shall be where the others are," the boy said sturdily; "now that I can do a day's march all right, I can go into a fight with the other fellows."
"The other fellows won't go into the fight, Tommy; in the first place they would be in the way, and in the second place all who are big enough will be stretcher-carriers; those who are too small for that will be stowed somewhere out of harm's way. What would you do if a French grenadier came at you?"
"I don't suppose I could do much," the boy said; "but if he was a brave man, he would not try to hit me."
"Right you are, Tommy: no soldier would care to massacre an innocent: it is only a chance shot you need be afraid of. There is one thing: if by accident you did get near the enemy, you would only have to stand behind a good-sized man to be perfectly safe."
The boy laughed. "Well, we shall see, Jones. I don't know what a fight is like yet or how I shall feel; but I don't suppose that I shall be more frightened than anyone else."
After their long march and the prospect of another the next day, the troops were glad to wrap themselves in their cloaks and lie down as soon as darkness came on, especially as but little brushwood had been found and the fires were already burning low. After the heat of the plains they felt the cool mountain air, and grumbled that the baggage with the tents had not come up. Tommy, although he had chosen a place in the shelter of the rock, found the cold bitter, and as soon as it was dawn got up and stamped his feet to set the blood in circulation.
"Very likely we may not have a long march to-day," he said; "and anyhow, I would rather be tired than be as cold as I am at present." In about half an hour the camp was beginning to stir.
"I will go for a little walk," he said; "they will be an hour or two before they fall in. I may as well take my drum with me: then I shall be ready when the bugle sounds."
It was broad daylight now, and, putting the strap of the drum behind his shoulder, he started. Other soldiers were already moving about outside the ground they occupied in search of firewood, and the sentries paid no to him. The plateau extended for some little distance, and then terminated at the foot of a sharp ascent of rocky ground. The boy climbed up to a small ledge and then sat down to look around. From the point where he seated himself he was only five or six hundred yards from the camp, and, although he could not see it, he knew that he should hear the first sound of the bugle. Looking down into the defile he saw that it ran steeply up, and noticed that it forked a little in advance of him, and that another road joined the one in the defile.
In a few minutes he saw a general officer closely followed by two light dragoon officers and accompanied by a peasant ride along a plateau similar to that occupied by the regiment, and facing him on the other side of the defile. Some fifty yards in their rear were two mounted orderlies. The general stopped when nearly opposite Tommy, and the peasant was evidently explaining to him the nature of the road, the difficulties to be met with, and the direction in which it bore after crossing the crest of the hills. The boy instinctively slipped off the ledge on which he was sitting and seated himself behind a rock, and thence watched the proceedings of the party, who were some three hundred yards from him. The wall of the defile was there very steep indeed, almost perpendicular, and from the spot where the general had halted, a few yards from its edge, he could not see the road immediately beneath him.
Suddenly the boy saw a troop of cavalry emerge from the other road. Thinking that the cavalry had sent out scouting parties, he paid but little attention to them. Behind them came a battery of artillery, with infantry marching in single file on either side of them. Suddenly an idea occurred to him and he leapt to his feet. Surely these were not English soldiers! they might be the Spaniards! He watched them until the cavalry were nearly abreast of him; then, as a battalion of infantry followed the guns, he saw a flag that he recognised: it was the enemy. His own regiment had led the way, and the other three regiments of the brigade were encamped some three miles away. He started to run back; then an idea struck him and he seized his drumsticks and beat the alarm. As he hurried along, glancing across the ravine, he saw one of the officers with the general leap from his horse and, going to the edge, look down into the ravine. Then the general galloped forward until he came to the edge of the gorge through which the French were marching. He and his companions dismounted and went forward a few steps, evidently to obtain some idea of the strength of the enemy.
Tommy could now see the camp: bugles were sounding the assembly, and the men hastily ran in. The alarm had been given, and, slinging his drum behind him, he ran forward. As he did so, he saw the colonel ride out to the edge of the plateau, which was three hundred yards from the spot where the troops were falling in. A single glance sufficed, and he galloped back, shouting as he did so, and, without waiting for the men to form up, led them back. Those who arrived first at the edge of the descent had at once opened fire upon the troop of French cavalry; the rest as they arrived were hastily formed up, and the two flank companies dashed down the steep descent and flung themselves upon the battery, while the rest, lining the whole edge of the ravine, opened a murderous fire upon the French infantry.
These replied, but in some confusion, for they had no idea that the British had already ascended the pass, and had anticipated taking up a position near its mouth to prevent them doing so. The attack on the guns was completely successful, and the cavalry, of whom many had been killed from the first fire, had turned their horses and galloped back, carrying the thin line of infantry before them and spreading confusion among the artillery. These knowing that the infantry brigade would bar their retreat and would speedily come up to their assistance, fought stoutly, but were unable to withstand the impetuous assault of the British infantry. The struggling horses and the guns completely blocked the ravine, and the infantry, falling fast under the fire from above, were unable to make their way through them. They were wholly unaware of the strength of their enemy, and, although their officers succeeded in restoring something like order and leading parties up the steep ascent, they were unable to withstand the fire to which they were exposed, and in a short time the trumpets sounded the retreat. Just as they did so, the general, who had ridden back to point where he could gain the road and ascend the other side, rode up.
"I congratulate you, colonel," he said; "you have given them a smart check. As far as I can judge, there must be close on five thousand men, and if they had taken that strong position lower down, where a bridge crosses a torrent, we should have had hard work to dislodge them, and should certainly have suffered heavily in doing so. They can have had no idea that we had pushed up the pass; if they had persevered, they would have put you off altogether. I was in ignorance that the side road came in here: these Spanish maps are altogether untrustworthy, and the guide that I have with me answered my questions about the road ahead, but said nothing of the one coming down into it. It was well indeed that you posted that drummer in advance, though of course a sentry would have done as well. I see your men have taken all the guns of that battery."
"Yes, sir, it has been a very fortunate affair; but I certainly can take no credit to myself for the drummer being up that hill. Of course I had sentries round the camp and one placed so as to command a view of the road ahead and to warn us of any troops coming down the crest; but from its position he could not see down into the defile below. I knew nothing of that side road, or of course I should have placed a sentry to watch that also. During the night I had an outpost out on the road, but they marched in at daylight and either did not observe the other road or, at any rate, they made no report of its existence when they came in. How the drummer came to be out there is a mystery to me, and I was astonished at hearing the alarm beaten; there is no doubt that it saved the regiment, for, as you say, had the enemy passed the spot where we turned off to march up here we should have been completely cut off, though they would not have captured us without a sharp fight, for I should have known that the rest of the brigade would have come up to our assistance as soon as they heard the sound of firing." He turned to one of his officers: "Ask Sergeant Wilkins to come here."
The sergeant who was in charge of the drummers came up in two or three minutes.
"Sergeant, did you send a drummer out this morning?"
"No, sir; I should not have thought of doing such a thing without an order."
"Then who was it that beat the alarm?"
"That I cannot say, sir; they had not paraded this morning, so I do not know who was missing and I was amazed when I heard the alarm. I thought at first that it must be one of the lads who had taken his drum and had gone out to practise, though I could hardly imagine how any one of them could have ventured to do so and to risk causing an alarm."
"Weil, parade them here."
In a few minutes they paraded before the colonel.
"Which of you was it that gave the alarm?" the latter asked.
Tommy stepped forward and saluted. "Please, sir, I did."
The colonel and the general both smiled. "But how came you to be out there?" the former asked.
"I was so cold, sir, that I could not sleep, so I got up and walked about till the soldiers began to go out to look for firewood, and I thought that I would go out too."
"But, in that case, why did you take your drum?"
"I took it, sir, so that if I heard the bugle sound I could run straight back and take my place with the others. I was sitting down when I saw the French come running into the road. I did not know that they were French at first; I saw that they were not our men, but I thought they might be Spaniards till I saw a French flag among the infantry, and then I thought the quickest way was to beat the alarm."
"You did very well," the general said kindly; "if it hadn't been for you a whole regiment would have been captured, to say nothing of myself. Why, colonel, how is it that such a brat as this should be in the regiment?"
The colonel gave him the reasons for which he had brought the boy. "The men are all fond of him," he said, "and he has certainly kept his promise that he should be no trouble. At first he could not keep up with the marches, and was either perched on a baggage-wagon when he could go no farther, or if the baggage was all in the rear of the brigade they would take him on their backs; but for the last week he has managed to keep up well."
"He must be a sharp little beggar," the general said; "it is not every boy of his age that would have thought of beating the alarm, and every minute was of importance. Well, lad, you have begun well," he said, "and should turn out a smart soldier some day. Of course I shall report the matter to Lord Wellington. He is a man who does not forget things, and I have no doubt that if your colonel is able when you are old enough to recommend you for a commission, what you have done to-day will go a long way towards your obtaining it."
It may well be imagined that after this Tommy's popularity in the regiment greatly increased, and there was much grief when he was wounded at the battle of Toulouse. He recovered, however, and drummed his hardest when the regiment advanced for a final attack upon the Old Guard on the field of Waterloo. Six years later he obtained a commission, and commanded the regiment in which he had once been a drummer boy at the hard-fought battles of the campaign which terminated with the conquest of the Punjaub in 1845-6.
THE thunder had roared up in the hills where the old engine-houses stood ruined and bare against the sky, and the lightning twice over flickered out of the black clouds and seemed to play round the grey granite stones, before down came the rain like a thick mist and blotted everything out.
And all the time down in the lowland toward the sea it was a brilliant summer's day—"perfect weather," Sydney Lee's father said, "for July."
Linny, Syd's sister, brightened up, for she had looked solemn and disappointed. Syd was at home for the midsummer holidays, and brother and sister were making the best of them. In fact, there was a project on that day, planned by Syd. It had something to do with the little punt lying in the stream which turned the waterwheel which in turning worked the stamps used for crushing the tin ore brought up out of the deep mine by the men working under Syd's father, who was the manager to the mining company, and lived in one of the prettiest houses that a Cornish valley could show.
But that project had something to do as well with little trout which hid under the stones in the clear water, and under wildflowers on the bank, and possibly with a late nest of a certain dipper which Syd had seen flitting about, like a great black-and-white cock-tailed wren gifted with the power of walking about and swimming under water to catch beetles and other insects, and looking all the time as if its black jacket was dotted with pearls, which rolled off and proved to be air-bubbles, as soon as it came to land.
But there were endless things to see in the swift little stream that ran by Huel Vro, and Linny saw them so much better when she had Syd with her to pole the punt along, and catch jack, or wade for the various treasures they found.
So they were off on the expedition when the storm came on, made a tremendous fuss in the hills miles distant, and then began to die away.
"What a glum face!" cried the manager. "I believe there are tears ready to come."