Table of Contents

IN GREEK WATERS A STORY OF THE GRECIAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE (1821-1827)

PREFACE

CHAPTER I A GREEK STUDENT

CHAPTER II A YACHT

CHAPTER III THE WRECK

CHAPTER IV A STARTLING PROPOSAL

CHAPTER V FITTING OUT

CHAPTER VI UNDER WEIGH

CHAPTER VII A CHANGE OF NAME

CHAPTER VIII A BESIEGED VILLAGE

CHAPTER IX RESCUED

CHAPTER X A DARING EXPLOIT

CHAPTER XI IN THE HANDS OF THE TURKS

CHAPTER XII PLANNING A RESCUE

CHAPTER XIII THE PASHA OF ADALIA

CHAPTER XIV CHIOS

CHAPTER XV A WHITE SQUALL

CHAPTER XVI FIRE-SHIPS

CHAPTER XVII RESCUING THE GARRISON OF ATHENS

CHAPTER XVIII A TURKISH DEFEAT

CHAPTER XIX PRISONERS

CHAPTER XX AT CONSTANTINOPLE

CHAPTER XXI THE “MISERICORDIA” AGAIN

CHAPTER XXII ALL ENDS WELL

IN GREEK WATERS

G·A·HENTY

CAPTURED BY ALBANIAN BRIGANDS

IN GREEK WATERS

A STORY OF

THE GRECIAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE

(1821-1827)

BY

G. A. HENTY

Author of “Beric the Briton,” “Condemned as a Nihilist,” etc.

WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. S. STACEY, AND A MAP OF THE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

1902

COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

THE CAXTON PRESS

NEW YORK.

PREFACE

MY DEAR LADS,

The struggle known as the Greek War of Independence lasted for six years (1821-27), and had I attempted to give even an outline of the events this would have been a history and not a story. Moreover, six years is altogether beyond the length of time that can be included in a book for boys. For these reasons I have confined the story to the principal incidents of the first two years of the war; those of my readers who may wish to learn the whole history of the struggle I refer to Finlay’s well-known History of Greece, which I have followed closely in my narration.

As a rule in the stories of wars, especially of wars waged for national independence, the dark side of the struggle is brightened by examples of patriotism and devotion, of heroic bravery, of humanity to the wounded, of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. The war of Greek independence is an exception. The story is a dark one with scarcely a gleam of light. Never during modern times has a struggle been disgraced by such deeds of cruelty and massacre as those which prevailed on both sides. Such being the case, I have devoted less space than usual to the historical portion of my tale, and this plays but a subordinate part in the adventures of the Misericordia and her crew.

Yours sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

ILLUSTRATIONS

IN GREEK WATERS

CHAPTER I

A GREEK STUDENT

THE people of the little fishing village of Seaport were agreed on one subject, however much they might differ on others, namely, that Mr. Beveridge was “a wonderful learned man.” In this respect they were proud of him: learned men came to visit him, and his name was widely known as the author of various treatises and books which were precious to deep scholars, and were held in high respect at the universities. Most of the villagers were, however, of opinion that it would have been better for Seaport had Mr. Beveridge been a trifle less learned and a good deal more practical. Naturally he would have been spoken of as the squire, for he was the owner of the whole parish, and his house was one of the finest in the county, which some of his ancestors had represented in parliament; but for all that it would have been ridiculous to call a man squire who had never been seen on horseback, and who, as was popularly believed, could not distinguish a field of potatoes from one of turnips.

It was very seldom that Mr. Beveridge ventured outside the boundary-wall of his grounds, except, indeed, when he posted up to London to investigate some rare manuscript, or to pore over ancient books in the reading-room of the British Museum. He was never seen at the meetings of magistrates, or at social gatherings of any kind, and when his name was mentioned at these, many shrugged their shoulders and said what a pity it was that one of the finest properties in the county should be in the hands of a man who was, to say the least of it, a little cracked.

Mr. Beveridge’s father, when on a tour in the East as a young man, had fallen in love with and, to the intense indignation of his family, married a Greek lady. Upon coming into possession of the property, two years later, John Beveridge settled down with his beautiful wife at the Hall, and lived in perfect happiness with her until her death.

She had had but one child, a boy, the present owner of the Hall, who was twelve years old when she died. Happy as she was with her husband, Mrs. Beveridge had never ceased to regret the sunny skies of her native land. She seldom spoke of it to her husband, who hunted and shot, was a regular attendant at the board of magistrates, and attended personally to the management of his estate. He was a man of little sentiment, and had but a poor opinion of the Greeks in general. But to Herbert she often talked of the days of her childhood, and imbued him with her own passionate love of her native country. This led him at school to devote himself to the study of Greek with such energy and ardour that he came to be considered as a prodigy, and going up to Oxford he neglected all other branches of study, mixed but little with other undergraduates, made no friends, but lived the life of a recluse, and was rewarded by being the only first-class man of his year, the examiners declaring that no such papers had ever before been sent in.

Unfortunately for Herbert his father died a few months before he took his degree. He had neither understood nor appreciated his son’s devotion to study, and when others congratulated him upon the reputation he was already gaining at the university, he used to shrug his shoulders and say, “What is the good of it? He has not got to work for his living. I would rather see him back a horse over a five-barred gate than write Greek like Homer.” He had frequently declared that directly Herbert took his degree he would go with him first for a few months up to London, and they would then travel together for a year or two so as to make him, as he said, a bit like other people.

Left to his own devices at the death of his father Herbert Beveridge did not even go home after taking his degree, but, writing to the steward to shut up the house, started a week later for Greece, where he remained for three years, by the end of which time he was as perfectly acquainted with modern as with ancient Greek. Then he returned home, bringing with him two Greek attendants, turned the drawing-room into a library, and devoted himself to his favourite study. Three years later he married, or rather his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce, married him. That lady, who was the wife of a neighbouring squire, came over and, as she said, took him in hand.

“This cannot go on, Herbert,” she said; “it is plainly your duty to marry.”

“I have never thought of marrying, aunt.”

“I daresay not, Herbert, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t marry. You don’t intend, I suppose, that this place, after being in the hands of our family for hundreds of years, is to be sold to strangers at your death. It is clearly your duty to marry and have children.”

“But I don’t know anyone to marry.”

“I will find you a wife, Herbert. I know half a dozen nice girls, any one of whom would suit you. You want a thoroughly good, sensible wife, and then, perhaps, there would be some chance of your becoming like other people.”

“I don’t want to become like other people, I only want to be let alone.”

“Well, you see that is out of the question, Herbert. You shirk all your duties as a large land-owner; but this duty, at least, you cannot shirk. Let me see, to-day is Monday; on Wednesday our gig shall be over here at half-past twelve, and you shall come over and lunch with me. I will have Miss Hendon there; she is in all respects suitable for you. She is fairly pretty, and very bright and domesticated, with plenty of common sense. She won’t have any money; for although her father’s estate is a nice one, she has four or five brothers, and I don’t suppose Mr. Hendon lays by a penny of his income. However, that matters very little. Now you must rouse yourself for a bit. This is an important business, you know, and has to be done. After it is over you will find it a great comfort, and your wife will take all sorts of little worries off your hand. Of course if you don’t like Mary Hendon when you see her, I will find somebody else.”

Herbert Beveridge resigned himself quietly, and became almost passive in this matter of his own marriage. He liked Mary Hendon when he had got over the shyness and discomfort of the first visit, and three months later they were married. He then went back to his library again, and his wife took the management of the estate and house into her capable hands. During her lifetime Herbert Beveridge emerged to a certain extent from his shell. He became really fond of her, and occasionally accompanied her on her drives, went sometimes into society, and was generally considered to be improving fast.

Ten years after marriage she died, and her husband fell back into his old ways. His life, however, was no longer quite solitary, for she had left him a boy eight years of age. He had been christened Horace, which was a sort of compromise. Mr. Beveridge had wished that he should have the name of some Greek worthy—his favourites being either Themistocles or Aristides. His mother had called in Mrs. Fordyce to her assistance, and the two ladies together had succeeded in carrying their point. Mrs. Fordyce had urged that it would be a misfortune for the boy to bear either of these names.

“He will have to go to school, Herbert, of course, and the boys would make his life a burden to him if he had either of the names you mention. I know what boys are; we have plenty of them in our family. If he were Aristides he would get the nickname of Tidy, which would be hideous. The other name is worse still; they would probably shorten it into Cockles, and I am sure you would not want the boy to be spoken of as Cockles Beveridge.”

“I hate common names,” Mr. Beveridge said, “such as Jack, Bob, and Bill.”

“Well, I think they are quite good enough for ordinary life, Herbert, but if you must have something classical why not take the name of Horace? One of Mary’s brothers is Horace, you know, and he would no doubt take it as a compliment if you gave the boy that name.”

And so it was fixed for Horace. As soon as the child was old enough to go out without a nurse, Mr. Beveridge appointed one of his Greek servants to accompany him, in order that the child should pick up a knowledge of Greek; while he himself interested himself so far in him as to set aside his books and have him into the library for an hour a day, when he always talked to him in Greek. Thus at his mother’s death the boy was able to talk the language as fluently as English. In other respects he showed no signs whatever of taking after his father’s tastes. He was a sturdy boy, and evinced even greater antipathy than usual to learning the alphabet, and was never so happy as when he could persuade Marco to take him down to the beach to play with the fisher children. At his mother’s death he was carried off by Mrs. Fordyce, and spent the next six months with her and in the houses of his mother’s brothers, where there were children about his own age. At the end of that time a sort of family council was held, and Mrs. Fordyce went over to Seaport to see her nephew.

“What were you thinking about doing with the boy, Herbert?”

“The boy?” he asked vaguely, being engaged on a paper throwing new light on the Greek particles when she entered.

“Naturally, Herbert, the boy, your boy; it is high time he went to school.”

“I was thinking the other day about getting a tutor for him.”

“Getting fiddlesticks!” Mrs. Fordyce said sharply; “the boy wants companionship. What do you suppose he would become, moping about this big house alone? He wants to play, if he is ever to grow up an active healthy man. No harm has been done yet, for dear Mary kept the house bright, and had the sense to let him pass most of his time in the open air, and not to want him always at her apron-string. If when he gets to the age of twenty he develops a taste for Greek—which Heaven forbid!—or for Chinese, or for any other heathen and out-of-the-way study, it will be quite time enough for him to take it up. The Beveridges have always been men of action. It is all very well, Herbert, to have one great scholar in the family; we all admit that it is a great credit to us; but two of them would ruin it. Happily I believe there is no record of a great scholar producing an equally great son. At any rate I do hope the boy will have a fair chance of growing into an active energetic man, and taking his place in the county.”

“I have no wish it should be otherwise, aunt,” Herbert Beveridge said. “I quite acknowledge that in some respects it would be better if I had not devoted myself so entirely to study, though my work has not been without fruit, I hope, for it is acknowledged that my book on the use of the digamma threw an entirely new light upon the subject. Still I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that Horace should follow in my footsteps. Indeed, I trust, that when I have finished my work, there will be little for a fresh labourer to glean in that direction. At any rate he is far too young to develop a bent in any direction whatever, and I think therefore that your proposal is a good one.”

“Then in that case, Herbert, I think you cannot do better than send him with Horace Hendon’s two boys to school. One is about his own age and one is a little older. The elder boy has been there a year, and his father is well satisfied with the school.”

“Very well, aunt. If you will ask Horace to make arrangements for the boy to go with his sons I am quite content it should be so.”

So Horace Beveridge went, a week later, by coach with his cousins to a school at Exeter, some forty miles from Seaport, and there remained until he was fourteen. He passed his holidays at home, never seeing his father until dinnertime, after which he spent two hours with him, a period of the day to which the boy always looked forward with some dread. Sometimes his father would chat cheerfully to him, always in modern Greek; at others he would sit silent and abstracted, waking up occasionally and making some abrupt remark to the boy, and then again lapsing into silence. When about the house and grounds Marco was his constant companion. The Greek, who was a mere lad when he had come to England, was fond of Horace, and having been a fisherman as a boy, he enjoyed almost as much as his charge did the boating and fishing expeditions upon which he accompanied him.

At this time Horace had a strong desire to go to sea, but even his Aunt Fordyce, when he broached the subject to her, would give him no hope or encouragement.

“If it had been ten years ago, Horace, it would have been another matter. The sea was a stirring life, then; and even had you only gone into the navy for a few years you would have seen lots of service, and might have distinguished yourself. As to staying in it, it would have been ridiculous for you as an only son. But now nothing could be more wretched than the position of a naval officer. All the world is at peace, and there does not appear to be the slightest chance of war anywhere for many years. Hundreds and hundreds of ships have been paid off and laid up, and there are thousands of officers on half-pay, and without the smallest chance of ever getting employment again. You have arrived too late in the world for sailoring. Besides, I do not think in any case your father would consent to such a thing. I am happy to say that I do not think he has any idea, or even desire, that you should turn out a famous scholar as he is. But to a man like him it would seem terrible that your education should cease altogether at the age at which boys go into the navy, and that you should grow up knowing nothing of what he considers the essentials of a gentleman’s education. No, no, Horace, the sea is out of the question. You must go up to Eton, as arranged, at the end of these holidays, and from Eton you must go through one of the universities. After that you can wander about for a bit and see the world, and you will see as much of it in six months that way as in twice as many years were you in the navy in these times of peace.”

Horace looked a little downcast.

“There is another thing, Horace,” his aunt said; “it would not be fair for you to go into the navy, even if there was nothing else against it.”

“How is that, aunt?”

“Well, Horace, when there are hundreds of officers on half-pay, who can scarcely keep life together on the few pounds a year they get, it would be hard indeed for young fellows with money and influence to step into the places and keep them out.”

“Yes, aunt, I did not think of that,” Horace said, brightening up. “It certainly would be a beastly shame for a fellow who can do anything with himself to take the place of a man who can do nothing else.”

“Besides, Horace,” his aunt went on, “if you like the sea so much as you do now when you have done with college, there is no reason why you should not get your father to let you either hire or buy a yacht and go where you like in her, instead of travelling about by land.”

“That would be very jolly!” Horace exclaimed. “Yes, that would be really better than going to sea, because one could go where one liked.”

And so at the end of the holidays Horace went up to Eton. On his return home in the summer his father said: “Your aunt was over here the other day, Horace, and she was telling me about that foolish idea you have of going to sea. I was glad to hear that you gave it up at once when she pointed out to you the absurdity of it. Her opinion is that as you are so fond of the water, and as Marco can manage a boat well, it would be a good thing for you to have one of your own, instead of going out always with the fishermen; the idea seemed to me a good one, so I got her to write to some one she knows at Exmouth, and he has spoken to the revenue officer there. They have been bothering me about what size it should be, and as I could not tell them whether it should be ten feet long or fifty, I said the matter must remain till you came home, and then Marco could go over with you to Exmouth and see the officer.”

“Oh, thank you very much, father!”

“It is only right that you should be indulged in a matter like this, Horace. I know that you don’t care about riding alone, and I am sorry I can’t be more of a companion to you, but I have always my hands full of important work, and I know that for a boy of your age it must be very dull here. Choose any boat you like. I have been talking to Marco, and he says that she can be hauled up on the beach and lie there perfectly safe when you are away. Of course if necessary he can have a young fellow or two from the village to help while you are at home. He seems to think that in that way you could have a boat of more comfortable size. I don’t know anything about it, so I have left the matter entirely to him and you. The difference of cost between a small boat and a large one is of no consequence one way or the other.”

Accordingly, the next morning Marco and Horace started directly after breakfast in the carriage to catch the coach, which passed along the main road four miles from Seaport, and arrived at Exmouth at two. They had no difficulty in finding the house of Captain Martyn, whose title was an honorary one, he being a lieutenant of many years’ service.

“Is Captain Martyn in?” Horace asked the servant who opened the door.

“No, sir; he is away in the cutter.” Horace stood aghast. It had never struck him that the officer might not be at home.

“His son is in, Mr. William Martyn, if that will do,” the servant said, seeing the boy’s look of dismay.

“I don’t know,” he said; “but at any rate I should like to see him.”

“I will tell him, sir, if you will stay here.”

A minute later a tall powerfully-built young fellow of two or three-and-twenty came to the door.

“Well, youngster, what is it?” he asked.

“I have come about buying a boat, sir. My name is Beveridge. I believe Captain Martyn was kind enough to say that he would look out for a boat for us.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard about it; but whether it was a dinghy or a man-of-war that was wanted we couldn’t find out. Do you intend to manage her single-handed?”

“Oh, no, sir! I have done a lot of sailing with the fishermen at Seaport, but I could not manage a boat by myself, not if there was any wind. But Marco was a sailor among the Greek isles before he entered my father’s service.”

“Want a comfortable craft,” the Greek, who had learned to speak a certain amount of English, said. “Can have two or three hands.”

“Oh, you want a regular cruiser! Well, you are a lucky young chap, I must say. The idea of a young cub like you having a boat with two or three hands to knock about in! Do you want a captain, because I am to let?”

“No, sir, we don’t want a captain, and we don’t want a great big craft. Something about the size of a fishing-boat, I should say. Are you a sailor?”

“Yes, worse luck, I am a master’s mate, if you know what that is. It means a passed midshipman. I have been a master’s mate for four years, and am likely to be one all my life, for I have no more chance of getting a berth than I have of being appointed a post-captain to-morrow. Well, I will put on my cap and go with you. I have been looking about since my father heard about a boat being wanted. The letter said nothing about your age, or what size of boat was wanted; it gave in fact no useful information whatever. It was about as much to the point as if they had said you wanted to have a house and did not say whether it was a two-roomed cottage or a country mansion. But I think I know of a little craft that would about suit you. Does your father sail himself?”

“WELL, YOUNGSTER, WHAT IS IT?”

Horace could not help smiling at the idea. “No,” he said. “My father cares for nothing but studying Greek. I am at Eton, but it is very slow in the holidays, and as I generally go out with the fishermen the best part of the time I am at home, he thought it would be a good thing for me to have a boat of my own.”

William Martyn looked quietly down at the lad, then went in and got his cap, rejoined them, and sauntered down towards the river. He led the way along the wharfs, passed above the town, and then pointed to a boat lying on the mud.

“That is the craft I should choose if I were in your place,” he said. “She is as sound as a bell, and I wouldn’t mind crossing the Bay of Biscay in her.”

“But she is very large,” Horace said, looking at her with some doubt in his face.

“She is about fifteen tons burthen,” he said, “built of oak, and is only eight years old, though she looks battered about and rusty as she lies there. She was built from his own designs by Captain Burrows, as good a sailor as ever stepped. She is forty feet long and fifteen feet beam. She is fast, and a splendid sea-boat, with four foot draft of water. He died three years after he built her, and she has been lying there ever since. Her gear has been all stowed away in a dry place, and the old sailor in charge of it says it is in perfect order. The old captain used to knock about on board of her with only a man and a boy, and she is as easy to handle as a cock-boat. I was out in her more than once when I was at home on leave, and she is a beauty. Of course you can’t judge of her as she lies there; but she has wonderfully easy lines, and sits the water like a duck. She is a dandy, you see; that is, she carries a small mizzen mast. She was rigged so because a craft like that is a good deal easier to work short-handed than a cutter.”

She seemed as she lay there so much larger than anything Horace had had the idea of possessing that he looked doubtfully at Marco.

“I think she will do,” the Greek said; “just the sort of boat for us. See her when tide comes up, and can go on board. How much cost?”

“They only want eighty pounds for her,” William Martyn said. “They asked a hundred and fifty at first; but everything is so dull, and there have been such a lot of small craft sold off from the dockyards, that she has not found a purchaser. If I had two or three hundred a year of my own there is nothing I should like better than to own that craft and knock about in her. Her only fault is she wants head-room. There is only five foot under her beams, for she has a low freeboard. That prevents her from being sold as a yacht. But as one does not want to walk about much below I don’t see that that matters. She has got a roomy cabin and a nice little stateroom for the owner, and a fo’castle big enough for six hands.”

“It would be splendid,” Horace said. “But do you think, Marco, my father meant me to have such a large boat as this?”

The Greek nodded. “Master said buy a good big safe boat. No use getting a little thing Mr. Horace tire of in a year or two. Can always get a man or two in the holidays. I think that is just the boat.”

“Tide has nearly reached her,” William Martyn said. “We shall be able to get off to her in an hour. We will go and overhaul the gear now. I will get the key of the cabins.”

It took them a good hour to get out the sails and inspect them, and examine the ropes and gear. All were pronounced in good order.

“The sails are as good for all practical purposes as the day they were turned out,” Martyn said. “They may not be quite as white as the fresh-water sailors about here think necessary for their pleasure craft, but they are sound and strong, and were well scrubbed before they were put away. And you may be sure Burrows used none but the best rope money could buy. Now we will go on board. She will look a different craft when her decks are holy-stoned, and she gets two or three coats of paint,” the young officer went on as they stepped on board. “A landsman can never judge of a boat when she is dismantled, and he can’t judge much at any time. He thinks more of paint and polish than he does of a ship’s lines.”

But Horace had seen enough of boats to be able to appreciate to some extent the easy lines of her bow and her fine run, and the Greek was delighted with her. Below she was in good order, except that she wanted a coat of paint. The cabins were of course entirely dismantled, but Horace was surprised at their roominess, accustomed as he was to the close little fo’castles of the fishing-boats.

“She was fitted up in a regular man-of-war fashion,” Martyn said. “This was just a captain’s cabin on board a frigate, but on a small scale, and so was the state-room. We did not see the furniture, but it is all upstairs in an attic of the cottage we went to.”

“How long would it take to get her ready?” Horace asked.

“About ten days. Most of her ballast is out of her, but the rest ought to come out so as to give her a regular clean down, and a coat of whitewash below, before it is all put in again. If you like, young ’un, I will look after that. I have got nothing to do, and it will be an amusement to me. I am looking for a berth at present in a merchantman, but there are such a number of men out of harness that it isn’t easy to get a job. Look here, if you really want to learn some day to be fit to take charge of this craft yourself, you could not do better than persuade your father to let you come over here and see her fitted up, then you will know where every rope goes, and learn more than you would sitting about on deck in the course of a year. There will be no difficulty in getting a couple of rooms ready for you and your man in the town.”

“Can we get home to-night, sir?”

“Yes, the coach goes through here at six o’clock.”

“My father will write to-morrow, at least I expect he will,” Horace said. “It isn’t very easy to get him to do things, but I expect I shall manage.”

“He will write,” Marco said confidently; and as the boy knew that the Greek had far more opportunities of getting at his father than he had, he felt sure that he would manage it.

“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Martyn,” he said.

“All right, young sir. If your father decides to take the boat get him to write to me; or if he is bad at writing, write to me yourself after settling it with him, and I will put on men and see that she is ready for sea in a fortnight.”

“Do you feel sure father will let me have the boat, Marco?” Horace said as soon as they were alone.

“It is done,” the Greek said with a wave of his hand. “He said to me, ‘Go and buy a proper boat, see that everything is right about it, but don’t worry me.’ So when I say, ‘I have bought the boat; it is just the thing we want; it will cost a hundred pounds by the time it is ready for sea,’ he will say he is glad to hear it, and there will be an end of it. Mr. Beveridge never troubles.”

“And will you tell him that it would be a good thing for me to go over and see her fitted up?”

“I will tell him. He will be glad to know that you have got something to do.”

It was half-past ten o’clock when they got home. The other Greek opened the door.

“Is the master in bed yet, Zaimes?”

“He went upstairs ten minutes ago. I think he had forgotten all about Horace not being at home. He did not mention his name to me.”

“What a nuisance!” Horace said. “Now I shall have to wait till morning before I know about it, and I am so anxious to hear what he says.”

“It will be all the pleasanter when you hear,” Zaimes said quietly.

The two men were brothers, Zaimes being ten years senior. He was Mr. Beveridge’s valet, his brother being a sort of general assistant, waiting at meals except when Horace was at home, when he was considered specially told off to him. They lived apart from the other servants, having a room of their own where they cooked their meals in their own fashion. Both were extremely attached to their master, and would have given their lives for him.

“Marco will tell me all about it, and I will talk to the master while I am dressing him. You are making Marco again a boy like yourself, Horace. He is as eager about this boat as you are”; and he smiled indulgently at his brother, whom he still regarded as a boy, although he was now nearly forty.

“That will be the best plan, Zaimes. I shall be glad for him to know all about it before breakfast time, for I am sure I should not like to tell him that we had fixed on a boat like that.”

Horace was a long time before he got to sleep. He had never dreamt of anything bigger than an open boat, and the thought of having a craft that he could sail anywhere along the coast, and even sleep on board, seemed almost too good to be true. He woke an hour before his time, dressed hastily, went out into the garden, and stood there looking over the sea. The fishing-boats were going out, and he pictured to himself the boat he had seen, gliding along among them, bigger and ever so much handsomer than any of them; and how he would be able to take out his cousins, and perhaps some day have a school friend to spend the holidays with him and cruise about. So deep was he in his thoughts that he was surprised when he heard the bell ring for breakfast.

“Now, then,” he said to himself as he walked back to the house, “I shall know. Of course it will be a horrible disappointment if he says no, but I sha’n’t show it, because it is too much to expect him to do this. I should never have dreamt of such a thing if it had not been for Marco. Well, here goes”; and he walked into the parlour.

“Good morning, father!”

“Good morning, Horace. I am glad to hear that Marco has found just the boat that he thinks will suit the place. He tells me you want to go over and see her fitted out. I think that that will be a very good plan. When you do a thing, Horace, do it well if it is worth doing at all. Marco will go back with you by the coach this morning.”

“Oh, thank you, father; it is awfully kind of you!”

“I wish you to enjoy yourself,” his father said; “it is no more than the price of another horse. It is a fine sport and a healthy one, and I don’t know that it is more dangerous than galloping about the country on horseback. I have told Marco to make all arrangements, and not to worry me about things. At the beginning of each holiday he will say how much he will require for provisions on board, and the payment of the wages of a man and a boy. I shall give him a cheque, and there will be an end of it as far as I am concerned. I shall be much more at my ease knowing that you are enjoying yourself on board than wondering what you will do to amuse yourself from day to day.”

Thinking that all that was necessary had been said, Mr. Beveridge then opened a Greek book that lay as usual beside his plate, and speedily became absorbed in it. When he himself had finished, Horace slipped away. He knew that his father would be at least two hours over the meal, which he only turned to when Zaimes made a movement to attract his attention, everything being kept down by the fire, which was lit specially for that purpose, even in summer.

“It is all settled, Marco; think of that! Won’t it be glorious?”

“It will be very good, Horace. I shall like it almost as much as you will. I love the sea, even this gray ugly sea of yours, which is so different from the blue of the Ægean. I too mope a little sometimes when you are not at home, for though I have the kindest and best of masters, one longs sometimes for change. I told you your father would agree. It is just what I told him we should want. An open boat is no use except when the weather is fine, and then one must always keep close to port in case the wind should drop, and when it comes calm you have to break your back with rowing. Oh, we will have fine sails together, and as you grow older we can go farther away, for she should be safe anywhere. When you become a man I daresay he will get for you something bigger, and then perhaps we can sail together to Greece, and perhaps the master will go with you, for he loves Greece as much as we do.”

There was a fortnight of hard work. William Martyn was in command, and kept Horace at work as if he had been a young midshipman under his orders; while Marco turned his hand to everything, singing snatches of sailor songs he had sung as he fished when a boy, chattering in Greek to Horace, and in broken English to the two men.

“You are going to be skipper, I hear,” William Martyn said to him one day.

“Going to skip!” Marco repeated vaguely. “I know not what you mean.”

“Going to be captain—padrone.”

Marco shook his head. “No, sir. Can sail open boat good, but not fit to take charge of boat like this. Going to have man at Seaport, a good fisherman. He sailed a long time in big ships. Man-of-war’s man. When war over, came back to fish. I shall look after young master, cook food for him, pull at rope, steer sometimes; but other man be captain and sail boat.”

William Martyn nodded. “Quite right, Marco; these fishermen know the coast, and the weather, and the ports and creeks to run into. It is all very well in fine weather, but when you get a blow, a craft like this wants a man who can handle her well.”

Horace’s pride in the craft increased every day. As she lay weather-beaten and dismantled on the mud she had seemed to him larger but not superior in appearance to the fishing craft of Seaport, which were most of them boats of ten or twelve tons; but each day her appearance changed, and at the end of ten days—with all her rigging in place, her masts and spars scraped, her deck fairly white, and her sides glossy with black paint—she seemed to him a thing of perfect beauty. It was just the fortnight when the paint and varnish of the cabins were dry, the furniture in its place, and everything ready for sea. Horace’s delight culminated when the anchor was got up, sail set on her, and William Martyn took the helm, as with a light wind she ran down through the craft in the harbour for a trial trip.

“She is a wonderfully handy little craft,” the mate said approvingly, as she began to rise and fall on the swell outside; “the old captain knew what he was doing when he laid down her lines. She is like a duck on the water. I have been out in her when big ships were putting their noses into it, and she never shipped a pailful of water. I can tell you you are in luck, youngster. How are you going to take her round?”

“I was going to write to-night for Tom Burdett—that is the man Marco spoke about—to come over by coach.”

“I will tell you what I will do, youngster; I will take her over for you. I shall enjoy the trip. If you like we will start to-morrow morning.”

“I should like that immensely,” Horace said; “we shall astonish them when we sail into the port.”

“Very well, then, that is agreed; you had better get some stores on board; I mean provisions. Of course if the weather holds like this we should be there in the evening; but it is a good rule at sea never to trust the weather. Always have enough grub and water for a week on board; then, if you happen to be blown off shore, or anything of that sort, it is of no consequence.”

CHAPTER II

A YACHT

MARCO, who acted as banker and appeared to Horace to be provided with an unlimited amount of money, was busy all the evening getting crockery, cooking-utensils, knives and forks, table-cloths, towels, and other necessaries.

“Why, it is like fitting out a house, Marco.”

“Well, it is a little floating house,” the Greek said; “it is much better to have your own things, and not to have to borrow from the house every time. Now we will get some provisions, two or three bottles of rum for bad weather, or when we have visitors on board, and then we shall be complete. Mr. Martyn said he would see to the water. Now, we will go to bed soon, for we are to be down at the wharf at six o’clock; and if we are not there in time you may be sure that you will get a rating.”

“There is no fear of my being late, Marco. I don’t think I shall sleep all night.”

“Ah! we shall see. You have been on your feet since seven this morning. I shall have to pull you by your ear to wake you in the morning.”

This, however, was not necessary. The boy was fast asleep in five minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow; he woke soon after daylight, dropped off to sleep several times, but turned out at five, opened the door of the Greek’s room, and shouted:

“Now, then, Marco, time to get up: if you do not, it is I who will do the ear-pulling.”

They were down at the wharf at a quarter to six. As the clock struck the hour William Martyn came down.

“Good-morning, youngster! you are before your time, I see. You wouldn’t be so ready to turn out after you had had a year or two on board ship. Well, it looks as if we are going to have a grand day. There is a nice little breeze, and I fancy it will freshen a good bit later on. Now, then, tumble into the dinghy, I will take the sculls; the tide is running out strong, and you might run her into the yacht and damage the paint; that would be a nice beginning.”

As soon as they were on board, the mate said:

“Now, off with those shoes, youngster. You can go barefoot if you like, or you can put on those slippers you bought; we have got the deck fairly white, and we must not spoil it. You should make that a rule: everyone who comes on board takes off his boots at once.”

The Greek made the dinghy fast, and then took off his shoes and stockings. Horace put on the slippers, and the mate a pair of light shoes he had brought on board with him.

“Now, then, off with the sail-covers; fold them up and put them down under the seat of the cockpit. Knot up the tyers loosely together, and put them there also. Never begin to hoist your sails till you have got the covers and tyers snugly packed away. Now, Marco, get number two jib out of the sail-locker. I don’t think we shall want number one to-day. Now, hook on the halliards. No; don’t hoist yet, run it out first by the outhaul to the end of the bowsprit. We won’t hoist it till we have got the mainmast and mizzen up. Now, Marco, you take the peak halliards, and I will take the main. Now, then, up she goes; ease off the sheet a bit. Horace, we must top the boom a bit; that is high enough. Marco, make fast; now up with the mizzen; that is right. Now, Horace, before you do anything else always look round, see that everything is right, the halliards properly coiled up and turned over so as to run freely, in case you want to lower or reef sail, the sheets ready to slacken out, the foresail and jib sheets brought aft on their proper sides. There is nothing in our way now; but when there are craft in the way, you want to have everything in perfect order, and ready to draw the moment the anchor is off the ground. Otherwise you might run foul of something before you got fairly off, and nothing can look more lubberly than that. Now you take the helm, and Marco and I will get up the anchor. The wind is nearly dead down the river; don’t touch the tiller till I tell you.”

Horace stood by the helm till the mate said:

“The chain is nearly up and down; now put the tiller gently to starboard.”

As he spoke he ran up the jib, and as the boat’s head payed off, fastened the sheet to windward.

“Now, Marco, round with the windlass; that is right, the anchor is clear now; up with it.”

As he spoke he ran up the foresail. “Slack off the main sheets, lad, handsomely; that is right, let them go free; slack off the mizzen sheets.”

The wind had caught the jib now, and, aided by the tide, brought the boat’s head sharply round. The jib and foresheets were hauled to leeward, and in less than a minute from the time the anchor had left the ground the boat was running down the river with her sheets well off before the wind.

“Helm a-port a little, Horace, so as to give us plenty of room in passing that brig at anchor. That is enough. Steady! Now keep as you are. Marco, I will help you get the anchor on board, and then we will get up the topsail and set it.”

In ten minutes the anchor was stowed, topsail set, and the ropes coiled down. Then a small triangular blue flag with the word “Surf” was run up to the masthead.

“Properly speaking, Horace, flags are not shown till eight o’clock in the morning; but we will make an exception this time. Gently with the tiller, lad; you are not steering a fishing-boat now; a touch is sufficient for this craft. Keep your eye on the flag, and see that it flies out straight ahead. That is the easiest thing to steer by when you are dead before the wind. There is more care required for that than for steering close-hauled, for a moment’s carelessness might bring the sail across with a jerk that would pretty well take the mast out of her. It is easy enough now in smooth water; but with a following sea it needs a careful helmsman to keep a craft from yawing about.”

Marco had disappeared down the forecastle hatch as soon as he had finished coiling down the topsail halliard, and a wreath of smoke now came up through the stove-pipe.

“That is good,” the mate said. “We shall have breakfast before long.”

They ran three miles straight out, so as to get well clear of the land; then the sheets were hauled in, and the Surf’s head pointed east, and lying down to her gunwale she sped along parallel with the shore.

“We are going along a good seven knots through the water,” the mate said. “She has got just as much sail as she wants, though she would stand a good deal more wind, if there were any occasion to press her; but as a rule, Horace, always err on the right side; there is never any good in carrying too much sail. You can always make more sail if the wind drops, while if it rises it is not always easy to get it in. Give me the helm. Now go down to Marco and tell him to come up a few minutes before breakfast is ready. We will get the topsail off her before we sit down, and eat our breakfast comfortably. There is no fun in having your plate in your lap.”

By half-past seven the topsail was stowed and breakfast on the table. Marco took the helm, while the mate and Horace went down to breakfast. Horace thought that it was the most delightful meal he had ever taken; and the mate said:

“That Greek of yours is a first-rate cook, Horace. An admiral could not want to sit down to a better breakfast than this. There is not much here to remind me of a midshipman’s mess. You would have had very different food from this, youngster, if you had had your wish and gone to sea. That father of yours must be a trump; I drink his health in coffee. If he ever gets a bigger craft, and wants a captain, I am his man if he will send your Greek on board as cook. Does he care for the sea himself?”

“I think he used to like it. I have heard him talk about sailing among the Greek islands; but as long as I have known him he has never been away from home except for short runs up to London. He is always in his library.”

“Fancy a man who could afford to keep a big craft and sail about as he likes wasting his life over musty old books. It is a rum taste, youngster. I think I would rather row in a galley.”

“There are no such things as galleys now, are there?”

“Oh, yes, there are in Italy; they have them still rowed by convicts, and I fancy the Spanish gun-boats are rowed by prisoners too. It is worse than a dog’s life, but for all that I would rather do it than be shut up all my life in a library. You seem to talk Greek well, youngster.”

“Yes; Marco has always been with me since I was a child, and we have another Greek servant, his brother; and father generally talks Greek to me. His mother was a Greek lady, and that is what made him so fond of it at first. They say he is the best Greek scholar in England.”

“I suppose it differs a lot from the Greek you learn at school?”

“Yes, a lot. Still, of course, my knowing it helps me tremendously with my old Greek. I get on first-rate at that, but I am very bad at everything else.”

“Well, now we will go up and give Marco a spell,” the mate said. Marco was relieved and went below. Horace took the helm; the mate lit a pipe and seated himself on the weather bulwark. “We shall be at Seaport before eleven if we go on like this,” he said.

“Oh, do let us take a run out to sea, Mr. Martyn; it is no use our going in until four or five o’clock.”

“Just as you like, lad; I am in no hurry, and it is really a glorious day for a sail. Put up the helm, I will see to the sheets.”

As they got farther from the protection of the land the sea got up a bit, but the Surf went over it lightly, and except that an occasional splash of spray flew over her bow, her decks were perfectly dry.

“Have you heard of a ship yet, Mr. Martyn?”

“Yes, I heard only yesterday of a berth as first-mate in a craft at Plymouth. The first-mate got hurt coming down channel, and a friend of my father’s, learning there was a vacancy, spoke to the owners. She belongs there, and I am to join the day after to-morrow. She is bound up the Mediterranean. I shall be very glad to be off; I have had a dull time of it for the last four months except for this little job.”

“I am afraid you won’t get any vehicle to take you back to-night,” Horace said.

“No, I didn’t expect that; the coach in the morning will do very well. I have nothing to do but just to pack my kit, and shall go on by coach next morning. I was thinking of sleeping on board here, if you have no objection.”

“I am sure my father will be very glad to see you up at the house,” Horace said eagerly.

“Thank you, lad, but I shall be much more comfortable on board. Marco said he would get dinner at two, and there is sure to be plenty for me to make a cold supper of, and as there is rum in the locker I shall be as happy as a king. I can smoke my pipe as I like. If I were to go up with you I should be uncomfortable, for I have nothing but my sea-going togs. I should put your father out of his way, and he would put me out of mine. So I think, on all accounts, I had much better remain in good quarters now I have got them. How far is it to the place where I catch the coach?”

“About four miles. We will send the carriage to take you there.”

“Thank you, I would much rather walk. I have nothing to carry but myself, and a four miles’ walk across the hills will be just the thing for me.”

At four o’clock the Surf entered the little harbour of Seaport; Horace was delighted with the surprise of the fishermen at the arrival of the pretty craft.

“You are sure you won’t change your mind and come up with me to the house?”

“Quite certain, thank you, lad. Marco has put out everything I can possibly require. He offered to come down to get breakfast for me, but I prefer to manage that for myself, then I can have it at any time I fancy. I will lock up the cabin before I land. He will be there to take the key.”

“I shall come down with him, of course, Mr. Martyn. I can’t tell you how much I am obliged to you for what you have done for me, and I hope that some day we may have another sail together.”

“If I am at home any time when you may happen to put in at Exmouth I shall be glad to take a cruise with you, Horace.”

As the lad and Marco went up the hill to the house, Horace, to his surprise, met his father coming down with Zaimes.

“Well, Horace, so you have brought your yacht home. Zaimes routed me out from my work to come and look at her, and she really looks a very pretty little vessel.”

“She is not little at all, father.”

“Perhaps not in comparison, Horace; but did you and Marco bring her back by yourselves?”

“No, father; William Martyn, the officer who has seen to her fitting up, and who recommended her, you know, said he would come with us. So, of course, he has been in command, and Marco and I have been the crew. He has been teaching me lots of things, just the same, he says, as if I had been a newly joined midshipman.”

“But where is he now, Horace?”

“He is on board. He is going home by the coach to-morrow. I said that I was sure you would be glad if he would come up to the house; but he said he should feel more comfortable on board. Were you coming down to look at her, father?”

“Yes, Horace, I was. It is quite a wonderful event my being outside the grounds, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, father. I am so glad you are coming down. I am sure you will like her, and then, perhaps, you will come sailing sometimes; I do think, father, that you would enjoy such a sail as we had to-day, it was splendid.”

“Well, we will see about it, Horace. Now I have once come out I may do so again; I am not sure that a good blow might not clear my brain sometimes.”

There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs, to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the country.

Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street, looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his position.

Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace, and by the completion of so many works.

“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”

“All of them, I think, father.”

“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”

“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be done.’”

“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You remind me of that, will you?”

By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the fishermen were still lounging discussing the Surf, which was lying the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.

“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and yet it seems but yesterday.”

“There is no reason why you should not sail again, master; even I long to have my foot on the planks. One never loses one’s love of the sea.”

“I am getting to be an old man now, Zaimes.”

“No one would say so but yourself, master; you are but forty-three. Sometimes, after being shut up for days, you look old—who would not when the sun never shines on them—but now you look young, much younger than you are.”

A stranger indeed would have had difficulty in guessing Mr. Beveridge’s age. His forehead was broad, his skin delicate and almost colourless, his light-brown hair was already of a silvery shade, his face clean shaven, his hands white and thin. His eyes were generally soft and dreamy, but at the present moment they were bright and alert. His figure was scarcely that of a student, for the frame was large, and there was at present none of the stoop habitual to those who spend their lives over books; and now that he was roused, he carried himself exceptionally upright, and a close observer might have taken him for a vigorous man who had but lately recovered from an attack of severe illness.

“We shall see, Zaimes, we shall see,” he said; “let us go on board. You had better hail her, Horace.”

“Surf ahoy!” Horace shouted, imitating as well as he could William Martyn’s usual hail. A minute later the mate’s head appeared above the companion. “My father is coming on board, Mr. Martyn. Will you please bring the dinghy ashore.” The mate hauled up the dinghy, got into it, and in a few strokes was alongside the quay.

Mr. Beveridge descended the steps first. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Martyn, and to thank you for the kindness you have shown my son in finding this craft for him and seeing to its being fitted out.”

“It has been an amusement, sir,” the mate said. “I was knocking about Exmouth with nothing to do, and it was pleasant to be at work on something.”

“Get in, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said, “the dinghy won’t carry us all. You can bring it back again for the others.”

The party stayed for half an hour on board. Mr. Beveridge was warm in his approval of the arrangements.

“This is a snug cabin indeed,” he said. “I had no idea that such a small craft could have had such good accommodation. One could wish for nothing better except for a little more head-room, but after all that is of no great consequence, one does not want to walk about below. It is a place to eat and to sleep in, or, if it is wet, to read in. I really wonder I never thought of having a sailing-boat before. I shall certainly take a sail with you sometimes, Horace.”

“I am very glad of that, father, it would be very jolly having you out. I don’t see much of you, you know, and I do think it would do you good.”

William Martyn was not allowed to carry out his intention of staying on board, nor did he resist very earnestly Mr. Beveridge’s pressing invitation. His host differed widely from his preconceived notions of him, and he saw that he need not be afraid of ceremony.

“You can smoke your pipe, you know, in the library after dinner, Mr. Martyn. I have no objection whatever to smoke; indeed, I used to smoke myself when I was in Greece as a young man—everyone did so there, and I got to like it, though I gave it up afterwards. Why did I give it up, Zaimes?”

“I think you gave it up, master, because you always let your cigar out after smoking two or three whiffs, and never thought of it again for the rest of the day.”

“Perhaps that was it; at any rate your smoking will in no way incommode me, so I will take no denial.”

Accordingly the cabins were locked up, and William Martyn went up with the others to the house and there spent a very pleasant evening. He had in the course of his service sailed for some time in Greek waters, and there was consequently much to talk about which interested both himself and his host.

“I love Greece,” Mr. Beveridge said. “Had it not been that she lies dead under the tyranny of the Turks I doubt if I should not have settled there altogether.”

“I think you would have got tired of it, sir,” the mate said. “There is nothing to be said against the country or the islands, except that there are precious few good harbours among them; but I can’t say I took to the people.”

“They have their faults,” Mr. Beveridge admitted, “but I think they are the faults of their position more than of their natural character. Slaves are seldom trustworthy, and I own that they are not as a rule to be relied upon. Having no honourable career open to them, the upper classes think of nothing but money; they are selfish, greedy, and corrupt; but I believe in the bulk of the people.”

As William Martyn had no belief whatever in any section of the Greeks he held his tongue.

“Greece will rise one of these days,” Mr. Beveridge went on, “and when she does she will astonish Europe. The old spirit still lives among the descendants of Leonidas and Miltiades.”

“I should be sorry to be one of the Turks who fell into their hands,” William Martyn said gravely as he thought of the many instances in his own experiences of the murders of sailors on leave ashore.

“It is probable that there will be sad scenes of bloodshed,” Mr. Beveridge agreed; “that is only to be expected when you have a race of men of a naturally impetuous and passionate character enslaved by a people alien in race and in religion. Yes, I fear it will be so at the commencement, but that will be all altered when they become disciplined soldiers. Do you not think so?” he asked, as the sailor remained silent.

“I have great doubts whether they will ever submit to discipline,” he said bluntly. “Their idea of fighting for centuries has been simply to shoot down an enemy from behind the shelter of rocks. I would as lief undertake to discipline an army of Malays, who, in a good many respects, especially in the handiness with which they use their knives, are a good deal like the Greeks.”

“There is one broad distinction,” Mr. Beveridge said: “the Malays have no past, the Greeks have never lost the remembrance of their ancient glory. They have a high standard to act up to; they reverence the names of the great men of old as if they had died but yesterday. With them it would be a resurrection, accomplished, no doubt, after vast pains and many troubles, the more so since the Greeks are a composite people among whom the descendants of the veritable Greek of old are in a great minority. The majority are of Albanian and Suliot blood, races which even the Romans found untamable. When the struggle begins I fear that this section of the race will display the savagery of their nature; but the fighting over, the intellectual portion will, I doubt not, regain their proper ascendency, and Greece will become the Greece of old.”

William Martyn was wise enough not to pursue the subject. He had a deep scar from the shoulder to the elbow of his right arm, and another on the left shoulder, both reminiscences of an attack that had been made upon him by half a dozen ruffians one night in the streets of Athens, and in his private opinion the entire extirpation of the Greek race would be no loss to the world in general.

“I am very sorry you have to leave to-morrow morning,” Mr. Beveridge said presently. “I should have been very glad if you could have stayed with us for a few days. It is some years since I had a visitor here, and I can assure you that I am surprised at the pleasure it gives me. However, I hope that whenever you happen to be at Exmouth you will run over and see us, and if at any time I can be of the slightest service to you I shall be really pleased.”

The next morning William Martyn, still refusing the offer of a conveyance, walked across the hills to meet the coach, and as soon as he had started Horace went down to the yacht. Marco had gone down into the village early, had seen Tom Burdett, and in his master’s name arranged for him to take charge of the Surf, and to engage a lad to sail with him. When Horace reached the wharf Tom was already on board with his nephew, Dick, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who at once brought the dinghy ashore at Horace’s hail.

“Well, Dick, so you are going with us?”

“Ay, Master Horace, I am shipped as crew. She be a beauty. That cabin is a wonderful lot better than the fo’castle of a fishing-lugger. She is something like a craft to go a sailing in.”

“Good morning, Tom Burdett,” Horace said as the boat came alongside the yacht; “or I ought to say Captain Burdett.”

“No, no,” the sailor laughed; “I have been too long aboard big craft to go a captaining. I don’t so much mind being called a skipper, cos a master of any sort of craft may be called skipper; but I ain’t going to be called captain. Now, Dick, run that flag up to the mast-head. That is yachting fashion, you know, Master Horace, to run the burgee up when the owner comes on board. We ain’t got a burgee, seeing as we don’t belong to a yacht-club; but the flag with the name does service for it at present.”

“But I am not the owner, Tom, that is nonsense. My father got it to please me, and very good of him it was; but it is nonsense to call the boat mine.”

“Them’s the orders I got from your Greek chap down below, Mr. Horace. Says he, ‘Master says as how Mr. Horace is to be regarded as owner of this ’ere craft whenever he is aboard;’ so there you are, you see. There ain’t nothing to be said against that.”

“Well, it is very jolly, isn’t it, Tom?”

“It suits me first-rate, sir. I feel for all the world as if we had just captured a little prize, and they had put a young midshipmite in command and sent me along with him just to keep him straight; that is how I feel about it.”

“What sort of weather do you think we are going to have to-day, Tom?”

“I think the wind is going to shift, sir, and perhaps there will be more of it. It has gone round four points to the east since I turned out before sunrise.”

“And where do you think we had better go to-day, Tom?”

“Well, as the wind is now it would be first-rate for a run to Dartmouth.”

“Yes, but we should have a dead-beat back, Tom; we should never get back before dark.”

“No sir, but that Greek chap tells me as your father said as how there were no occasion to be back to-night, if so be as you liked to make a cruise of it.”

“Did he say that? That is capital. Then let us go to Dartmouth; to-morrow we can start as early as we like so as to get back here.”

“I don’t reckon we shall have to beat back. According to my notion the wind will be somewhere round to the south by to-morrow morning; that will suit us nicely. Now then, sir, we will see about getting sail on her.”

As soon as they began to throw the sail-covers off, Marco came on deck and lent a hand, and in the course of three minutes the sails were up, the mooring slipped, and the Surf was gliding past the end of the jetty.

“That was done in pretty good style, sir,” Tom Burdett said as he took up his station by the side of Horace, who was at the tiller. “I reckon when we have had a week’s practice together we shall get up sail as smartly as a man-of-war captain would want to see. I do like to see things done smart if it is only on a little craft like this, and with three of us we ought to get all her lower sail on her in no time. That Greek chap knows what he is about. Of course he has often been out with you in the fishing-boats, but there has never been any call for him to lend a hand there, and I was quite surprised just now when he turned to at it. I only reckoned on Dick and myself, and put the Greek down as steward and cook.”

“He used to work in a fishing-boat when he was a boy, Tom.”

“Ah, that accounts for it! They are smart sailors, some of them Greeks, in their own craft, though I never reckoned they were any good in a square-rigged ship; but in those feluccas of theirs they ain’t easy to be beaten in anything like fine weather. But they ain’t dependable, none of those Mediterranean chaps are, whether they are Greeks or Italians or Spaniards, when it comes on to blow really hard, and there is land under your lee, and no port to run to. When it comes to a squeak like that they lose their nerve and begin to pray to the saints, and wring their hands, and jabber like a lot of children. They don’t seem to have no sort of backbone about them. But in fine weather I allow they handle their craft as well as they could be handled. Mind your helm, sir; you must always keep your attention to that, no matter what is being said.”

“Are you going to get up the topsail, Tom?”

“Not at present, sir; with this wind there will be more sea on as we get further out, and I don’t know the craft yet; I want to see what her ways are afore we try her. She looks to me as if she would be stiff under canvas; but running as we are we can’t judge much about that, and you have always got to be careful with these light-draft craft. When we get to know her we shall be able to calculate what she will carry in all weathers; but there is no hurry about that. I have seen spars carried away afore now, from young commanders cracking on sail on craft they knew nothing about. This boat can run, there is no mistake about that. Look at that fishing-boat ahead of us; that is Jasper Hill’s Kitty; she went out ten minutes afore you came down. We are overhauling her hand over hand, and she is reckoned one of the fastest craft in Seaport. But then, this craft is bound to run fast with her fine lines and shallow draft; we must wait to see how she will do when there is lots of wind.”

In a couple of hours Horace was glad to hand over the tiller to the skipper as the sea had got up a good deal, and the Surf yawed so much before the following waves that it needed more skill than he possessed to keep her straight.

“Fetch the compass up, Dick,” the skipper said; “we are dropping the land fast. Now get the mizzen off her, she will steer easier without it, and it isn’t doing her much good. Do you begin to feel queer at all, Mr. Horace?”

“Not a bit,” the boy laughed. “Why, you don’t suppose, after rolling about in those fishing-boats when they are hanging to their nets, that one would feel this easy motion.”

“No; you would think not, but it don’t always follow. I have seen a man, who had been accustomed to knock about all his life in small craft, as sick as a dog on board a frigate, and I have seen the first lieutenant of a man-of-war knocked right over while lying off a bar on boat service. One gets accustomed to one sort of motion, and when you get another quite different it seems to take your innards all aback.”

The run to Dartmouth was quickly made, and to Horace’s delight they passed several large ships on their way.

“Yes, she is going well,” Tom Burdett said when he expressed his satisfaction; “but if the wind was to get up a bit more it would be just the other way. We have got quite as much as we want, while they could stand a good bit more. A small craft will generally hold her own in a light wind, because why, she carries more sail in proportion to her tonnage. When the big ship has got as much as she can do with, the little one has to reef down and half her sails are taken off her. Another thing is, the waves knock the way out of a small craft, while the weight of a big one takes her through them without feeling it. Still I don’t say the boat ain’t doing well, for she is first-rate, and we shall make a very quick passage to port.”

Running up the pretty river, they rounded to, head to wind, dropped the anchor a short distance from a ship of war, and lowered and stowed their sails smartly. Then Horace went below to dinner. It had been ready for some little time, but he had not liked leaving the deck, for rolling, as she sometimes did, it would have been impossible to eat comfortably. As soon as he dined, the others took their meal in the fo’castle, Marco having insisted on waiting on him while at his dinner. When they had finished, Marco and Dick rowed Horace ashore. The lad took the boat back to the yacht, while the other two strolled about the town for a couple of hours, and then went off again.

The next day the Surf fully satisfied her skipper as to her weatherly qualities. The wind was, as he had predicted, nearly south-east, and there was a good deal of sea on. Before getting up anchor, the topmast was lowered, two reefs put in the main-sail and one in the mizzen, and a small jib substituted for that carried on the previous day. Showers of spray fell on the deck as they put out from the mouth of the river; but once fairly away she took the waves easily, and though sometimes a few buckets of water tumbled over her bows and swashed along the lee channels, nothing like a green sea came on board. Tom Burdett was delighted with her.

“She is a beauty and no mistake,” he said enthusiastically. “There is many a big ship will be making bad weather of it to-day; she goes over it like a duck. After this, Mr. Horace, I sha’n’t mind what weather I am out in her. I would not have believed a craft her size would have behaved so well in a tumble like this. You see this is more trying for her than a big sea would be. She would take it easier if the waves were longer, and she had more time to take them one after the other. That is why you hear of boats living in a sea that has beaten the life out of a ship. A long craft does not feel a short choppy sea that a small one would be putting her head into every wave: but in a long sea the little one has the advantage. What do you think of her, sir?”

“She seems to me to heel over a long way, Tom.”

“Yes, she is well over; but you see, even in the puffs she doesn’t go any further. Every vessel has got what you may call her bearing. It mayn’t take much to get her over to that; but when she is there it takes a wonderful lot to bring her any further. You see there is a lot of sail we could take off her yet, if the wind were to freshen. We could get in another reef in the main-sail, and stow her mizzen and foresail altogether. She would stand pretty nigh a hurricane with that canvas.”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the Surf entered the harbour. Horace was drenched with spray, and felt almost worn out after the struggle with the wind and waves; when he landed his knees were strangely weak, but he felt an immense satisfaction with the trip, and believed implicitly Tom Burdett’s assertion that the yacht could stand any weather.

CHAPTER III

THE WRECK

THOSE were glorious holidays for Horace Beveridge. He was seldom at home; sometimes two of his cousins, the Hendons, accompanied him in his trips, and they were away for three or four days at a time. Three times Mr. Beveridge with Zaimes went out for a day’s sail, and Horace was pleased to see that his father really enjoyed it, talking but little, but sitting among some cushions Zaimes arranged for him astern, and basking in the bright sun and fresh air. That he did enjoy it was evident from the fact that, instead of having the yacht laid up at the end of the holidays, Mr. Beveridge decided to keep her afloat, and retained Tom Burdett’s services permanently.

“Do you think, Tom, we shall get any sailing in the winter holidays?”

“We are sure to, sir, if your father has not laid her up by that time. There are plenty of days on this coast when the sailing is as pleasant in winter as it is in summer. The harbour is a safe one though it is so small, and I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be kept afloat. Of course we shall have to put a stove in the cabin to make it snug; but with that, a good thick pea-jacket, warm gloves, and high boots, you would be as right as a nail.”

And so at Christmas and through the next summer holidays Horace enjoyed almost constant sailing. He was now thoroughly at home in the boat, could steer without the supervision of the skipper, and was as handy with the ropes as Dick himself.

“This is the best job I ever fell into, Mr. Horace,” Tom Burdett said at the end of the second summer. “Your father pays liberal; and as for grub, when that Greek is on board a post-captain could not want better. It is wonderful how that chap does cook, and he seems downright to like it. Then you see I have got a first-rate crew. Dick is as good as a man now; I will say for the Greek, he is a good sailor as well as a good cook; and then you see you have got a deal bigger and stronger than you were a year ago, and are just as handy either at the tiller or the sheets as a man would be, so we are regular strong-handed, and that makes a wonderful difference in the comfort on a craft.”

That summer they sailed up to Portsmouth, and cruised for a week inside the Isle of Wight, and as Horace had one of his school-fellows spending the holidays with him, he enjoyed himself to the fullest of his capacity. During the holidays Horace did not see much of his father, who, quite content that the boy was enjoying himself, and gaining health and strength, went on in his own way, and only once went out with him during his stay at home, although, as Marco told him, he generally went out once a week at other times.

The first morning after his return, at the following Christmas, Horace did not as usual get up as soon as it was light. The rattle of the window and the howl of the wind outside sufficed to tell him that there would be no sailing that day. Being in no hurry to move, he sat over breakfast longer than usual, talking to Zaimes of what had happened at home and in the village since he last went away. His father was absent, having gone up to town a week before, and Horace had, on his arrival, found a letter from him, saying that he was sorry not to be there for his return, but that he found he could not get through the work on which he was engaged for another two days; he should, however, be down at any rate by Christmas-eve.

After breakfast Horace went out and looked over the sea. The wind was almost dead on shore, blowing in such violent gusts that he could scarce keep his feet. The sky was a dull lead colour, the low clouds hurrying past overhead. The sea was covered with white breakers, and the roar of the surf, as it broke on the shore, could be heard even above the noise of the wind. Putting on his pea-jacket and high boots, he went down to the port. As it had been specially constructed as a shelter against south-westerly winds, with the western pier overlapping the other, the sea did not make a direct sweep into it; but the craft inside were all rolling heavily in the swell.

“How are you, Tom? It is a wild day, isn’t it?”

“Don’t want to see a worse, sir. Glad to see you back again, Mr. Horace. Quite well, I hope?”

“First-rate, Tom. It is a nuisance this gale the first day of coming home. I have been looking forward to a sail. I am afraid there is no chance of one to-day?”

“Well, sir, I should say they would take us and send us all to the loonatic asylum at Exeter if they saw us getting ready to go out. Just look at the sea coming over the west pier. It has carried away a bit of that stone wall at the end.”

“Yes. I didn’t really think of going out, Tom, though I suppose if we had been caught out in it we should have managed somehow.”

“We should have done our best, in course,” the sailor said, “and I have that belief in the boat that I think she might weather it; but I would not take six months’ pay to be out a quarter of an hour.”

“What would you do, Tom, if you were caught in a gale like this?”

“If there weren’t land under our lee I should lay to, sir, under the storm-jib and a try-sail. Maybe I would unship the main-sail with the boom and gaff, get the top-mast on deck and lash that to them; then make a bridle with a strong rope, launch it overboard, lower all sail, and ride to that; that would keep us nearer head on to the sea than we could lie under any sail. That is what they call a floating anchor. I never heard of a ship being hove-to that way; but I was out on boat service in the Indian Ocean when we were caught in a heavy blow, and the lieutenant who was in charge made us lash the mast and sails and oars together and heave them overboard, and we rode to them right through the gale. We had to bale a bit occasionally, but there was never any danger, and I don’t think we should have lived through it any other way. I made a note of it at the time, and if ever I am caught in the same way again that is what I shall do, and what would be good for a boat would be good for a craft like the Surf.”

This conversation was carried on with some difficulty, although they were standing under the lee of the wall of a cottage.

“She rolls about heavily, Tom.”

“She does that, sir. It is lucky we have got our moorings in the middle of the harbour, and none of the fishing-boats are near enough to interfere with her. You see most of them have got their sails and nets rolled up as fenders, but in spite of that they have been ripping and tearing each other shocking. There will be jobs for the carpenter for some time to come. Five or six of them have torn away their bulwarks already.”

After waiting down by the port for an hour Horace returned to the house. When luncheon was over he was just about to start again for the port, when Marco said to him:

“Dick has just been in, sir. There is going to be a wreck. There are a lot of fishermen gathered on the cliff half a mile away to the right. They say there is a ship that will come ashore somewhere along there.”

“Come on, then, Marco. Did you hear whether they thought that anything could be done?”

“I did not hear anything about it. I don’t think they know where she will go ashore yet.”

In a few minutes they reached the group of fishermen standing on the cliff. It was a headland beyond which the land fell away, forming a bay some three miles across. A large barque was to be seen some two miles off shore. She was wallowing heavily in the seas, and each wave seemed to smother her in spray. Tom Burdett was among the group, and Horace went up to him at once.

“What’s to prevent her from beating off, Tom? She ought to be able to work out without difficulty.”

“So she would at ordinary times,” the skipper said; “but she is evidently a heavy sailer and deep laden. She could do it now if they could put more sail on her, but I expect her canvas is all old. You see her topsails are all in ribbons. Each of them seas heaves her bodily to leeward. She is a doomed ship, sir, there ain’t no sort of doubt about that; the question is, Where is she coming ashore?”

“Will it make much difference, Tom?”

“Well, it might make a difference if her master knew the coast. The best thing he could do would be to get her round and run straight in for this point. The water is deeper here than it is in the bay, and she would get nearer ashore before she struck, and we might save a few of them if they lashed themselves to spars and her coops and such like. Deep as she is she would strike half a mile out if she went straight up the bay. The tide is nearly dead low, and in that case not a man will get ashore through that line of breakers. Then, again, she might strike near Ram’s Head over there, which is like enough if she holds on as she is doing at present. The Head runs a long way out under water, and it is shallower half a mile out than it is nearer the point. There is a clump of rocks there.”

“I don’t remember anything about them, Tom, and we have sailed along there a score of times.”

“No, sir, we don’t take no account of them in small craft, and there is a fathom and a half of water over them even in spring-tides. Springs are on now, and there ain’t much above nine foot just now; and that craft draws two fathom and a half or thereabouts, over twelve foot anyhow. But it don’t make much difference; wherever she strikes she will go to pieces in this sea in a few minutes.”

“Surely there is something to be done, Tom?”

“Some of us are just going down to get ropes and go along the shore, Mr. Horace; but Lor’ bless you, one just does it for the sake of doing something. One knows well enough that it ain’t likely we shall get a chance of saving a soul.”

“But couldn’t some of the boats go out, Tom? There would be plenty of water for them where she strikes.”

“The fishermen have been talking about it, sir; but they are all of one opinion; the sea is altogether too heavy for them.”

“But the Surf could go, couldn’t she, Tom? You have always said she could stand any sea.”

“Any reasonable sort of sea, Mr. Horace, but this is a downright onreasonable sort of sea for a craft of her size, and it is a deal worse near shore where the water begins to shallow than it would be out in the channel.”

But though Tom Burdett spoke strongly, Horace noticed that his tone was not so decided as when he said that the fishing-boats could not go out.

“Look here, Tom,” he said, “I suppose there must be thirty hands on board that ship. We can’t see them drowned without making a try to save them. We have got the best boat here on the coast. We have been out in some bad weather in her, and she has always behaved splendidly. I vote we try. She can fetch out between the piers all right from where she is moored; and if, when we get fairly out, we find it is altogether too much for her, we could put back again.”

Tom made no answer. He was standing looking at the ship. He had been already turning it over in his mind whether it would not be possible for the Surf to put out. He had himself an immense faith in her sea-going qualities, and believed that she might be able to stand even this sea.

“But you wouldn’t be thinking of going in her, Mr. Horace?” he said doubtfully at last.

“Of course I should,” the lad said indignantly. “You don’t suppose that I would let the Surf go out if I were afraid to go in her myself.”

“Your father would never agree to that if he were at home, sir.”

“Yes, he would,” Horace said. “I am sure my father would say that if the Surf went out I ought to go in her, and that it would be cowardly to let other people do what one is afraid to do one’s self. Besides, I can swim better than either you or Dick, and should have more chance of getting ashore if she went down; but I don’t think she would go down. I am nearly sixteen now; and as my father isn’t here I shall have my own way. If you say that you think there is no chance of the Surf getting out to her there is an end of it; but if you say that you think she could live through it, we will go.”

HORACE SUGGESTS A RESCUE

“I think she might do it, Mr. Horace; I have been a saying so to the others. They all say that it would be just madness, but then they don’t know the craft as I do.”

“Well, look here, Tom, I will put it this way: if the storm had been yesterday, and my father and I had both been away, wouldn’t you have taken her out?”

“Well, sir, I should; I can’t say the contrary. I have always said that the boat could go anywhere, and I believe she could, and I ain’t going to back down now from my opinion; but I say as it ain’t right for you to go.”

“That is my business,” Horace said. “Marco, I am going out in the Surf to try to save some of the men on board that ship. Are you disposed to come too?”

“I will go if you go,” the Greek said slowly; “but I don’t know what your father would say.”

“He would say, if there was a chance of saving life it ought to be tried, Marco. Of course there is some danger in it, but Tom thinks she can do it, and so do I. We can’t stand here and see thirty men drowned without making an effort to save them. I have quite made up my mind to go.”

“Very well, sir, then I will go.”

Horace went back to Tom Burdett, who was talking with Dick apart from the rest.

“We will take a couple of extra hands if we can get them,” the skipper said. “We shall want to be strong-handed.”

He went to the group of fishermen and said:

“We are going out in the Surf to see if we can lend a hand to bring some of those poor fellows ashore. Young Mr. Beveridge is coming, but we want a couple more hands. Who will go with us?”

There was silence for a minute, and then a young fisherman said:

“I will go, Tom. My brother Nat is big enough to take my place in the boat if I don’t come back again. I am willing to try it with you, though I doubt if the yacht will get twice her own length beyond the pier.”

“And I will go with you, Tom,” an older man said. “If my son Dick is going, I don’t see why I should hang back.”

“That will do, then, that makes up our crew. Now we had best be starting at once. That barque will be ashore in another hour, and she will go to pieces pretty near as soon as she strikes. So if we are going to do anything, there ain’t no time to be lost. The rest of you had better go along with stout ropes as you was talking of just now; that will give us a bit of a chance if things go wrong.”

The six hurried along the cliff and then down to the port, followed by the whole of the fishermen. A couple of trips with the dinghy took them on board.

“Now, then,” Tom Burdett said to Dick’s father, “we will get the fore-sail out and rig it as a try-sail. Dick, you cut the lashings and get the main-sail off the hoops. We will leave it and the spars here; do you lend him a hand, Jack Thompson.”

In five minutes the main-sail with its boom and gaff was taken off the mast and tied together. A rope was attached to them and the end flung ashore, where they were at once hauled in by the fishermen, who crowded the wharf, every soul in the village having come down at the news that the Surf was going out. By this time holes had been made along the leach of the sail, and by these it was lashed to the mast-hoops. The top-mast was sent down to the deck, launched overboard, and hauled ashore; the mizzen was closely reefed, but not hoisted.

“We will see how she does without it,” Tom said; “she may like it and she may not. Now, up with the try-sail and jib, and stand by to cast off the moorings as she gets weigh on her; I will take the tiller. Marco, do you and Mr. Horace stand by the mizzen-halliards ready to hoist if I tell you.”

As the Surf began to move through the water a loud cheer broke from the crowd on shore, followed by a dead silence. She moved but slowly as she was under the lee of the west pier.

“Ben, do you and the other two kick out the lower plank of the bulwark,” Tom Burdett said; “we shall want to get rid of the water as fast as it comes on board.”

The three men with their heavy sea-boots knocked out the plank with a few kicks.

“Now, the one on the other side,” Tom said; and this was done just as they reached the entrance between the piers. She was gathering way fast now.

“Ease off that jib-sheet, Dick,” the skipper cried. “Stand by to haul it in as soon as the wind catches the try-sail.”

Tom put down the helm as he reached the end of the pier, but a great wave caught her head and swept her half round. A moment later the wind in its full force struck the try-sail and she heeled far over with the blow.

“Up with the mizzen!” Tom shouted. “Give her more sheet, Dick!” As the mizzen drew, its action and that of the helm told, and the Surf swept up into the wind. “Haul in the jib-sheet, Dick. That is enough; make it fast. Ease off the mizzen-sheet a little, Marco! That will do. Now lash yourselves with lines to the bulwark.”

For the first minute or two it seemed to Horace that the Surf, good boat as she was, could not live through those tremendous waves, each of which seemed as if it must overwhelm her; but although the water poured in torrents across her deck it went off as quickly through the hole in the lee bulwark, and but little came over her bow.

“She will do, sir!” Tom, close to whom he had lashed himself, shouted. “It will be better when we get a bit farther out. She is a beauty, she is, and she answers to her helm well.”

Gradually the Surf drew out from the shore.

“Are you going to come about, Tom?”

“Not yet, sir; we must get more sea-room before we try. Like enough she may miss stays in this sea. If she does we must wear her round.”

“Now we will try,” he said five minutes later. “Get those lashings off. Mr. Horace, you will have to go up to the other side when she is round. Get ready to go about!” he shouted. “I will put the helm down at the first lull. Now!”

The Surf came round like a top, and had gathered way on the other tack before the next big wave struck her.

“Well done!” Tom Burdett shouted joyously, and the others echoed the shout. In ten minutes they were far enough out to get a sight of the ship as they rose on the waves.

“Just as I thought,” Ben muttered; “he thinks he will weather Ram’s Head, and he will go ashore somewhere on that reef of rocks to a certainty.”

In another five minutes the course was again changed, and the Surf bore directly for the barque. In spite of the small sail she carried the water was two feet up the lee planks of her deck, and she was deluged every time by the seas, which struck her now almost abeam. But everything was battened down, and they heeded the water but little.

“What do you think of her now?” Tom shouted to his brother-in-law. “Didn’t I tell you she would stand a sea when your fishing-boats dare not show their noses out of the port?”

“She is a good ’un and no mistake, Tom. I did not think a craft her size could have lived in such a sea as this. You may brag about her as you like in future, and there ain’t a man in Seaport as will contradict you.”

They were going through the water four feet to the barque’s one, and they were but a quarter of a mile astern of her when Horace exclaimed, “She has struck!” and at the same moment her main and foremast went over the side.

“She is just about on the shallowest point of the reef,” Ben Harper said. “Now, how are you going to manage this job, Tom?”

“There is only one way to do it,” the skipper said. “There is water enough for us. Tide has flowed an hour and a half, and there must be two fathoms where she is lying. We must run up under her lee close enough to chuck a rope on board. Get a light rope bent on to the hawser. They must pull that on board, and we will hang to it as near as we dare.”

“You must go near her stern, Tom, or we shall get stove in with the masts and spars.”

“Yes, it is lucky the mizzen is standing, else we could not have gone alongside till they got rid of them all, and they would never do that afore she broke up.”

Horace, as he watched the ship, expected to see her go to pieces every moment. Each wave struck her with tremendous force, sending cataracts of water over her weather gunwale and across her deck. Many of the seas broke before they reached her, and the line of the reef could be traced far beyond her by the white and broken water.

“Now, then,” the skipper shouted, “I shall keep the Surf about twice her own length from the wreck, and then put the helm hard down and shoot right up to her.”

“That will be the safest plan, Tom. There are two men with ropes standing ready in the mizzen-shrouds.”

“I shall bring her in a little beyond that, Ben, if the wreck of the mainmast isn’t in the way; the mizzen may come out of her any moment, and if it fell on our decks it would be good-bye to us all.”

A cheer broke from the men huddled up under shelter of the weather bulwark as the little craft swept past her stern.

“Mind the wreck!” a voice shouted.

Tom held up his hand, and a moment later put the helm down hard. The Surf swept round towards the ship, and her way carried her on until the end of the bowsprit was but five or six yards distant. Then Tom shouted:

“Now is your time, Dick;” and the rope was thrown right across the barque, where it was grasped by half a dozen hands.

“Haul in till you get the hawser,” Dick shouted; “then make it fast.” At the same moment two ropes from the ship were thrown, and caught by Marco and Ben. Tom left the tiller now and lowered the try-sail. By the time the hawser was fast on board, the Surf had drifted twice her own length from the ship. “That will do, Ben; make the hawser fast there.” Two strong hawsers were hauled in from the ship and also made fast.

“Now you can come as soon as you like,” Tom shouted. As the hawsers were fastened to the weather-side of the vessel, which was now heeled far over, it was a sharp incline down to the deck of the Surf, and the crew, throwing their arms and legs round the hawsers, slid down without difficulty, the pressure of the wind on the yacht keeping the ropes perfectly taut. As the men came within reach, Tom Burdett and Ben seized them by the collars and hauled them on board.

“Any woman on board?” he asked the first.

“No, we have no passengers.”

“That is a comfort. How many of a crew?”

“There were thirty-three all told, but four were killed by the falling mast, and three were washed overboard before we struck, so there are twenty-six now.”

In five minutes from the ropes being thrown the captain, who was last man, was on board the yacht. The Surf’s own hawser had been thrown off by him before he left, drawn in, and coiled down, and as soon as he was safe on board the other two hawsers were thrown off.

“Haul the jib a-weather, Dick,” Tom Burdett shouted as he took the helm again. “Slack the mizzen-sheet off altogether, Marco; up with the try-sail again.”

For a short distance the yacht drifted astern, and then, as the pressure of the jib began to make itself felt, her head gradually payed off. “Haul in the try-sail and jib-sheets. Let go the weather-sheet, Dick, and haul in the other. That is it, now she begins to move again.”

“You are only just in time,” the captain said to Tom; “she was just beginning to part in the middle when I left. You have saved all our lives, and I thank you heartily.”

“This is the owner of the yacht, sir,” Tom said, motioning to Horace. “It is his doing that we came out.”

“Oh, that is all nonsense, Tom! You would have come just the same if I hadn’t been there.”

“Well, sir, it has been a gallant rescue,” the captain said. “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw your sail coming after us, and I expected every moment to see it disappear.”

“Now, captain,” Tom said, “make all your men sit down as close as they can pack under the weather bulwark; we ain’t in yet.”

It was an anxious time as they struggled through the heavy sea on the way back, but the Surf stood it bravely, and the weight to windward enabled her to stand up more stiffly to her canvas. When they were abreast of the port half the men went over to the other side, the helm was put up, and she rushed towards the shore dead before the wind. The extra weight on deck told on her now, and it needed the most careful steering on Tom’s part to keep her straight before the waves, several of which broke over her taffrail and swept along the deck, one of them bursting out her bulwarks at the bow.

“Get ready to haul in the sheets smartly,” Tom shouted as they neared the pier.

He kept her course close to the pier-head, and as the Surf came abreast of it jammed down the tiller, while Ben and Dick hauled in the mizzen-sheet. A moment later she was shooting along under the shelter of the wall, while a loud shout of welcome rose above the howling of the wind from those on shore.

“Now, sir, I will see about getting her moored,” Tom said, “if you will run down and get some rum bottles out of the locker; I am pretty well frozen and these poor fellows must be nigh perished, but it would never have done to open the hatchway in that sea.”

“Come down, men,” Horace cried, as he dived below. “We had no time to light the fire before starting, but a glass of spirits will do you good all round.”

Two or three of the fishermen rowed out as soon as the yacht was moored, and in a few minutes all were ashore.

“Now you had better run up to the house and change, Mr. Horace,” Tom Burdett said. “We will look after the men here and get them some dry things, and put them up amongst us. We have done a big thing, sir, and the Surf has been tried as I hope she will never be tried again as long as we have anything to do with her.”

“All right, Tom! Will you come up with me, captain? There is no one at home but myself, and we will manage to rig you up somehow.”

The captain, however, declined the invitation, saying that he would rather see after his men and put up himself at the public-house on the beach.

“I will come up later, sir, when I have seen everything all snug here.”

Horace had some difficulty in making his way up through the crowd, for both men and women wished to shake hands with him. At last he got through, and, followed by Marco, ran up through the village to the house. Zaimes had been among the crowd assembled to see the Surf re-enter the port; and when Horace changed his things and came down stairs he found a bowl of hot soup ready for him.

“You have given me a nice fright, Mr. Horace,” the Greek said as he entered the room. “I have been scolding Marco, I can tell you.”

“It was not his fault, Zaimes. I made up my mind to go, and told him so, and he had the choice whether he would go or stay behind, and he went.”

“Of course he went,” Zaimes said; “but he ought to have come and told me. Then I should have gone too. How could I have met your father, do you think, if you had been drowned?”

“Well, you would not have been to blame, Zaimes, as you knew nothing about it until after we had started.”

“No, you had been gone half an hour before someone from the village came up and told them in the kitchen. Then one of the servants brought me the news, and I ran down like a madman, without even stopping to get a hat. Then I found that most of the men had gone up to the cliff to keep you in sight, and I went up there and waited with them until you were nearly back again. Once or twice, as you were running in to the pier, I thought the yacht was gone.”

“That was the worst bit, Zaimes. The sea came tumbling over her stern, and I was washed off my feet two or three times. I almost thought that she was going down head-foremost. Well, I am glad I was at home this morning. I would not have missed it for anything.”

“No, it is a good thing, now it is done, and something to be proud of. I am told very few of the fishermen thought that you would ever come back again.”

“They didn’t know the boat as we did, Zaimes. I felt sure she would go through anything; and, besides, Tom kicked out the lower plank of the bulwarks on each side, so as to help her to free herself from water as it came on board, and flush-decked as she is, there was nothing to carry away; but she hasn’t taken a cupful of water down below.”

In the evening the captain of the barque came up, and Horace learned from him that she was on her way from New Orleans laden with cotton.

“The ship and cargo are insured,” the captain said; “and, as far as that goes, it is a good thing she is knocked into match-wood. She was a dull sailer at the best of times, and when laden you could not get her to lay anywhere near the wind. She would have done better than she did, though, hadn’t her rudder got damaged somehow in the night. She ought to have clawed off the shore easy enough; but, as you saw, she sagged to leeward a foot for every foot she went for’ard. I was part-owner in her, and I am not sorry she has gone. We tried to sell her last year, but they have been selling so many ships out of the navy that we could not get anything of a price for her; but as she was well insured, I shall get a handier craft next time. I was well off shore when the storm began to get heavy last night, and felt no anxiety about our position till the rudder went wrong. But when I saw the coast this morning, I felt sure that unless there was a change in the weather nothing could save her. Well, if it hadn’t been for the loss of those seven hands, I should, thanks to you, have nothing to complain of.”

Fires had been lit on the shore as night came on; but except fragments of the wreck and a number of bales of cotton nothing was recovered. In the morning the captain and crew left Seaport, two hands remaining behind to look after the cotton and recover as much as they could. Two days later Mr. Beveridge returned home.

“I saw in the paper before I left town, Horace, an account of your going out to the wreck and saving the lives of those, on board. I am very glad I was not here, my lad. I don’t think I should have let you go; but as I knew nothing about it until it was all over, I had no anxiety about it, and felt quite proud of you when I read the account. The money was well laid out on that yacht, my boy. I don’t say that I didn’t think so before, but I certainly think so now. However, directly I read it I wrote to the Lifeboat Society and told them that I would pay for a boat to be placed here. Then there will be no occasion to tempt Providence the next time a vessel comes ashore on this part of the coast. You succeeded once, Horace, but you might not succeed another time; and knowing what a sea sets in here in a south-westerly gale, I quite tremble now at the thought of your being out in it in that little craft.”

The news that Mr. Beveridge had ordered a lifeboat for the port gave great satisfaction among the fishermen, not so much perhaps because it would enable them to go out to wrecks, as because any of their own craft approaching the harbour in bad weather, and needing assistance, could then receive it.

Horace became very popular in Seaport after the rescue, and was spoken of affectionately as the young squire, although they were unable to associate the term with his father; but the latter’s interest in the sea, and his occasionally going out in the yacht, seemed to have brought him nearer to the fishing people. There had before been absolutely nothing in common between them and the studious recluse, and even the Greeks, who had before been held in marked disfavour in the village as outlandish followers, were now regarded with different eyes when it was learned that Marco had been a fisherman too in his time, and his share in the adventure of the Surf dissipated the last shadow of prejudice against them.

The weather continued more or less broken through the whole of the holidays, and Horace had but little sailing. He spent a good deal of his time over at his cousins’, rode occasionally after the hounds with them, and did some shooting. A week after coming home his father had again gone up to town, and remained there until after Horace had returned to Eton. He was, the lad observed, more abstracted even than usual, but was at the same time restless and unsettled. He looked eagerly for the post, and received and despatched a large number of letters. Horace supposed that he must be engaged in some very sharp and interesting controversy as to a disputed reading, or the meaning of some obscure passage, until the evening before he went away his father said:

“I suppose, Horace, you are following with interest the course of events in Thessaly?”

“Well, father, we see the papers of course. There seems to be a row going on there; they are always fighting about something. From what I could understand of it, Ali Pasha of Janina has revolted against the Sultan, and the Turks are besieging him. What sort of a chap is he? He is an Albanian, isn’t he?”

“Yes, with all the virtues and vices of his race—ambitious, avaricious, revengeful, and cruel, but brave and astute. He has been the instrument of the Porte in breaking down the last remnants of independence in the wide districts he rules. As you know, very many of the Christian and Mussulman villages possessed armed guards called armatoli, who are responsible not only for the safety of the village, but for the security of the roads; the defence of the passes was committed to them, and they were able to keep the numerous bands of brigands within moderate bounds. This organization Ali Pasha set himself to work to weaken as soon as he came into power. He played off one party against the other—the Mussulmans against the Christians, the brigands against the armatoli, one powerful chief against another. He crushed the Suliots, who possessed a greater amount of independence, perhaps, than any of the other tribes, and who, it must be owned, were a scourge to all their neighbours. He took away all real power from the armatoli, crippled the Mussulman communities as well as weakened the Christian villages; inspired terror in the whole population by the massacre of such as resisted his will, and those whom he could not crush by force he removed by poison; finally, he became so strong that it was evident his design was to become altogether independent of the Sultan. But he miscalculated his power, his armies fled almost without striking a blow; his sons, who commanded them, are either fugitives or prisoners; and now we hear that he is besieged in his fortress, which is capable of withstanding a very long siege.”

“He must be a thorough old scoundrel, I should say, father.”

“Yes,” Mr. Beveridge assented somewhat unwillingly. “No doubt he is a bad man, Horace; but he might have been—he may even yet be, useful to Greece. When it first became evident that matters would come to a struggle between him and the Porte he issued proclamations calling upon the Christians to assist him and make common cause against the Turks, and specially invited Greece to declare her independence of Turkey, and to join him.”

“But I should say, father, the Albanians would be even worse masters than the Turks.”

“No doubt, Horace, no doubt. The Turks, I may own, have not on the whole been hard masters to the Christians. They are much harder upon the Mussulman population than upon the Christian, as the latter can complain to the Russians, who, as their co-religionists, claim to exercise a special protection over them. But, indeed, all the Christian powers give protection, more or less, to the Christian Greeks, who, especially in the Morea, have something approaching municipal institutions, and are governed largely by men chosen by themselves. Therefore the pashas take good care not to bring trouble on themselves or the Porte by interfering with them so long as they pay their taxes, which are by no means excessive; while the Mussulman part of the population, having no protectors, are exposed to all sorts of exactions, which are limited only by the fear of driving them into insurrection. Still this rebellion of Ali Pasha has naturally excited hopes in the minds of the Greeks and their friends that some results may arise from it, and no better opportunity is likely to occur for them to make an effort to shake off the yoke of the Turks. You may imagine, Horace, how exciting all this is to one who, like myself, is the son of a Greek mother, and to whom, therefore, the glorious traditions of Greece are the story of his own people. As yet my hopes are faint, but there is a greater prospect now than there has been for the last two hundred years, and I would give all I am worth in the world to live to see Greece recover her independence.”

CHAPTER IV

A STARTLING PROPOSAL

AFTER Horace returned to Eton, remembering the intense interest of his father in the affairs of Greece, he read up as far as he could everything relating to late events there. That he should obtain a really fair view of the situation was impossible. The Greeks had countrymen in every commercial city in the world; they were active and intelligent, and passionately desirous of interesting Europe in their cause. Upon the other hand the Turks were voiceless. Hence Europe only heard the Greek version of the state of affairs; their wrongs were exaggerated and events distorted with an utter disregard for truth, while no whisper of the other side of the question was ever heard.

At that time the term Greek was applied to persons of Greek religion rather than of Greek nationality. The population of European Turkey, of pure Greek blood, was extremely small, while those who held the Greek form of religion were very numerous, and the influence possessed by them was even greater. The Christians were in point of intelligence, activity, and wealth superior to the Turks. They were subservient and cringing when it suited their purpose, and were as a rule utterly unscrupulous. The consequence was that they worked their way into posts of responsibility and emolument in great numbers, being selected by the Porte in preference to the duller and less pushing Turks. In some portions of European Turkey they were all-powerful: in the Transylvanian provinces of Moldavia and Wallachia every post was held by Greeks, and there were but a few small and scattered Turkish garrisons. Yet here the population were incomparably more cruelly fleeced and ground down by their Greek masters than were the Christians in the more Turkish provinces.

In Servia and parts of Bulgaria the numbers were more even, but here also the Greeks held most of the responsible posts. In Greece proper the Christians vastly predominated, while in Northern Thessaly the numbers of the Christians and Mussulmans were about the same.

The Greek metropolitan of Constantinople and his council exercised a large authority by means of the bishops and priests over the whole Christian population, while for some time a secret society named the Philike Hetaireia had been at work preparing them for a rising. It was started originally among the Greeks at Odessa, and was secretly patronized by Russia, which then, as since, had designs upon Constantinople.

The first outbreak had occurred in March, 1821, when Prince Alexander Hypsilantes, who had been an officer in the Russian service, crossed the Pruth, and was joined by the Greek officials and tax-gatherers of the Transylvanian provinces. He was a vain, empty-headed, and utterly incompetent adventurer. A small band of youths belonging to good families enrolled themselves under the title of the Sacred Band, and the army also joined him, but beyond the cold-blooded massacre of a considerable number of Turks and their families he did absolutely nothing. The main body of the population, who bitterly hated their Greek oppressors, remained quiescent. Russia, seeing his utter incapacity, repudiated him, and after keeping alive the hopes of his followers by lying proclamations Hypsilantes secured his own safety by flight across the Austrian frontier when the Turkish army approached. The five hundred young men of the Sacred Battalion fought nobly and were killed almost to a man; but with the exception of a band of officers who refused to surrender, and shut themselves up in Skulani and in the monastery of Seko and there defended themselves bravely until the last, no resistance was offered to the Turks, and the insurrection was stamped out by the beginning of June. But in the meantime Greece proper was rising, and though the news came but slowly Horace saw that his father’s hopes were likely to be gratified, and that the Greeks would probably strike a blow at least for national independence, and he more than shared the general excitement that the news caused among educated men throughout Europe.

The summer holidays passed uneventfully. Horace took long cruises in the Surf. He saw but little of his father, who was constantly absent in London. August came, and Horace returned from his last trip and was feeling rather depressed at the thought of going back to school in two days’ time. He met Zaimes as he entered the house.

“Is my father back from town, Zaimes?”

“Yes, Mr. Horace, and he told me to tell you as soon as you returned that he wished you to go to him at once in the library.”

It was so unlike his father to want to see him particularly about anything, that Horace went in in some wonder as to what could be the matter. Mr. Beveridge was walking up and down the room.

“Is your mind very much set on going back to Eton, Horace?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t know, father,” Horace said, taken somewhat aback at the question. “Well, I would very much rather go back, father, than be doing nothing here. I am very fond of sailing as an amusement, but one would not want to be at it always. Of course if there is anything really to do it would be different.”

“Well, I think there is something else to do, Horace. You know my feeling with regard to this insurrection in Greece.”

“Yes, father,” Horace, who was indeed rather tired of the subject, replied.

“Well, you see, my boy, they have now resisted the Turks for some five months and have gained rather than lost ground. That seems to show decisively that this is no mere hasty rising, but that the people are in earnest in the determination to win their liberty. Now that I am thoroughly convinced of this my course is clear, and I have determined upon going out to give such assistance as I can.”

Horace was astounded. “Going out to fight, father?”

“Yes, if necessary to fight, but I can be of more use than in merely fighting. I have never, since I came into the property some twenty-four years ago, spent anything like a third of my income. Indeed, since my return from Greece my expenses here have been but a few hundreds a year. I have always hoped that I should have the opportunity of devoting the savings to help Greece to regain her independence. That moment has come. At first I feared that the movement would speedily die out; but the letters that I receive show that it is increasing daily, and indeed that the Greeks have placed themselves beyond the hope of forgiveness by, I am sorry to say, the massacre of large numbers of Turks. It is, of course, to be regretted that so glorious a cause should have been sullied by such conduct; but one cannot be surprised. Slaves are always cruel, and after the wrongs they have suffered, it could hardly be expected that they would forego their revenge when the opportunity at last came. However, the important point of the matter is, that there can be no drawing back now.

“For better or for worse the revolution has begun. Now, Horace, you are but sixteen, but you are a sensible lad, and I have stood so much apart from other men from my boyhood that I am what you might call unpractical; while I take it that you from your temperament, and from being at a great public school, are eminently practical, therefore, I shall be glad to hear your opinion as to how this thing had best be set about. I take it, of course, that you are as interested in the struggle as I am.”

“Well, not so interested perhaps, father. I feel, of course, that it is a horrible thing that a people like the Greeks, to whom we all owe so much, should be kept in slavery by the Turks, who have never done any good to mankind that I know of, and I should certainly be glad to do everything in my power to help; but of course it all comes so suddenly upon me that just at present I don’t see what had best be done.”

“I heard from my friends in London that many young men are already starting to assist the Greeks. What they will need most is not men, but arms and money, so at least my Greek friends write me.”

“Well, father,” Horace said bluntly; “I should say you had much better give them arms than money. I have been reading the thing up as much as I could since it began, and as far as I can see the upper class Greeks, the men who, I suppose, will be the leaders, are a pretty bad lot—quite as bad, I should say, as the Turkish pashas.”

“Yes, I quite agree with you there, Horace. You see in a country that is enslaved, political and other careers are closed, and the young men devote themselves to making money. You see that in the history of the Jews. All through the middle ages they were everywhere persecuted, every avenue to honourable employment was closed to them, consequently they devoted themselves to making money, and have been the bankers of kings for hundreds of years. No doubt it is the same thing with the Greeks; but the mass of the people are uncorrupted, and with the deeds of their great forefathers always before them they will, I am sure, show themselves worthy of their name.”

“No doubt, father; I think so too.”

“You don’t mind my spending this money on the Cause, Horace,” his father asked anxiously, “because, though it is my savings, it would in the natural course of things come to you some day.”

“Not at all, father; it is, as you say, your savings, and having at heart, as you have, the independence of Greece, I think it cannot be better laid out than assisting it. But I should certainly like it to be laid out for that, and not to go into the pockets of a lot of fellows who think more of feathering their own nests than of the freedom of Greece. So I should say the best thing would be to send out a cargo of arms and ammunition, as a beginning; other cargoes can go out as they are required. And you might, of course, take a certain amount of money to distribute yourself as you see it is required. I hope you mean to take me with you.”

“I think so, Horace. You are young to do any fighting at present, but you will be a great support and comfort to me.”

Horace could scarcely resist a smile, for he thought that if there was any fighting to be done he would be of considerably more use than his father.

“Well, I suppose the next thing, Horace, will be to go up to town to inquire about arms. My Greek friends there will advise me as to their purchase, and so on.”

“Yes, father,” Horace said a little doubtfully; “but as it is late now I think, if you don’t mind, I will get some supper and turn in. I will think it over. I think we had better talk it over quietly and quite make up our minds what is best to be done before we set about anything; a few hours won’t make any difference.”

“Quite so, Horace; it is no use our beginning by making mistakes. It is a great comfort to me, my boy, to have you with me. At any rate I will write to-night to your headmaster and say that circumstances will prevent your return to Eton this term.”

Horace went into the next room, had some supper, and then went thoughtfully up to bed. The idea of going out to fight for the independence of Greece was one which at any other time he would have regarded with enthusiasm, but under the present circumstances he felt depressed rather than excited. He admired his father for his great learning, and loved him for the kindness of his intentions towards him; but he had during the last two or three years been more and more impressed with the fact that in everything unconnected with his favourite subject his father was, as he said himself, utterly unpractical. He left the management of his estate to the steward, the management of the house to Zaimes, both happily, as it chanced, honest and capable men; but had they been rogues they could have victimized him to any extent. That his father, who lived in his library and who was absorbed in the past, should plunge into the turmoil of an insurrection was an almost bewildering idea. He would be plundered right and left, and would believe every story told him; while as for his fighting, the thing seemed absolutely absurd. Horace felt that the whole responsibility would be on his shoulders, and this seemed altogether too much for him. Then the admission of his father that abominable massacres had been perpetrated by the Greeks shook his enthusiasm in the Cause.

“I should be glad to see them free and independent, and all that,” he said, “but I don’t want to be fighting side by side with murderers. Among such fellows as these, my father, who is a great deal more Greek than any Greek of the present day, I should say, would be made utterly miserable. He admits that the upper class are untrustworthy and avaricious. Now he says that the lower class have massacred people in cold blood. It does not affect him much in the distance, but if he were in the middle of it all it would be such a shock to him that I believe it would kill him. Besides, fancy his going long marches in the mountains, sleeping in the wet, and all that sort of thing, when he has never walked half a mile as far back as I can remember.”

He lay tossing about for a couple of hours, and then sat suddenly up in bed. “That’s it,” he exclaimed, “that is a splendid idea. What a fool I was not to think of it before! If William Martyn is but at home that would be the thing above all.”

Then he lay down, thought the matter over for another half-hour, and then went quietly off to sleep.

“Well, Horace, have you been turning the matter over in your mind?” his father asked as soon as they sat down to breakfast.

“I have, father, and I have hit upon a plan that seems to me the very best thing possible in all ways.”

“What is it, Horace?”

“Well, father, it seems to me that if we take out war material to Athens it will very likely get into wrong hands altogether, and when arms are really wanted by the people of the mountains, and I expect that it is they who will do the fighting and not the people of the towns, there won’t be any to give them. The next thing is, if we go to Athens, and people know that you are a rich Englishman, you will get surrounded by sharks, and before you have time to know who is to be trusted, or anything about it, all your money will be gone. Then I am sure that you could not in that way take any active part in helping to free Greece, you never could stand marches in the mountains and sleeping in the open air, bad food, and all that sort of thing, after living the quiet indoor life you have for so many years. I know you would stick to it, father, as long as you could, but it seems to me you would be sure to get knocked up.”

“Yes, I ought to have prepared for this, Horace. It would have been better for me to have taken regular exercise every day, even if I did get through a little less work. Still I am stronger than you think. I am only forty-four, and a man at forty-four ought to be able to do nearly as much as he ever could do.”

“Yes, father, if he had lived an active life and exercised his muscles. I have no doubt you are just as strong in many things as other men; I never remember your being ill for a day; but I am sure you are not fit for knocking about among the mountains. What I have been thinking of is this. If you approve of it I will go over to Exmouth this morning and see if William Martyn is there. He is likely to be at home if his vessel is in port. If he is not, I will get his father to recommend some one. There must be lots of young lieutenants on half-pay who would jump at the idea. First I should engage with Martyn if he is there, or go to the man whom his father recommended to me at Plymouth, and get him to buy for you a fast schooner or brig—one that had either been an English privateer or a captured Frenchman would be about the thing—arrange with him to be the captain and engage officers and crew, and get him to arm her with as many guns as she will carry. He would be able probably to put us into the best way of buying muskets. As such immense numbers of soldiers have been paid off, no doubt there have been great sales of muskets by government, and we might get them at a quarter the price we should have to pay for new ones. Of course we should take in ammunition in large quantities. All these mountaineers have no doubt got guns, and ammunition will be the thing most wanted of all. We could also pick up some cannon. No doubt they are to be bought for scrap iron. The Greeks will want them to arm their ships and batteries. In that way you see, father, you would have everything under your own hands. Nobody would know how many muskets you have got on board, and you could serve them out when or how they were required.

“The same with money. We could cruise about and pop into quiet places, and send arms and ammunition up into the hills. Of course directly you got out there you would put the ship under the Greek flag, and by harassing the Turks at sea we might do a hundred times more good than we could by land. There would be no fatigue and no discomfort. You would always be comfortable on board, and could take Zaimes and Marco with you. We would take Tom Burdett as boatswain. He was boatswain in the navy, you know. If he goes I daresay Dick will also go with us.”

“That is an excellent plan, Horace. It seems to meet all the difficulties, and I was really feeling uncomfortable at the thought of being mixed up in all the confusion and excitement there will, no doubt, be at Athens. It is a most happy idea. We will not lose a moment about it. I like that young fellow Martyn, and I hope you will be able to get hold of him. Let him name his own terms. I have not the least idea whether the captain of a vessel of that sort is paid five pounds a week or twenty-five. Of course it will be dangerous service, and should be liberally paid for. Well, you had better pack up your bag directly we have finished breakfast. You may be away for a week or ten days.”

“I can’t start to-day, father, surely.”

“No! why not, Horace?”

“Because, you know, you arranged we should both go over to dine at aunt’s.”

“Of course, Horace; I quite forgot that. It is very annoying, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

Horace laughed. “A day won’t make much difference, father. I am sure aunt would be very vexed if we did not turn up. Do you mean to tell her anything about it?”

Mr. Beveridge was silent for a minute. “I don’t think there is any occasion; do you, Horace?” he said doubtfully. “She might raise objections, you know; though that, of course, would make no difference; arguments are always to be avoided, and your aunt was always a very positive woman.”

“I think it is just as well to say nothing about it,” Horace said with a slight smile, for he felt sure that his aunt would oppose the project tooth and nail if she were aware of it, and that she would be backed by the whole strength of his mother’s family. He did not say this, but went on, “It is a nuisance being asked a tremendous lot of questions about things, especially when you don’t know much about them yourself. No, I think, father, we had better keep it quite quiet. It will be time enough to write a line to aunt and tell her that we are off, the last thing before we get up anchor.”

“I agree with you, Horace, so we will say nothing about this trip of ours. Well, as it seems you can’t go to-day, you had better make your arrangements to catch the coach to-morrow morning. I will sign a dozen blank cheques, which you can fill up as required. Of course whoever accepts the post of captain will know all that will be wanted for the ship, and if he doesn’t know himself about the arms and ammunition he may be able to introduce you to some officer who does. Will you take Marco with you?”

“No, I don’t think so, father. I don’t see that he would be any use, and having a man going about with you looks as if one was being taken care of.”

Horace caught the coach and alighted at Exmouth, and hurried to the revenue officer’s house.

“Is Mr. William Martyn in?” he asked the servant who opened the door.

“He is not in just at present, sir; I think he went down to the river.”

“How long has he been home?” Horace asked, delighted at the news.

“He only got in last week, sir; his ship got wrecked, and Mr. William turned up without any clothes, or anything except just what he stood up in.”

“Hurrah!” Horace exclaimed, to the astonishment of the woman, and then without another word ran down to the wharfs. He soon saw the figure he was in search of talking to two or three old sailors.

“Hullo, youngster!” Martyn said in surprise, as Horace came up, “where have you sprung from?”

“Off the top of the coach.”

“I suppose so. I have been having a bit of bad luck and lost my ship. We were wrecked off St. Catharine’s Point, at the back of the Isle of Wight, and there were only seven of us saved among a crew of thirty-five all told.”

“Yes, I heard from your servant you had been wrecked,” Horace said. “She didn’t say that any lives had been lost; but I must have astonished her, now I think of it, for I said ‘Hurrah!’ when she told me.”

“What did you say hurrah for?” the mate asked gruffly.

“Because I wanted to find you here, and was so pleased that you were not going to sail away again directly.”

“No,” Will Martyn said gloomily, “it is bad enough to have lost one’s kit and everything, and now I shall have to look about for another berth, for I think the vessel was only partly insured, and as the owners only have one or two ships I expect it will hit them rather hard, and that they won’t have another craft ready for some time, so it will be no use my waiting for that.”

The sailors had moved away when Horace came up, so that he was able at once to open the subject of his visit to the mate.

“Well, that was just what I was hoping when I heard that you were wrecked, Will, for I had come over on purpose to see if you were disengaged and disposed to take a new berth.”

“What! is your father going in for a big yacht instead of the Surf, Horace?”

“Well, not exactly, but something of that sort. You know I told you how enthusiastic he was about Greece and everything connected with it. Of course he is tremendously excited about this rising out there, and he is going to send out a lot of arms and ammunition. So we have talked it over and agreed that the best thing to do would be to buy a fast schooner or brig, fit her up as a privateer, fill her with arms and ammunition, and go out, hoist the Greek flag, and do what we can to help them against the Turks. Of course we thought at once of you to carry out the thing, and to act as captain. What do you say to it?”

“The very thing I should like, Horace; nothing could suit me better. Mind I am not giving any opinion as to whether it is a wise thing on the part of your father; that is his business. But as far as I am concerned I am your man.”

“My father said you were to name your own terms. He didn’t know anything about what the pay should be, but he particularly said that as it would be a service of danger it ought to be paid for liberally.”

“Of course there will be danger,” the mate said, “but that adds to the pleasure of it. If I were a married man of course I should have to look at it in a different light; but as I ain’t, and have no idea of getting spliced, the danger does not trouble me. I have been getting eight pounds a month as third mate, and I should have got ten next voyage, as I was going second. As I shall be skipper on board this craft of yours, suppose we say twelve pounds a month.”

“My father expected to pay more than that a good deal,” Horace said; “and as everything will depend upon you it would not be at all fair to pay the same sort of pay as if you were merely sailing in a merchant’s ship. However, he will write to you about it. There will be a tremendous lot to do before we start, and we want to be off as soon as possible. There is a ship to buy and fit out, and officers to get, and a crew. Then we want to find out where we can buy muskets. It seemed to me that as government must have been selling great quantities, we should be able to get them pretty cheap.”

“I could find out all about that at the port where we fit out,” Will Martyn said. “As for cannon, they can be had almost for taking away. There are thousands and thousands of them to be had at every port. Five years ago every vessel went to sea armed. Now even the biggest craft only carry a gun or two for firing signals with, unless, of course, they are going to sail in Eastern waters. Well, this is a big job—a different sort of order altogether to buying the Surf for you. I hope it will turn out as well.”

“Of course Plymouth will be the best port to go to.”

“I don’t know. During the war certainly either that or Portsmouth would have been the best. Vessels were constantly coming in with prizes; but now, I should say either London or Liverpool would be the best for picking up the sort of craft we want. Still, as Plymouth is so much the nearest here, I should say we had best try there first. Then if we can’t find what we want we will take a passage by coaster to Portsmouth, if the wind is favourable; if not, go by coach. But how are you off for money, because I am at dead low-water? I have got a few pounds owing to me, but I can’t handle that till I get to London.”

“I have twenty pounds,” Horace said. “We didn’t think, when I started, of going farther than Plymouth; but I have some blank cheques for paying for things.”

“Twenty pounds ought to be ample; but if we find at Plymouth we want more I can easily get one cashed for you. I know plenty of people there.”

“Well, when can you start, Will? My father is anxious not to lose a moment.”

“I can start in ten minutes if my father is at home. I should want to have just a short chat with him; but I can do that while they are getting the chaise ready. Our best plan would be to drive to Exeter and take the evening coach going through there. There is one comes through about six o’clock. I have come down by it several times. It will take us into Plymouth by twelve o’clock; so we should gain nothing if we started earlier.”

“Well, I will go to the inn,” Horace said.

“No; that you won’t, Horace. You come round with me. I expect dinner is ready by this time. We generally dine at one. My father went out in the cutter to look after a wreck four or five miles along the coast, and he said he did not expect to be back till between two and three; so we settled to dine at three. There is the cutter coming up the river now.”

“But you would rather be with your father alone,” Horace said.

“Not a bit of it. I have got nothing private to say to him, except to get him to let me draw twenty pounds from his agent to get a fresh rig-out with. He would like to see you again, especially as I am going to sail with you, and he maybe able to put us up to a few wrinkles as to getting our powder on board, and so on. Of course I have been accustomed to seeing it got in from government powder hulks. We will just walk up to the house now if you don’t mind, to tell the girl to put an extra knife and fork on the table, then we will go down and meet my father when he lands.”

The servant looked with such strong disapprobation upon Horace when she opened the door that he burst into a fit of laughter. “You are thinking about my saying hurrah when I heard Mr. Martyn was wrecked?” he said. “Well, I did not exactly mean that, only I was very glad, because I thought if he had not been wrecked he could not have shipped just at present, and I wanted him very badly.”

“Yes, I am off again, Hesba,” the mate said. “Going right away this afternoon. That is a bit of luck, isn’t it? I have just come back to tell you to put another knife and fork upon the table, as Mr. Beveridge is going to dine with us; and if you have time to kill a fatted calf, or anything of that sort, do so.”

“Lor’, Mr. William, you know very well there ain’t no fatted calf, and if there was it would take ever so long to kill it and get some meat cooked, if it was only cutlets.”

“Well,” Martyn laughed, “never mind the calf, Hesba; but if dinner is short run straight down to the butcher’s and get a good big tender steak, and look sharp about it, for my father will be here in a quarter of an hour.”

As Horace had seen Captain Martyn (as he was by courtesy called, being in command of a revenue cutter, although only in fact a lieutenant) several times while fitting out the Surf the officer knew him as he saw him standing at the top of the stairs with his son.

“Well, Master Beveridge,” he said as he climbed up the stairs, “I haven’t seen you since you sailed away in that little craft. I hear you did a brave deed in her, going out in that gale to rescue the crew of the Caledon. It is lucky you caught Will in.” He was by this time ashore and shaking hands heartily with Horace.

“He has come to take me away, father,” Will said. “Mr. Beveridge is going to get a fast craft to carry out arms and ammunition to the Greeks, and he has offered me the command.”

“I should not mind going myself, Will. I am sorry you are off so soon; but you are likely to see some stirring scenes over there. When are you going?”

“We are going to start directly we have had some dinner, father. We will order a chaise as we go along. We intend to catch the six-o’clock coach at Exeter, so as to get to Plymouth to-night. I am going to see if we can pick up a likely craft there. If not, I shall try Portsmouth and Southampton, and if they won’t do, London.”

“Well, that is sharp work, Will. But you have no kit to pack, so there is no difficulty about it. However, there is no time to be lost.”

At a quarter to four the post-chaise was at the door, and Will Martyn and Horace started. The horses were good, and they were in plenty of time for the coach, and arrived duly in Plymouth. As soon as they had breakfasted next morning they started out and went first to the shipping office of a firm known to Will Martyn, and there got a list of ships lying for sale in the port.

“What sort of craft are you looking for, Martyn?” the shipping agent said. “We have a dozen at least on our own books, and you may as well give us a turn before you look at any others.”

“I want a schooner or a brig—I don’t much care which it is—of about a couple of hundred tons. She must be very fast and weatherly; the sort of craft that was used as a privateer in the war; or as a slaver; or something of that kind.”

“I have only one craft that answers to that description,” the agent said; “but I should say that she was what you want. She was sent home from the west coast of Africa six months ago, as a prize. Of course she was sold, and was bought by a man I know. After he had got her he found she had not enough carrying power for his business. She never was built for cargo, and would be an expensive vessel to work, for she has a large sail spread, and would want so strong a crew to work her that she would never pay. He bought her cheap for that reason, and will be glad to get the price he gave for her, or if the point were pressed even to make some loss to get her off his hands. They call her a hundred and fifty, and she looks a big vessel for that size. But if she had eighty tons in her hold it would be as much as she could carry with comfort.”

“That sounds promising,” Martyn said. “At any rate we will begin by having a look at her. Where is she lying?”

“About three miles up the river. Tide is making; so we could run up there in a sailing boat in half an hour. I will go with you myself. There is a care-taker on board. Are you buying her for yourself, Martyn?”

The mate laughed.

“As I have not captured an heiress I am not likely to become a ship owner. No; Mr. Beveridge’s father is fond of the sea, and has commissioned me to buy a comfortable craft that shall be at once fast and seaworthy, and I am going to command her.”

“Well, I don’t think you would find anything that would suit your purpose better than the Creole. She would make a splendid yacht for a gentleman who had a fancy for long cruises.”

“What is her age?” the mate asked.

“Well, of course we can’t tell exactly; but the dockyard people thought she couldn’t be above four or five years old. That is what they put her down as when they sold her. At any rate she is sound, and in as good condition as if she had just come off the stocks. She had been hulled in two or three places in the fight when she was captured, but she was made all right in the dockyard before she was put up for sale. All her gear, sails, and so on are in excellent condition.”

“Where are they?”

“They are on board. As we had a care-taker it was cheaper to leave them there and have good fires going occasionally to keep them dry than it would have been to stow them away on shore.”

There was a brisk breeze blowing, and in less than the half hour mentioned by the agent he said: “That’s her lying over on the farther side.”

“She looks like a slaver all over,” Martyn said as he stood up to examine the long low craft. “I suppose they caught her coming out of a river, for she would show her heels, I should guess, to any cruiser that was ever built, at any rate in light winds. If she is as good as she looks she is just the thing for us.”

When they reached the vessel they rowed round her before going on board.

“She is like a big Surf,” Will said to Horace; “finer in her lines, and lighter. She ought to sail like a witch. I see she carried four guns on each side.”

THEIR FIRST SIGHT OF THE SCHOONER

“Yes, and a long pivot-gun. They are down in the hold now. She was sold just as she stood; but I suppose they will be of no use to you.”

“Some of them may be,” Martyn said carelessly. “If we go cruising up the Mediterranean it is just as well to have a gun or two on board. Now let us look at her accommodation.

“Yes, she is a very roomy craft on deck,” he went on as he stepped on board. “She has a wonderful lot of beam, much more than she looks to have when you see her on the water, owing to her lines being so fine.”

“She has lots of head-room here,” Horace said as they went below. “I thought that slavers had very low decks.”

“So they have,” the mate said. “I expect when she took a cargo on board they rigged up a deck of planks here so as to have two tiers for the slaves; that would give them about three foot three to each tier.”

They spent over two hours on board. Will Martyn examined everything most carefully, prodding the planks and timbers with his knife, going down into the hold and prying into the state of the timbers there, getting into the boat, to examine the stern-post and rudder, and afterwards overhauling a good deal of the gear. The inspection was in all respects satisfactory.

“She will do if the price will do,” he said. “How much do they want for her?”

“He paid fifteen hundred at the dockyard sale,” the agent said; “that is ten pound a ton, with all her gear, fittings, and so on, thrown in. As you see, there is the cabin furniture, and so on, all complete, except the paint. There needn’t be a penny laid out on her.”

“Well, how much will he take off?” Martyn said. “Fifteen hundred was anyone’s price, and as she don’t suit him, she won’t suit many people. If he is likely to have her on his hands any time, eating her head off and losing value, he ought to be glad to take anything near what he gave for her. Well, frankly, how much will he take off? Business is business. I have admitted the boat will suit me; now what is the limit you are authorized to take?”

“He will take two hundred less. It is a ridiculously low price.”

“Of course it is,” Will agreed. “But shipping at present is a drug in the market, and this ship is practically fit for nothing but a yacht or the Levant trade. I expect I could get her a couple of hundred pounds cheaper if I held off. What do you think, Horace?”

“I don’t think it would be fair to knock down the price lower than that,” Horace said.

“It is fair to get a thing as cheap as you can. If you try to get it for less than he will sell it for you don’t get it, that is all. He is not obliged to sell, and you are not obliged to buy. Still, the price is a very reasonable one, and we will take her at that. You have full authority to sell, I suppose, without reference to your principal?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then, we will go to your office. Mr. Beveridge will give you a cheque for thirteen hundred pounds, and you shall hand over possession.”

“Good. It is eleven o’clock now, Johnson,” he said to the care-taker. “Here is your money up to to-night, but from twelve o’clock to-day Mr. Martyn takes possession as agent for the owners, so you will take your orders from him.”

“You can go on as usual,” Will said. “We will pay you from twelve o’clock, so you will make a half-day’s pay by the change.”

CHAPTER V

FITTING OUT

“THE cheque for the payment of the Creole was filled up and handed over, the agent giving a formal receipt and possession of the vessel, and undertaking to sign the necessary papers as soon as they could be drawn out.

“You are evidently lucky about ships,” William Martyn said as he left the agent’s office with Horace. “You have got a little wonder in the Surf, and there is no doubt about the Creole being a bargain. When the war was going on she would have been snapped up at double the price, and would have been cheap at that. Now the first thing to do is to get first and second mates. Directly I have got them I can put a gang of riggers on board. I will go to the Naval Club, and see the list of the officers on board the ships here. I am pretty sure to know some of them, and shall find out from them whether there are any of my old messmates down here. If they don’t know of any, we might hear of men to suit at the Club. There are always plenty of men here and at Portsmouth waiting about on the chance of meeting some officer they have served under and getting him to put in a word for them at the Admiralty.”

“I will walk down with you to the Club, but I won’t go in with you; one is only in the way when people who know each other are talking. And besides, Martyn, don’t you think before you do anything you ought to see about your clothes?”

“Of course I ought; I never gave the matter a thought before. But I certainly could not put my foot on the quarter-deck of one of His Majesty’s ships in this turn-out. No. The first thing to do is to drop into my father’s agent to draw some money. Then I will go into a slop-shop and get a suit. I know a place where they keep really decent togs. A man often has to join in a hurry, and wants a fit-out at half an hour’s notice. Then I can order the rest of the things at the tailor’s I used to get my clothes from. ’Pon my word, now you speak of it, I am ashamed to be going out in these things. They were an old suit that I put on when bad weather set in, and they have shrunk so that the sleeves don’t come half-way down to the wrists, and the trousers are up to the ankles. As a master’s mate it didn’t matter so very much, for masters’ mates are very often out at elbows, but as commander of the Creole it is a different thing altogether.”

Martyn was lucky in picking up the undress uniform of a lieutenant that just fitted him.

“I can let you have it at that price, because I got it a bargain,” the man said. “The owner came in here a few weeks ago with a man beside him. He had just come down to join his ship, which was to sail in a few hours, and as he stepped off the coach was served with a writ by a Jew he had borrowed money of two or three years before. It was only a few pounds, but to make up the sum he had to sell some of his things, and this suit was among them.”

“And nicely you ground him down in the price, I have no doubt,” Martyn growled. “However, I have got the benefit of it. Now, Horace, I can show at the Club. Just take your knife out and cut this strap off the shoulder. I can’t go about as a full-fledged lieutenant, though I have passed.”

They were walking up the main street when a voice exclaimed:

“Hullo, Martyn! is that you?” and a young officer shook him warmly by the hand.

“Why, Dacent, this is luck. I am glad to see you indeed. It is three years since we ran against each other last; five since we served together in the Nonpareil. What are you doing?”

“I am third in the flagship here. What are you doing? I met O’Connor the other day; he told me he had run across you at Malta, and that you had gone into the merchant service like so many other of our old friends.”

“That was so, Dacent. It was of no use kicking my heels on shore when I hadn’t the ghost of a chance of getting appointed to a ship. So I had to swallow my pride and ship in a merchantman. We were wrecked at the back of the Wight in the storm last week, and I have had the luck to get a fresh appointment, and that is what I am here for. I was just on my way to the Club to see if I could find any of my old chums. You are just the fellow to help me. But first let me introduce Mr. Beveridge. He is the son of my owner. Half an hour ago he completed the purchase of the craft that I am to command. She is a beauty. I don’t know whether you know her. She is called the Creole, a schooner of a hundred and fifty tons. She is lying up the river.”

“I know her well enough,” Dacent said, as he shook hands with Horace. “She was brought in here the week after I joined. I thought she was as pretty a looking craft as I ever set eyes on. I congratulate you, old fellow. There are not many things that you won’t be able to show your heels to. But what line is she going to be in? She would make a fine craft for the Levant trade.”

“That is just where we are going, Dacent, but not to trade. I will tell you what we are going to do, but it must be kept dark. I don’t know whether they might not look upon it as a breach of the neutrality laws. Mr. Beveridge is an enthusiast for the cause of Greece, and we are going to take out a cargo of guns and ammunition, and then we shall hoist the Greek flag, and do a little fighting on our own account with the Turks as a Greek privateer.”

“By Jove, I envy you, Martyn. That is a thousand times better than sticking in Plymouth Sound with nothing to do but to see the men holy-stone the deck, and fetching and carrying messages. Now, what is it I can do for you?”

“Well, in the first place, I want a couple of officers; for choice, I would have one who has passed, and could take the command in case anything happened to me. I don’t care whether the second is a mate or a midshipman who has pretty nearly served his time.”

“I know just the man for you, for your first. There is Miller—you remember him?”

“Of course; I was with him in the Minerva frigate in the West Indies. He was a capital fellow. Is he to be had?”

“Yes; I saw him only yesterday. He has been two years out of a berth, and no chance of getting a ship, and he was looking out for a berth on board a merchantman, but he had not heard of one when I saw him. He gave me his address; here it is—the Anchor Inn; it is a little place not far from the dock gates. I expect Jim has no money to spare. His father is a clergyman near Falmouth. I asked him why he didn’t look for a ship there. He laughed, and said he didn’t mind shipping into the merchant service anywhere else; but he shouldn’t like to do it so near home, after swaggering about there in the king’s uniform.”

“I will go down at once. It is just one o’clock, and we are likely to catch him in.”

“Well, will you and your friend dine with me at the Club at six o’clock, Martyn? We can chat there better than we can on board, and we have lots to tell each other since we last parted.”

The invitation was accepted, and then Martyn and Horace set off to find the Anchor.

“There is one thing I have not asked you,” the former said, as they went along. “How about prize-money, because you know that makes a good deal of difference. I don’t suppose there will be much to be got, because there are not many craft flying the Turkish flag, and the seas will be swarming with Greek craft who are half-pirates even in time of peace. Still we may capture a Turkish man-of-war brig or something of that sort, and she may have treasure on board such as pay for the troops. I suppose we should share according to the ordinary privateer scale.”

“Certainly,” Horace said. “My father has no idea of making money by the thing, and I can certainly promise that he will agree to the usual scale whatever it is.”

“That is right. I thought that it would be so, and, indeed, although officers might go without, you would hardly get men to risk their lives unless there was a chance of prize-money.”

“It would not be fair to ask them to do so,” Horace said. “Of course that would be understood. All these sort of arrangements are in your hands. My father particularly said so; he really knows nothing about these matters. You must make all these arrangements just as if you were the owner, and please arrange what you consider liberal terms to everyone. My father has made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money which he has long laid by for the purpose, and I am sure we are more likely to succeed in helping the Greeks if everyone on board is quite contented and happy. Oh, there is the Inn; I won’t go in with you. You had much better talk it over with him by yourself.”

Ten minutes later Martyn came out with a short square-built young fellow of about his own age, with a good-humoured merry face, which was at present beaming with satisfaction.

“That is all settled,” Martyn said. “Mr. Beveridge, let me introduce to you Mr. James Miller, first lieutenant of your father’s schooner, the Creole.”

“It is a perfect godsend,” Miller said, as he shook hands with Horace. “I began to despair of getting a ship here, and I am precious glad now I didn’t, for I should have been mad if I had met Martyn, and found I had missed this chance. It will be glorious fun, and it looked as if one were never going to have a chance of that sort of thing again.”

“And he knows of a young fellow who will suit us for our second,” Martyn said, “Jack Tarleton. He was with us in the Minerva. I remember him only as a jolly little mid. I had just passed then, and he was the youngest; but he lives close to Miller, and he says he has grown up into a fine young fellow. He is about nineteen now. He has not passed yet, for he was laid on the shelf four months before his time was up, and not having passed, of course he is even worse off than either of us. Not that it matters so much to him, for his father has an estate; but as Jack is the second son, and loves his profession, he is so anxious to be afloat again that he told Miller the other day he would ship before the mast if he could not get a berth before long. Miller will write to him this afternoon, and he will be here to-morrow night or next morning. I have asked him to come round and have lunch with us at the Falcon. Mr. Beveridge and his father sail with us, Miller, in the double capacity, as I understand, of owners and fighting men.”

Horace laughed. “In the first place, I am not going to be called Mr. Beveridge or Mr. Anything,” he said. “I shall be regarded as a sort of third officer, and do my work regularly while we are at sea. I know a little about sailing already,” he said to Miller, “so I sha’n’t be quite a green hand.”

“No, indeed,” Martyn said. “Horace, if I am to call him so, has got a fifteen-ton yacht I picked up for him, and a first-rate little craft she is. He went out in a big gale last winter, and rescued the crew of a wreck, the Celadon.”

“I saw it in the paper,” Miller said warmly, “and thought what a plucky thing it was. That is capital. Then you will be like one of ourselves. Well, what are you going to do first, Martyn?”

“First we are going to lunch. Then you will write your letter to Tarleton and post it. After that we will charter a boat and go up and look at the Creole again. You haven’t seen her yet, and we haven’t seen her since the purchase was concluded, and a craft always looks different when you know she is yours. After making an overhaul we will go ashore to the nearest yard and arrange for her to be docked, and her bottom cleaned and scrubbed; I expect it wants it pretty badly. That will be enough for to-day. As soon as she is in the water again we will set a gang of riggers at work. I shall take charge of that part of the business, and I will leave it to you to hunt up a crew. We have got a boatswain. At least I have no doubt we have.”

“How many men are you going to take, Martyn?”

“She mounts four guns each side and a long Tom—I don’t know what the metal is yet—and she is heavily sparred. Of course she hasn’t got her topmasts in place, but her masts are very long, and I have no doubt she shows a good spread of sail; those craft always do. We shall want a strong crew, for, if we fight at all, it will be against craft a good deal bigger than ourselves. There is any amount of room on the main deck, where they carried the slaves. Of course we needn’t settle at present, but I should say we ought to carry from forty to fifty men.”

“I think we ought certainly to have a strong crew,” Horace said, “so as to be able to land a strong party if we wanted to; the extra expense would be of no consequence.”

“We must pick our men, Miller—smart active fellows, and, of course, men-of-war’s for choice. If we can’t get enough here, we will sail her round to Portsmouth and fill up there. There ought to be plenty of prime seamen to be had. They would jump at the chance of sailing in such a craft as ours.”

Miller was delighted with the ship, and they now especially examined the cabin arrangements. The saloon ran across the stern of the ship. It was handsomely fitted up in mahogany. Leading off this, on the port side, was a large cabin that had evidently been the captain’s. This, of course, would be Mr. Beveridge’s. On the starboard side were three cabins. Next to these was the steward’s pantry and cabin; and facing this, on the port side, two other state-rooms.

“It could not have been better if it had been built for us,” Miller said. “There are three cabins on the starboard side. Horace will take one of the three, I suppose, and that will leave a spare cabin in case we take a passenger we are likely to want.”

“What are you thinking of, Miller?”

“I was thinking that as we are going to fight, it is not by any means impossible that some of us or the men may be wounded.”

“I should certainly say it was quite possible,” Martyn laughed.

“Well, you see as long as it is only a clip from a cutlass or a flesh wound through the arm, I fancy we might patch it up between us with a bit of plaster and a bandage; but if it comes to an amputation or getting a bullet out of the body, or anything of that sort, who is going to do it?”

“By Jove! you are right, Miller. I had not thought of that. I am afraid we shall have to take a surgeon with us. It would never do to go into action in the Levant, where there is no chance of finding an English doctor, without having at least a surgeon’s-mate on board.”

“Of course not,” Horace agreed; “that is an absolute necessity. Will you see about it at once, please.”

“There is no difficulty in getting surgeons,” Martyn said. “Of course young fellows who have just done walking hospitals are as plentiful as peas; but we had better get hold of a man who has been knocking about for a few years in the navy, and who has had some experience in gunshot wounds. There must be plenty of good men about, for they have suffered just as we have by the reduction. I will speak to Dacent about it this evening, and get him to ask one of the naval surgeons here if he knows a man. One or other of them is almost sure to do so. Well, the spare cabin will be for him. So now we are fixed completely.”

“We shall have to take off a little bit from the main deck, because my father’s two Greeks will certainly come with us. Only one can sleep in the steward’s cabin, so we shall want a small cabin for the other and a place for cooking. They are first-rate cooks, both of them; and I expect they will undertake the cooking altogether for us.”

“That can very easily be managed,” Martyn said. “We can knock a door through this bulkhead, and run another bulkhead up across the deck, seven or eight feet farther forward. I have not forgotten that Greek’s cooking; and if we live on board this craft as you did on the Surf, I can tell you, Miller, we needn’t envy an admiral.”

“Well, I like a good dinner, I must own, Martyn, though I can do with salt-horse if necessary.”

“But are you sure, Horace,” Martyn said, “that your father wouldn’t prefer having the cabin astern all to yourselves? When we are about it we could put the bulkhead farther forward, and make a ward-room for us.”

“No, I am sure he would not wish that,” Horace said. “I will write to him when we get ashore and ask him; but I am sure he would find it more pleasant our being all together, and it would be much better for him than being by himself. My father is a great scholar,” he explained to Miller, “and is always poring over books. I am sure it will do him a lot of good getting away from them altogether and being with people. Besides, that private cabin of his is a good size, and there will be plenty of room for him to have a table and an easy-chair in it whenever he is disposed to shut himself up. However, I will hear what he says.”

After leaving the ship a visit was paid to one of the shipbuilding yards, and arrangements made for the Creole to be brought into dock at high-tide. On getting back to the inn Horace wrote to his father on the various questions that had arisen, and then to Marco, telling him to come over by coach, and to bring Tom Burdett with him. They then went to dine at the club with Dacent, who entered with great zest into their arrangements.

“I can’t tell you what is your best way of setting about getting the arms; but I should say go to Durncombe’s. They are by far the largest ship-chandlers here, and I should say that they could supply anything from an anchor to a tallow-dip. They must have fitted out innumerable privateers, and bought up the stores of as many prizes. They may not be able to supply you with as many small-arms as you want; but if you give them an order for a thousand cannon, I have not a doubt they could execute it in twenty-four hours, and that at the price of old iron. As to the muskets, they could no doubt collect a big lot here, and get more still from Portsmouth. Those of course would be principally ship’s muskets, no longer wanted or taken from prizes. I don’t suppose they would get enough, and of course you would want them in fair condition; but they would put advertisements for them in the Birmingham papers, or, likely enough, would know firms in Birmingham who had bought up muskets sold out of the army.”

“What do they buy them for?” Horace asked.

“Oh, they contract for the supply of those South American States, for trade in Africa and the East, or for the supply of the armies of native princes in India. I think, if I were you, I would not go to him direct, but would get the agent you got the Creole from to undertake it, and get the terms settled. He would get them a good bit cheaper than you could.”

“No doubt he would,” Martyn agreed, “especially if we agreed to pay him so much for getting it, instead of so much commission. When a man gets a commission he has no interest in keeping the price down; just the contrary. I will ask him casually, to begin with, what is the cost of muskets in fair condition, and at what price we could pick up guns—say six, eight, and twelve pounders—complete, with carriages.”

“I don’t know about the carriages, Martyn; but I know the guns fetch less by a good bit than their weight of old iron. They cost more to break up, in fact, than they are worth; and they are using them for posts, and things of that sort, for the sake of getting rid of them. I should say that you could get a couple of hundred guns of those sizes to-morrow for a pound apiece, and I believe that you might almost get them for the trouble of carting away, for they are simply so much lumber. Powder is a glut in the market too. I should say hundreds of tons have been emptied into the sea in this port alone, for when the merchant skippers found they no longer required to carry it, it was cheaper for them to throw it overboard than to get rid of it in any other way.”

When they returned to the Falcon that evening they found Miller had shifted his quarters there from the little inn in which he had been staying, and two days later Jack Tarleton also arrived there. He was a good-looking young fellow, nearly six feet in height, slight at present, but likely to fill out, with a somewhat quiet manner, but, as Horace soon found, a quick appreciation of the humorous side of things and a good deal of quiet fun. On the same day Marco arrived with Tom Burdett, who was delighted when Horace disclosed the project to him.

“I should think I would like to go, Mr. Horace. Why, bless you, I have been feeling almost as if I was rusting out at Seaport, except when you were at home. Why, it will be like giving one a fresh lease of life to get at one’s own work again.”

He was at once installed on board the Creole, which on that day had been let out of the dock again with her copper scrubbed until it shone like gold. Miller had as yet had no time to see about the men, and Tom at once undertook this part of the business.

“I know every tavern down by the waterside and the places where men are likely to be found. I will soon pick you up some prime hands. If I can’t get enough of them here, I will take a run to Bristol. There is a big trade there, and there will be plenty of men-of-war’s-men to be had for the asking for such a job as this.”

“How about Seaport, Tom?” Horace asked.

“Well, we will take Dick; but there are not many I would care about having from there. They are good enough in their fishing-boats, but I would rather have men who are accustomed to bigger craft. Besides, though fishermen are good sailors in some ways, they are not accustomed to discipline, and are always slovenly in their way of doing things. Besides, if I persuaded young fellows to come from there, and any of them got killed, their fathers and mothers would look black at me when I got back. No, I don’t think I will have anyone but Dick.”

By this time a letter had come from Mr. Beveridge in answer to Horace’s letter.

“I quite agree with you,” he said, “that the officers should be paid fairly. I see that, as you say, it is not a thing that you could very well arrange with them. Will you tell Mr. Martyn, from me, that the terms I propose are twenty guineas a month for him, eighteen for the second officer, and fifteen for the third; and that, in case of any of them losing a limb or being disabled, I shall settle upon them a pension the same as that to which they would have been entitled at their rank in the navy in the same case. The ship appears to me to be wonderfully cheap. I knew nothing about it, but quite expected that it would cost three times as much. Certainly I should not wish for them to have a separate cabin. It will be much more pleasant for me, if not disagreeable to them, for us to live together. As for what you say about prize-money, tell Mr. Martyn to arrange as he proposes, according to the ordinary usage in privateers. It is a matter to which I have given no thought, but he shall give me the particulars when we meet. As you know, I have no intention of making profit out of the enterprise.”

Two days later Martyn told Horace that Dacent had introduced him to one of the surgeons, who knew a young doctor who would, he thought, suit. “His name is Macfarlane; he is, of course, a Scotchman—most of the naval doctors are either Irish or Scotch. He sailed with him as surgeon’s-mate in a large frigate, where they had a good deal of experience in wounds, and he has a high idea of his skill. He is a very quiet sort of fellow, but a pleasant messmate. He has been full surgeon for some time now. His ship was paid off a fortnight ago, and the man who told me of him had a letter from him a few days since, saying that, as he had no interest he thought that he had but little chance of getting afloat again, and asking him to let him know if he heard of any opening, either ashore or in an Indiaman. He thought he would suit us very well, so I said that I would speak to you about it.”

“I should think that will be just the thing, Martyn.”

“Very well, then, I will see the surgeon to-morrow, and get him to write and offer him the berth at the regular naval rate of pay. Of course we sha’n’t want him to join till we are ready to sail.”

Some days later a reply was received, accepting the berth.

For the next fortnight work proceeded rapidly. Stores of all kinds for the voyage were brought on board and stowed away. Sixty cannon were stowed down in the hold, with thirty carriages for them, the latter taking up too much room to be carried for the whole of the guns. Eight twelve-pounders, in place of the eight-pounders before carried by her, and a long eighteen-pounder were placed in the hold in readiness to mount on deck when they reached the Levant. The riggers and painters had finished their work, the decks had been planed and holy-stoned until they were spotlessly white, and the tall spars and gear were all in their place. The guns had cost only about as much as Miller had said, and they could have obtained any number at the same price. The agent had made a contract with the ship’s chandlers for five thousand muskets complete with bayonets, in good order, and delivered on board, at ten shillings each. Some five hundred of these had been collected, and—after passing muster, by an armourer sergeant Martyn engaged for the purpose—put on board. The rest were to be sent by canal from Birmingham to Liverpool, and thence shipped round to Plymouth. Five tons of gunpowder in barrels, twenty tons of shot for the cannon, and two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition for the muskets were also arranged for. These were to be shipped at the last moment from magazines at the mouth of the Sound.

Below, everything had been done to make the cabins as comfortable as possible, and Dacent declared that she was altogether too neat and comfortable for anything but an admiral’s yacht. Tom Burdett had picked up at Plymouth twenty-five smart sailors, all of whom had served in king’s ships; and then, going to Bristol, had brought as many more from there. Uniforms, closely resembling those of men-of-war sailors, had been served out to them, but instead of the straw hat they wore red woollen caps. The officers had only to exchange their navy buttons for others with an anchor to be complete; Horace had donned similar attire.

It was just three weeks after Horace left home that he wrote to his father saying that all was now in readiness, and that they could sail within an hour of his arrival. They were at once going out to take their powder on board, and would remain at anchor off the magazines, and that he himself should be at the Falcon when it was time for the first coach to arrive after the receipt of his letter, and should remain there until his father came. Mr. Macfarlane, the surgeon, arrived by the coach that evening, and was put down at the Falcon. Martyn and Horace went out when they heard the coach stop.

“That is the doctor, for a guinea,” Martyn said, as a tall bony man climbed down from the roof, and began very carefully to look after his luggage.

“I think you must be Doctor Macfarlane?” he said, going up to him. “My name is Martyn.”

“I am very glad to see you, Captain Martyn,” the doctor said; “I take it as a sign that I shall have a pleasant time that my commander should meet me as I get off the coach.”

“I am captain only by courtesy, and shall hardly consider that I have got my brevet rank till we hoist the flag to-morrow. This is Mr. Beveridge, the owner’s son, he will sail with us as third officer. I have ordered a room for you, doctor. Boots will carry your things up.”

“Thank you; I will see to them myself, and join you in the coffee-room. I am not fond of trusting to other folk;” and he followed the servant upstairs with his baggage.

Martyn laughed as he went into the coffee-room with Horace. “Cautious you see, Horace, and right enough to be so; I think we shall like him. There is a pleasant tone in his voice, and I have no doubt he will turn out a good fellow, though, perhaps, rather a character.”

The doctor soon came down.

“Eh, man,” he said, “but it is weary work sitting with your legs doubled up all those hours on a coach. Four-and-twenty hours it is since I got up at Salisbury. And so, Mr. Beveridge, we are going out to fight for the Greeks. I misdoubt, sir, if they will do much fighting for themselves. I was three years east of Malta. There is good in them, we may take it that there is good in them, but it is very difficult to get at; at least that was my experience.”

“They have not had much chance, I think, doctor, so far.”

“And how large is your ship, Captain Martyn?” the doctor said, changing the subject suddenly.

“They call her a hundred and fifty, but she has a light draft of water and would not carry that, yet she has excellent accommodation below, as you will say when you see her to-morrow.”

The conversation then turned on naval matters, and the stations and ships that both Martyn and the doctor knew; and when they separated for the evening Martyn and Horace agreed that the doctor was likely to be a pleasant acquisition to their party.

Marco had been intrusted with the entire charge of laying in stores for the cabin, and these had arrived in such profusion that Will Martyn had demanded whether he was victualling the ship with cabin stores for a voyage round the world.

It had been given out that the ship was bound for Lisbon, but the news of her destination had gradually leaked out, although pains had been taken to get the military stores on board as quietly as possible. Sympathy with Greece was general, however, and although the young officers were quietly joked by their naval acquaintances as to their cargo for Portugal, no official inquiries were made on the subject.

“I sha’n’t be sorry, Horace,” Will Martyn said, as they were rowed off in the gig for the last time before getting up anchor, “when we get some of our heavy stuff out of her. One way or another she will have a hundred and twenty tons of stuff on board when we have taken in our powder, and though I don’t at all say that she will be overladen she will be a foot too low in the water to please me, and she wouldn’t be able to do her best if she were chased in her present trim.”

“The little difference in speed won’t matter much on our way out,” Horace said.

“No, not as to time, of course, a day more or less is no matter; still, one always likes to get all one can out of one’s ship, Horace, and it is a triumph to slip past other craft. If you have a slow craft you don’t mind whether other things leave you behind in an hour or two hours; you jog along and you don’t worry about it; you are like a man driving a heavy cart. But when you are in a crack schooner you are like a man on the road with a fast horse and a light gig, you expect to go past other things, and you like to do it in good style.”

“Well, nothing will beat her in looks, I think, Will.”

“No, that is quite certain. She is a picture.”

Everything was done on board the Creole in man-of-war fashion. Tarleton stood at the top of the ladder to receive the captain as he came on board. He touched his cap to Martyn, who touched his in return.

“Everything ready for getting under weigh, Mr. Tarleton?”

“Everything quite ready, sir.”

“Then shorten the chain a bit; man the capstan.”

Jack Tarleton gave the order. Tom Burdett’s boatswain’s whistle rang out loudly; the capstan-bars were already fixed, and a dozen men ran merrily round with it till the whistle sounded again.

“The anchor is short, sir,” Tarleton sang out to Martyn.

“Very well, leave her so, Mr. Tarleton. Will you make sail, Mr. Miller?”

The orders were given, the mainsail, foresail, and fore-staysail hoisted, and the jibs run out on the bowsprit. As soon as the halliards were belayed and coiled down, the capstan-bars were manned again, and the anchor weighed. The tide had just turned to run out, there was a gentle breeze blowing, and as the two jibs were run up the Creole began to steal through the water.

“Port your helm!” Martyn said to the man at the wheel; “let her come round easy. Slack off the main-sheet; that will do now. Get her topsails on her, Mr. Miller.”

Horace looked up with a feeling of pride and delight at the cloud of white sail and at the smart active crew, all in duck trousers, blue shirts, and red caps. Once out of the river the sheets were hauled in, the yards of the fore-topsail were braced as much fore and aft as they would stand, and the Creole turned her head seaward, looking, as Martyn said, almost into the wind’s eye. The red ensign was flying from the peak of the mainsail, and from the mast-head a long pennant bearing her name.

“She is slipping through the water rarely, Miller,” Will Martyn said, as he looked over the side.

“Yes, she is going six knots through it, and that, considering how close-hauled she is and that the wind is light, is wonderful.”

“She would go a good knot faster,” Martyn said, “if she had fifty tons of that stuff out of her. Those slavers know how to build, and no mistake, and I don’t think they ever turned out a better craft than this.”

It was not until late in the afternoon that the Creole dropped anchor off the magazine, where she was to take in her powder, as Martyn ran her out twenty miles to sea and back again to stretch her ropes and, as he said, let things shape down a bit. When the trip was over there was not a man on board but was in the state of the highest satisfaction with the craft. Both close-hauled on the way out and free on her return they had passed several vessels almost as if these had been standing still, going three feet to their two; and although there was but little sea on, there was enough to satisfy them that she had no lack of buoyancy, even in her present trim.

As soon as the anchor was down and the sails stowed Marco announced that dinner was ready, for all had been too much interested in the behaviour of the schooner to think of going down for lunch. It was the first meal that they had taken on board beyond a crust of bread and cheese in the middle of the day, and as they sat down, Will Martyn taking the head of the table, Horace, as his father’s representative, facing him, and the others at the sides, Miller said with a laugh, as he looked at the appointments, all of which had been sent over from the house two days before by Zaimes: “This is rather a contrast, Martyn, to the cockpit of a man-of-war.”

“Rather. I never did dine with an admiral, but this is the sort of thing that I have always fancied it would be if it had entered into the head of one to invite me. What do you think, Tarleton?”

“I feel shy at present, sir, and as if I oughtn’t to speak till spoken to.”

“You will be spoken to pretty sharply if you say ‘sir’ down below. On deck, as we agreed, we would have things in man-of-war fashion; but we are not going to have anything of that sort when we are below together.”

The dinner was an excellent one, and though the expectations of Miller and Tarleton had been raised by Martyn’s encomiums of the Greek’s cooking they were far surpassed by the reality. “It is a dinner fit for a king,” Martyn said when the cloth was cleared away and a decanter of port placed on the table.

“There is one misfortune in it. If this sort of thing is going to last we shall never be fit for service in an ordinary craft again, we shall become Sybarites. Is this the sort of dinner you always have at home, Horace?”

“About the same, I think,” Horace laughed. “My father takes no exercise and has not much appetite, and I think he likes nice things; and it is one of the Greek’s great aims in life to tempt him to eat. We always have a very good cook, but Zaimes insists on having a few little things of his own cooking on the table, and as he is generally at war with the cook, and they leave in consequence about every three or four months, he often has the dinner altogether in his hands till a fresh one arrives, and I am amused sometimes to see how Zaimes fidgets when my father, which is often the case, is so occupied with his own thoughts that he eats mechanically and does not notice what is before him. Zaimes stands it for a minute or two and then asks some question or makes some observation that calls my father’s attention back to what he is doing. They have both been with him for two-and-twenty years and are devoted to him. They are hardly like English servants, and talk to him in a way English servants would not think of doing. They are always perfectly respectful, you know, but they regard themselves, as he regards them, as friends as well as servants.”

“Well, gentlemen, we will drink the usual toast, ‘The King, God bless him;’ that is duty. Now fill up again, here is ‘Success to the Creole.’” When the toast was drank Martyn went on:

“How did your father pick them up, Horace?”

“It was just after he went out to Greece, which was directly after he left college. He was at Samos, and got leave from the Turkish governor to visit the prison. In one of the cells were Zaimes and Marco, who was then a boy about sixteen. They were condemned to death; they had been smuggling, and a Turkish boat had overhauled them. They had resisted. Four of the men with them had been killed in the fight, and several of the Turks. These two had been both severely wounded and made prisoners. My father was new to that sort of thing then. After he had been a year or two in Greece he knew that it would take a king’s fortune to buy out all the prisoners in the Turkish jails, but being only out there a month or two he was touched at the sight of the two prisoners. They were both very handsome, though, of course, pale and pulled down by their wounds and imprisonment, and Zaimes, who was the spokesman, had that courteous gentle manner that my father says all the Greeks have when they are not excited.”

“At any rate he was very much interested and went off to the governor again, and the Turk was glad enough for a bribe of a hundred pounds to give him an order for the release of the two prisoners, on condition that they were to be let out after dark and at once put on board a craft that was sailing at daybreak next morning. My father went with them, and after that they absolutely refused to leave him, and travelled with him in Greece for some time and fought very pluckily when some Klepts once tried to carry him away into the mountains. Then he bought a small craft and established his head-quarters at Mitylene, and for a year lived there and cruised about the islands. When he came home he offered the felucca to them, but they refused to take it, and begged so hard for him to take them home with him that he agreed to do so, and they have proved invaluable to him ever since.”

“Your father is lucky in having got hold of two such men,” Martyn said. “I believe the lower order of Greeks are fine fellows in their way. They are quarrelsome and passionate, no doubt, and apt to whip out their knives at the smallest provocation, and there is no trade they take so kindly to as that of a bandit; otherwise I believe they are honest hardworking fellows. But as for the upper class of Greeks, the less I have to do with them the better. When they get a chance they grind down their countrymen a deal worse than the Turks do. They are slippery customers and no mistake. I would rather take a Turk’s simple word than a solemn oath from a Greek.”

“No; veracity is hardly one of their conspicuous virtues,” the doctor put in quietly. “I take it that the ancients were so accustomed to swear by their gods, even after they had ceased to believe in them, that they came to consider that an oath by them was not binding, and so got into the way of lying generally, and their descendants have never amended their ways in that particular since. On more than one occasion, when there was trouble between our sailors and the Greeks, I attended their courts, and for good downright hard swearing I never heard them approached. I don’t wonder that the Turks refuse to allow Christians to give evidence in their courts. We shall see when we get out, but I have grave doubts whether there has been any revolution at all, and whether it is not a got-up thing altogether, just to see what the rest of the world says to it.”

The others laughed.

“There is one thing, doctor,” Miller said; “we have heard from Europeans who are out there of what has been done, it does not come from the Greeks only.”

“That is a confirmation, certainly, but it is well known that travellers’ tales must always be received with caution. It has been so since the days of Herodotus. When a man gets away from his own country he is apt to get a certain looseness of the tongue. We will wait until we get out there before we form any strong opinion about it.”

By this time they had finished their coffee, and Martyn, rising, said: “Mr. Tarleton, I shall be glad if you will go along the main-deck and see that the men are making themselves comfortable; to-morrow we will divide them into watches and tell them off to their stations and get things into working order.”

Accordingly, in the morning the crew were divided into two watches, and the boat’s crews told off, and then the work of getting the powder and small ammunition on board began; the latter did not take long, as it was already in a flat into which it had been discharged three days before from the coaster that had brought it from Liverpool. The flat had therefore only to be towed alongside and the cases swung on board and lowered into a portion of the hold that had been divided off from the rest by thick bulkheads to form a magazine. The ammunition and powder were all on board and stowed away, the ship was washed down, and the men piped to dinner by eight bells. The officers went down and divided the men into messes, examined the food, and saw that everything was comfortable.

“More room here than there was on board the Surf, Dick,” Horace said as he stopped a moment on his rounds to speak to the young sailor.

“Yes, sir, one can stand upright here. But the Surf was a good boat too.”

After dinner the men were told off to their various duties and divided into crews for the guns, when these should be in place. The first lieutenant (for it was agreed that they should be called lieutenants and not mates) and Horace took the starboard watch, Tarleton and the boatswain the port watch. The men were formed up, inspected, and put through cutlass drill for an hour, after which the watches by turns were exercised in setting sail, reefing, lowering, and furling, so that each man should know his place and duty. Then they were dismissed.

“They will be a first-rate crew when they have worked together for a few days,” Martyn said. “I could not wish for a smarter set of men. If we meet anything about our own size I shall have no fear of giving a good account of her. I have no opinion whatever of the Turks as sailors; they are good soldiers, and have always proved themselves so, but more lubberly sailors never went to sea.”

“Well, we are not likely to meet anything else,” Horace said.

“I don’t know, lad. The Greeks at the best of times are pirates at heart, and just at present they are not at all likely to be particular who they lay hands on. I saw in the paper only yesterday, they had attacked and plundered an Austrian craft, and it is probable that they may have done the same to a dozen others, only as a rule they scuttle any ship they may seize and nothing is ever known about her. Ships can’t be too careful when they are in Greek waters, and a vessel wrecked on any of the islands is looked upon as a lawful prize. There is no fear of our being taken by surprise by the Turks, but I shall take precious good care that we are never caught napping when we are anchored anywhere in the Greek Archipelago. After dinner, Horace, I will go ashore with you in the gig. I don’t think it likely your father will be down by the night coach, as he would only get your letter this morning, but he may come; at any rate you have got to wait now at the Falcon till he turns up.”

CHAPTER VI

UNDER WEIGH

AFTER seeing to a few matters that had been left till the last moment, Will Martyn returned on board again. Horace dined at the club, of which he had been made an honorary member, and then went back to the Falcon. To his surprise Zaimes was standing at the door.

“Why, Zaimes, how on earth did you get here? Why, the coach does not get in till twelve o’clock.”

“No, Mr. Horace, but we had everything ready to start this morning. Of course your letter did not come in time for us to get over to the early coach, but we were expecting it after what you wrote yesterday, and your father had concluded that it would be much more comfortable to post. He does not like being crowded, and it was doubtful whether there would be room for the two of us; and there was the luggage, so we had arranged for a post-chaise to come for us anyhow, and we started half an hour after your letter came in, and have posted comfortably. Your father is in the coffee-room. He would not have a private room, as he did not know whether you would be taking him on board this evening.”

Mr. Beveridge was sitting at a table by himself, and had just finished his dinner when Horace came in. He looked up more briskly than usual.

“I am sorry I was not here to meet you, father,” Horace said; “but I did not think you could be here until the night coach.”

“No; I did not expect to find you here, Horace, so it was no disappointment. Well, you look bronzed and well, my boy, you and your friends seem to have done wonders in getting everything done so soon. I am quite anxious to see the ship. Are we to go on board this evening?”

“If you don’t mind, father, I would much rather you didn’t go off till morning. I said that if you came we would breakfast early and be ready for the gig at half-past eight. They won’t be expecting us to-night, and I am sure Martyn and the others will like to have everything in the best possible order when you go on board. We have been expecting those boxes of books you wrote about a week ago, but they haven’t turned up. It will be a horrible nuisance if, after the way we have been pushing everything forward, we should be kept waiting two or three days for them.”

“Well, Horace, the fact is I changed my mind. The four boxes were packed and in the hall. They really were very large boxes, and Zaimes said: ‘Well, master, what you are going to do with all those books I can’t imagine. Where are you going to put them? Why, they would fill your cabin up solid. If I were you, sir, I would not take one of them. Just give yourself a holiday. Don’t take a pen in your hand while you are away. You will have plenty to see about and to think about, and I am sure it would do you a deal of good to give it up altogether for a time, and you will take it up freshly afterwards. Besides, you will have people coming on board, and your advice will be asked, and you will have to decide all sorts of things, and you know you won’t be able to bring your mind out of your books if you have them on board.’ He said something like it when I first began to talk of packing, but it seemed to me impossible that I could give up work altogether; but the sight of those four great boxes staggered me. Then I said: ‘Zaimes, this is not like that little cabin on board the yacht. This is quite a large vessel in comparison.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, ‘but your cabin won’t be larger than the main cabin in the Surf, not so large I should fancy.’ This surprised me altogether, but he assured me it was so, and pressed me so much on the matter that I at last agreed to leave them all behind.”

“That is a capital thing, father. Zaimes was quite right. Your state-room is a very nice cabin, but except that it is a good deal more lofty, it is certainly not so large by a good deal as the main cabin in the Surf; besides, if you had your books you would be always shut up there, and what I thought of all along, from the time you first spoke about coming out, was what a good thing it would be for you to have a thorough holiday, and to put aside the old work altogether.”

“You don’t think it valuable, Horace?” Mr. Beveridge asked wistfully.

“I do, father. I think it most valuable, and no one can be prouder than I am of your reputation, and that all learned men should acknowledge the immense value of your works to Greek students. But, father, after all, the number of men who go into all that is very small, and I can’t see why your life should be entirely given up to them. I think that at any rate it will be a first-rate thing for you, and extremely pleasant for me, that you should be like the rest of us while we are out on this expedition. As Zaimes says, you will have a lot of things to decide upon, and we are going to lead an active, stirring life, and it is new Greece we shall have to think about, and not the Greece of two thousand years ago. It is your aim to raise, not the Greeks of the time of Miltiades, but a people who in these two thousand years have become a race, not only of slaves, but of ignorant savages, for these massacres of unarmed people show that they are nothing better; and not only to free them, but to make them worthy of being a nation again. I think, father, there will be ample scope for all your thoughts and attention in the present without giving a thought to the niceties of the language spoken by Demosthenes, so I am truly and heartily glad you decided to leave your books behind you.”

“I think you are right, Horace; I am sure you are right; but it is a wrench to me to cut myself loose altogether from the habits of a lifetime.”

“And now, father, what are you going to do about clothes?” Horace said, looking at him closely.

“About clothes!” his father repeated vaguely. “I have brought two large boxes full with me.”

“Yes, father, no doubt you have clothes, but I am sure that on board ship—and you will be always living there, you know—it will be much more comfortable for you to have clothes fit for the sea. Frilled shirts, and ruffles, and tight breeches, and high-heeled Hessian boots, and short-waisted tail-coats are all very well on shore, but the first time you are out in a good brisk gale, you would wish them anywhere. What you want is a couple of suits, at least, of blue cloth like mine, with brass buttons, and a low cloth cap like this that will keep on your head whilst it is blowing, in fact the sort of suit that the owner of a big yacht would naturally wear. Of course when you go ashore to see any of the Greek leaders, you might like to go in your ordinary dress; but really for sea you want comfortable clothes, and a good thick pea-jacket for rough weather.”

“Perhaps you are right, Horace, and I did remark that my heels left marks upon the deck of the Surf.”

“Certainly they did, father; and it would be agony to Will Martyn to have the beautiful white deck of the Creole spoiled.”

“But it is too late now, it is half-past eight o’clock.”

“Oh, I can take you to a shop where they keep this sort of thing. Besides, there are twelve hours before we start, and by paying for it one can get pretty nearly anything made in twelve hours.”

Mr. Beveridge suffered himself to be persuaded. Fortunately the outfitter had a couple of suits ordered by one of the officers of a ship of war in harbour nearly completed. These he agreed to alter to fit Mr. Beveridge by the morning, and to put on extra hands to turn out fresh suits for the person for whom they were intended. The gold lace, white facings, and other distinguishing marks would be removed, and plain brass buttons substituted for the royal buttons. Two or three pairs of shoes with low heels were also obtained. The clothes came home at seven in the morning, and Mr. Beveridge came down to breakfast looking like the smart captain of a merchantman.

“I feel as if I were dressed for a masquerade, Horace,” he said with a smile.

A DISCUSSION ABOUT CLOTHES

“You look first-rate, father, and a lot more comfortable than usual, I can tell you.”

It was at Martyn’s suggestion that Horace had urged his father to make a change in his attire.

“It would be a good thing if you could get him to put on sea-going togs,” the sailor had said. “He is the owner of as smart a craft as ever sailed out of British waters, and he will look a good deal more at home on the deck of his own ship in regular yachtsman’s dress than he would rigged up in his ruffles and boots.”

With this Horace had agreed heartily, for his father’s appearance on occasions when he had gone out with him in the Surf had struck him as being wholly incongruous with the surroundings.

At half-past eight they went down to the steps, two porters carrying the luggage under the watchful eye of Zaimes. As they were seen, the smart gig with its six rowers, which was lying a short distance off, rowed in to the steps. Tarleton was steering. He stepped out to hand Mr. Beveridge into the boat.

“This is Mr. Tarleton, father, our second lieutenant.”

“I am glad to meet you, sir,” Mr. Beveridge said, shaking hands with the young officer. “I hope that we shall have a pleasant cruise together.”

“I feel sure we shall, sir. If one couldn’t be comfortable on board the Creole, one couldn’t be comfortable anywhere.”

Tarleton took his seat in the centre to steer, with Mr. Beveridge and Horace on either side of him, Zaimes and the luggage were placed in the bow. The bowman pushed the boat off with the boat-hook. The oars, which had been tossed in man-of-war fashion, fell with a splash into the water, and then with a long steady stroke the gig darted away from the steps.

“This is certainly very pleasant,” Mr. Beveridge said as they threaded through the anchored craft and made their way seaward. “I begin to wish I had taken up yachting twenty years back.”

“Well, it is not too late, father. When we have done with Greece, you can go in for amusement if you like.”

“I should never find time, Horace.”

“Oh, you could make time, father. You could spare three months in the year and be all the better for it. When you have once had a break, you will find how pleasant it is.”

Half an hour’s row and Horace said: “That is the Creole, father, lying in there near the farther point.”

“She doesn’t look as large as I expected, Horace, though her masts seem a great height.”

“She is heavily sparred for her length,” Tarleton said, “but she has great beam; besides she is rather low in the water now, and of course that makes the spars look big in proportion. She will be a bit higher by the time we get out. Fifty men consume a considerable weight of stores and water every week. You will be pleased with her, sir, when we get alongside. We all think she is as handsome a craft as we ever set eyes on. She will astonish the Turks, I warrant, when it comes to sailing.”

Another twenty minutes they were alongside. According to naval etiquette Horace mounted the ladder first, then Tarleton, and Mr. Beveridge followed. Martyn and Miller received him at the gangway, the former introducing the first officer and the surgeon to him.

“She is a fine-looking vessel,” Mr. Beveridge said, “and you have certainly done marvels with her, Captain Martyn, for my son wrote me that she had nothing but her lower masts in her when you took possession, and now she is wonderfully bright and clean, and these decks look almost too white to walk on.”

“I hope that we shall always keep her in equal order, sir. We have a capital crew, and no one could wish for a better craft under his feet.”

Mr. Beveridge was now conducted round the ship, and expressed himself highly gratified with everything.

“Is it your wish that we should make sail at once, sir?” Martyn asked. “We have been expecting some heavy luggage on board, but it has not arrived.”

“I changed my mind about it, and there is nothing coming, Captain Martyn. I am perfectly ready to start if you have everything on board.”

“There is nothing to wait for, sir; we are perfectly ready.”

They returned to the quarter-deck, and as Martyn gave the orders there was a general movement on the part of the crew. Some of the men clustered round the capstan, while others prepared to make sail, and Mr. Beveridge felt a keen sense of pleasure as he watched the active fellows at their work. In five minutes the sails were set, the anchor at the cat-head, and the Creole moving through the water under the light breeze off shore.

They had favourable winds across the Bay and down the coast of Portugal. Everything from the start had gone as smoothly as if the Creole had been six months in commission—officers and men were alike pleased with the ship; the provisions for the sailors were of the best quality; the duties were very light, for the sails had not required altering from the time they had been set, although each day the men practised for an hour at lowering and setting them, in order to accustom them to work smartly together.

There was half an hour’s cutlass drill, and for the rest of the day, beyond cleaning and polishing, there was nothing to be done. Mr. Beveridge spent the greater part of his time in a comfortable deck-chair on the quarter-deck, for there was no poop, the deck being flush from end to end. Horace attended to his duties as third officer regularly, and the nights were so warm and pleasant that the watches did not appear long to him. There was no stiffness in the cabin when they gathered to their meals, or in the evening, and Mr. Beveridge proved in no way a wet blanket on their fun, as the three officers had rather anticipated he would be. He talked but little, but was thoroughly amused at their yarns and jests, all of which were as strange to him as if he had lived in another world.

“You will certainly have to cut off our rations a bit, Mr. Beveridge,” Will Martyn said one day as they finished dinner. “We shall be getting as fat as porpoises if we go on like this. I can feel my togs filling out daily; and as for Tarleton, he will have to have all his things let out by the time we arrive in the Levant. For the credit of the ship I shall have to give orders for us to be supplied with the same rations as the men, and go in for luxuries only on Sundays. We are not accustomed to be tempted in this way at every meal. It is all very well for you who do not eat much more than a sparrow to have such nice things always put before you; but to us who have been accustomed to a steady diet of salt junk, except when we put into port and are able to get fresh meat for a change, these things are beyond our power of resistance.”

“I eat a great deal more than I did on shore,” Mr. Beveridge said. “I find, indeed, a wonderful improvement in my appetite. It was quite an infliction to Zaimes that I cared so little for the good things he provided me with. I can assure you I really begin to look for my meals now, and it is a pleasure for me to see you all eat with good healthy appetites, and I am sure that it must be a great gratification to the Greeks to see their efforts appreciated at last.”

“It is Tarleton I am thinking of principally, sir; as for Miller, nature made him square, and it would be no disadvantage if he became round; while as to the doctor, food is simply wasted on him, he will never do credit to your cooks. But Tarleton, with those dark eyes of his and his gentle sort of way, was what the ladies would consider an interesting youth, and he would, I am sure, forfeit the good opinion of the ladies altogether if he were to return looking like a mildly animated sausage.”

Tarleton joined in the laugh. “I do think I have gained a lot in weight the last week,” he said; “but we won’t always go on in this quiet sort of way. As for what Martyn says, I believe it is only jealousy on his part at seeing that my angles are filling out.”

On arriving at the Straits they put in at Ceuta and obtained a supply of fresh meat and vegetables. In the Mediterranean they fell in with dead calms and were a fortnight in getting to Gozo, where they again replenished their stock. They abstained from putting in either at Gibraltar or Malta in order to avoid being questioned as to the cargo and destination of the Creole.

“Now, sir,” Will Martyn said when they were within two days’ sail of Greece, “it is quite time to decide what port we shall make for, but we can’t decide that until we know how matters are going on. When we left England there were very conflicting accounts of the progress of the revolution, and whether Corinth, Patras, Nauplia, or Athens are in the hands of the Greeks or Turks. Well, I should say, sir, that our best plan would be to put in at Zante, where, as it is English, and therefore neutral ground, we shall learn all about the state of affairs, and may meet some of our own people or foreigners who have been fighting by the side of the Greeks. Half an hour’s talk with one of them would give us a better idea how everything stands than a week’s talk with Greeks.”

“I think that will be a very good plan,” Mr. Beveridge agreed. “Flying the English flag we might go in or out of any of the harbours as neutrals; but if by any chance it leaked out what our cargo is the Turks would probably consider themselves justified in laying hands on us.”

“At any rate it is well not to run the risk, Mr. Beveridge, as there is no object to be served by it. I will take the bearings of Zante and lay our course for it.”

There was, indeed, no spot where they were more likely to obtain accurate news of what was going on than Zante, lying as the island does at a short distance from the mouth of the Gulf of Corinth, upon which were three of the most important towns in Greece—Patras, Corinth, and Missolonghi. Here, too, the fugitives from the Morea, of either party, would naturally make their way.

It was the 8th of October when the Creole, flying the English flag at her peak, dropped anchor in the port. As soon as she did so a custom-house officer came on board.

“What ship is this?” he asked the first officer, who was on deck.

“This is the Creole, a private yacht belonging to Mr. Beveridge. The owner is below if you wish to see him.”

“You have no merchandise on board?”

“I tell you that it is a yacht,” Miller said. “An English gentleman doesn’t bring out merchandise for sale in his yacht. The captain will show you her papers.”

Will Martyn came on deck.

“This is the captain,” Miller said. “You had better address him.”

On hearing what was required Martyn took the officer below and showed him the ship’s papers.

“I see it is mentioned here that you were bound from England to Lisbon,” the officer observed.

“Yes. We did not put in there, as Mr. Beveridge was anxious to get into a warmer climate.”

“I see you are strongly armed,” the officer said when he came on to deck again, for after leaving Malta the eight twelve-pounders and the pivot-gun had been got up from the hold and mounted.

“Yes, we are armed, as you see. I imagine you would hardly recommend anyone to be cruising about in these waters without means of defence.”

“No, indeed,” the officer laughed. “The Greeks are pirates to the core. You would be all right with the Turks, although from your appearance I should not think they would ever get near enough to trouble you.”

Half an hour later Mr. Beveridge and Horace were rowed ashore. As, except at Ceuta, Horace had never set foot ashore out of England, he was much amused and interested by the varied population. Mingled with the native population of the island were Greeks from the mainland; Albanians in their white pleated petticoats, bristling with arms mounted in gold and silver; a few English soldiers walking about as unconcernedly as if in a garrison town at home; and sailors of several nationalities from ships in harbour.

“I should think, father, the proper thing would be to call upon the English officer in command here and invite him to dinner. We shall get a general idea of the state of things from him.”

Asking a soldier, they found that the small detachment there was under the command of Captain O’Grady, whose house, at the entrance to the barrack, was pointed out to them. The officer was in, and on Mr. Beveridge sending in his card they were at once shown in.

“I am the owner of a schooner-yacht, the Creole, that dropped anchor an hour ago,” Mr. Beveridge said. “I know very little about the etiquette of these things, but it seemed to me the proper thing was to call at once upon His Majesty’s representative here.”

“A very right and proper thing to do, Mr. Beveridge. I have been wondering what that craft could be, and where she had come from. If it hadn’t been for the flag and the tidiness of her I should have put her down as a Greek pirate, though they don’t often rig up their crafts as schooners.”

“She has been something like a pirate in her time,” Mr. Beveridge said, “for she was a slaver, captured and sent home as a prize. I bought her at Plymouth and fitted her out.”

“And a mighty nice way of spending money too, Mr. Beveridge. She is the biggest thing in the way of yachts I ever saw. I don’t at all see why a gentleman shouldn’t buy a big ship and cruise about the world in her if he can afford it.”

“Well, Captain O’Grady, I won’t occupy your time now, but shall be glad if you will come off and dine with me at six o’clock to-day. I have come straight from England, and have heard nothing as to how matters stand out here. If you will bring any of your officers off with you I shall be very glad to see them.”

“I have only two here. Mr. Lester, my lieutenant, will be on duty, and I have no doubt that Plunket will be very glad to come off with me if he has no special engagement, which is not likely, for it is a mighty dull life here, I can tell you, and it is glad I shall be when the order comes to rejoin the regiment at Corfu.”

Mr. Beveridge and Horace walked about for some time, and then returned on board. They met their two Greeks in the town shopping, and told them that there would be guests at dinner. They met also Will Martyn and Tarleton, who had come ashore a short time after them, Miller remaining on board in charge; a good many of the men were also ashore.

“I have warned them solemnly,” Martyn said, “against drink and quarrels, but I am afraid that to-night and to-morrow night we shall have a good many of them coming off noisy. Wine is cheap, and as they haven’t set foot ashore for five weeks it is not in the nature of an English sailor to resist temptation. I don’t care much as long as they don’t get into rows with the Greeks. I have told them the boats will be ashore at nine o’clock to fetch them, and that any who are not down there by that hour will have their allowance of grog stopped for a fortnight.”

It had been arranged with Captain O’Grady that the boat should be at the steps for him at a quarter to six. Horace went in charge of it, and brought off the two officers.

“You have comfortable quarters here, indeed,” Captain O’Grady said when Mr. Beveridge had introduced his officers to him and his companion. “Sure I would like nothing better than to travel about in a craft like this. It is like taking a floating palace about with you.” But if the officers were surprised at the fittings of the cabin they were still more so at the excellence of the dinner. Up to the time the dessert was placed on the table they chatted as to the incidents of the voyage; but when the wine had gone round Mr. Beveridge began questioning them.

“Of course you hear everything that goes on on the mainland, Captain O’Grady.”

“Everything, do you say? It is well content I would be if that was all I heard; but the thundering lies that are told by those Greek rapscallions are enough to take one’s breath away. To hear them talk you would not think that such valiant men had ever lived since the days of Noah; and yet, with the exception of a little skirmish, all that they have done is to starve out those unfortunate heathens the Turks, and then after they have surrendered on promise of good treatment, to murder them in cold blood with their women and children.”

“I hope that there has not been much of that,” Mr. Beveridge said gravely.

“It depends upon what you call much of it. At the very lowest estimate there have been thirty thousand murdered in cold blood since the troubles began; and some accounts put it much higher. There has not been a single exception; nowhere have they spared a Mussulman. The poor beggars of farmers and villagers were killed; man, woman, and child, in hundreds of villages the whole of them were destroyed without resistance; and it has been the same in all the large towns. The Greeks began the work at Kalamata, which surrendered under a solemn promise of their lives to the Turks; but every soul was slain. And so it has been all along. In the district of Laconia there were fifteen thousand Mussulmans, and of these two-thirds at least were slain. At Missolonghi there are not twenty Turks alive.

“At Navarino every soul was murdered. Tripolitza surrendered only a week ago, and I saw by a letter from Colonel Raybonde, a French officer, who commanded the Greek artillery during the siege, that forty-eight hours after they entered the city they collected about two thousand persons, principally women and children, and drove them up a ravine and murdered them there; and altogether eight thousand Mussulmans were killed during the sack. I have heard of massacres till I am sick of listening to the stories; and though at the beginning I hoped that the Greeks would drive the old Turks out, faith I have come to think that if I were to hear that the whole race were utterly exterminated I should feel more comfortable in my mind than I have been for some time. Not content with murdering the poor creatures, in many cases the villains tortured them first. I have heard fellows who came over here boast of it. One Albanian ruffian who told me that he had done this, told me, sir, as if it were a thing to be proud of. I had the satisfaction of taking him by the scruff of his neck and the tail of his white petticoat and chucking him off the pier into the sea. When he scrambled out I offered him the satisfaction of a gentleman, seeing that he was a chief who thought no small beer of himself. There was a deal of difficulty in explaining to him how the thing was managed in a civilized country, and I never felt more satisfaction in my life than I did next morning when I put a bullet into the scoundrel’s body.”

A wet blanket seemed suddenly to fall over the party in the cabin as Captain O’Grady was speaking. Horace saw that Miller, who was sitting opposite to him, was undergoing an internal convulsion in restraining himself from bursting into a laugh; and Will Martyn, who was facing Mr. Beveridge at the bottom of the table, looked so preternaturally grave that Horace felt that he too was struggling to repress a smile. The doctor nodded, as if to signify that it was exactly what he had expected. Mr. Beveridge looked deeply concerned.

“I have heard something of this in England, Captain O’Grady, though of course the Greek agents there suppress all news that would tell against their countrymen, but I did not think it was as bad as this. Yet although I do not for a moment attempt to defend such atrocities, you must remember how long the Greeks have been oppressed by the Turks. A people who have been in slavery for hundreds of years to strangers, aliens in blood and in religion, and themselves in a very primitive state of civilization, except in the cities, would be almost certain in the first rising against their oppressors to commit horrible excesses. The same thing happened, although, happily, on a much smaller scale, in your own country, Captain O’Grady, in ’98, and that without a hundredth part of the excuse that the Greeks had.”

“True for you, Mr. Beveridge,” Captain O’Grady admitted. “There’s no denying that you have turned the tables on me there. It is mighty difficult, as you say, to hold a savage peasantry in hand.”

“It was the same thing in the French Revolution. That again was practically a revolt of slaves, and they behaved like fiends; and the number of persons murdered—men of their own race and religion, remember—was at least as great as that of those who have been massacred here. The revolt called the Jacquerie, in the middle ages, was equally ferocious, and the number of victims would probably have been as great had not the revolt been nipped in the bud. I regret deeply the conduct of the Greeks; but I think it was only what was to be expected from a people naturally fierce and revengeful under the circumstances.”

“Maybe you are right, Mr. Beveridge, though I did not look at it in that light before.”

“And who are their leaders now?”

“Faith they are all leaders. One day one hears one man’s name mentioned, that is hard enough to crack one’s jaw; the next day he is upset and another has taken his place. Every dirty little chief of brigands sets himself up as a leader, and as they are about the only chaps who understand anything about fighting they come to the front. If they only spent a twentieth part of the time in preparing for war which they do in quarrelling among themselves as to their share of the spoil, it seems to me they would make a much better fight than they are likely to do. There is a fellow called Odysseus, which is their way of pronouncing Ulysses; he used to command the Mohammedan Albanians under Ali Pasha. Now he has turned round, and fights against his old master. He is one of the chief of them. Then there are Kolokotronis and Mavrocordatos. I should say they are the two principal men just at present. Then there is a chap called Prince Demetrius Hypsilantes. He is the brother of a fellow who got up the rising up in the north of the Danube, and pretends to be the head of all the Greeks. Demetrius says he is invested by his brother with a sort of viceroyalty over Greece, and wants to have it all his own way. Then there are the Greek bishops and priests. They are pretty well against all the rest, and want to keep the peasantry under their thumb. Then there are the primates; they have got a big lot of power.”

“Do you mean archbishops?” Captain Martyn asked.

“Not a bit of it. The primates are a sort of half-and-half officers. They are supposed to be chosen by the people of their own district, and of course they are always the big-wigs; the chaps with most power and influence. Once chosen they became Turkish officers, collected the taxes, and were each accountable for the money and for the doings of their district. Nicely they ground the people down and feathered their own nests. Naturally, when the Turks went they became the local leaders. The people had no one else to look to but them and the priests. In the Morea these two classes have all the power in their hands. North of that we don’t hear much of the primates. I don’t think they had any of them there. It’s the Albanians, and the Klephts, that is the brigands, and some of the fighting clans, such as the Suliots and the bands of armatoli, which are a sort of village militia, who are the backbone of the rising.

“All the chiefs are jealous of each other, and if one fellow proposes a plan all the others differ from him; or if there is one of the big leaders there, and his plan is adopted, the others either march away to their homes or do what they can to prevent it from succeeding. The great thing with all the chiefs is to get spoil. The people are different; they really want to fight the Turks and to win their freedom; and it is because they see that not one of their leaders is honest, that their jealousies keep them from any common actions, and that they will not unite to form any central government, that the people have no confidence in them, but just follow one man until they get disgusted with him, and then go off to join another.

“Everything is wasted. The spoil they have taken has been enormous; but the people are little the better for it; it is all divided among the chiefs, and not a penny of it has gone to form a fund for defence. They have captured enormous quantities of ammunition, but they have fired it away like children, just to please themselves with the noise. At one place I was told by an Englishman who was there that the two million cartridges they captured were all wasted in what they called rejoicings in the course of three days. What they want is a big man—a fellow who will begin by hanging a hundred politicians, as many chiefs, bishops, and primates; who would organize first a government and then an army; and would insist that every halfpenny taken as spoil from the Turks should be paid into the public treasury. Then, sir, I believe that the Greeks would polish off these sleepy Turks in no time, with the advantage they have in knowing every foot of the mountains, in being as active as goats, and in possessing the idea that they are fighting for freedom. Mind I don’t say that the Turks will beat them even as they are. The Turkish pashas are as incapable as the Greek leaders. Their soldiers are good, but as the Greeks have no regular army, and no idea of standing up to fight fair, the Turks can’t get at them, and the Greeks can move about quickly and fall upon them at their own time; and besides they will bring them to a standstill by starvation. They don’t care about attacking the Turkish troops, but they are down like a pack of wolves on a baggage train, and if the Turks venture any distance from the sea-coast they will be harassed out of their lives.”

“Have the Turks still the command of the sea? There the Greeks ought to be their match anyhow.”

“Yes, the Turks still send their store-ships escorted by their men-of-war frigates and corvettes. The Greeks hover round them and among them, but they take care to keep pretty well out of range of the Turkish guns, and their only idea of fighting seems to be to launch fire-ships at them. A man-of-war was burnt while at anchor a short time back by Knaris, who is the best sailor the Greeks have got. Still, at present the Turks are so far masters of the sea that they take their convoys where they like and can revictual their fortresses whenever they have the energy to do so. On the other hand, the Greeks scour the seas in all directions, and not a single merchant ship flying the Turkish flag dare show her nose outside the Dardanelles.”

“Is the cruelty all on one side?” Horace asked.

“Not a bit of it. Of course the Turks have not had much chance yet, but when they have had they have naturally paid the Greeks in their own coin. In Thessaly they have put down the rising ruthlessly. But when the troops go into a place and find that the whole of their people have been murdered it is not to be wondered at that they set to to play the same game on those who began the work of massacre. The Greeks hate the Turks, and their object is to root them out altogether. The Turks despise the Greeks, but they don’t want to root them out by any means, because if they did there would be no longer any revenue to collect. The Turks seem to strike more at the leaders. They have strung up a lot of Greeks living in Constantinople, and as the whole affair was got up there, and the Greeks were, most of them, taking the Sultan’s pay while they were plotting against him, it is only just that if anyone was to suffer they should be the men. What I am afraid of is that when the news of this horrible massacre of eight thousand people at Tripolitza gets known, the Turks in Asia Minor will everywhere retaliate upon the Greeks settled among them.

“They can’t do much in Greece, for most of the people can take to the mountains; but there are almost as many of them settled in Asia Minor as there are here, for they are the traders and shopkeepers in every port, and I am afraid it will go mighty hard with them everywhere when the Turks come to know the atrocities that have been perpetrated over here. If the Greeks had thought for a moment when they began they would have seen that it was a game two could play at, and for every Turk they could murder the Turks had in their hands three Greeks at least that they could put an end to. To my mind it is a bad business altogether. Plunket will tell you that I have not put it a bit too strongly.”

“Not in the least,” the young officer said. “The tales these fellows tell are ghastly. We have them over here by dozens. A man is a leader one day and a fugitive the next; and they run over here till they see a chance of landing again and getting together a fresh band, and they actually make a boast of the horrible massacres they have taken a part in. If the islanders here saw their way to it they would rise against us, and as it is, it has been as much as we can do more than once to prevent their going on board neutral vessels that put into harbour with a few wretched Turkish fugitives, and murdering them. The fact is, the Greeks believe that they are Christians, but they are just as much pagans as they were two thousand years ago. My sympathies are altogether with them in their struggle for liberty, and I try to make every allowance for their actions; and I do believe that if what O’Grady says could be carried out and all their leaders, and politicians, and bishops, and primates hung, the people themselves would carry on the struggle with ten times the chances of success they have at present, for they would then be forced to form a strong central government and might find some honest man to put at its head. They regard it in the light of a religious war rather than one for national freedom, and I suppose that at least half the Mussulmans who have fallen are of Greek blood, for, especially in the north, nearly half the tribes have changed their religion and become Mohammedans since their conquest.”

“Are there many Europeans fighting with them? You mentioned a French colonel commanding the Greek artillery in the siege of Tripolitza.”

“A good many. There are some Austrians, Frenchmen, Italians, and a few of our own people. Among the last is a General Gordon and a naval lieutenant; but although the Greeks know nothing whatever of military matters, they are jealous in the extreme of any interference or even advice from foreigners. I believe there are altogether thirty or forty foreign officers who came over to fight for them, and only two or three of these have got employment of any sort. As to any attempt to introduce military discipline, or raise anything like a body of regular soldiers, it seems impossible. They believe entirely in fighting in their own way and dispersing when they choose, just as the Spanish guerilla bands did during the Peninsular War. In fact it seems to me that the Greek character resembles the Spanish very much, the peasantry in both countries being brave and animated by a patriotic hate of their enemies, while the upper class are equally vain, cowardly, given to boasting, and absolutely faithless to their promises. If we had the Duke of Wellington here with a couple of hundred good officers he would make the Greeks into as good soldiers as he did some of the Portuguese, and would as likely as not wind up the war by driving the Turks out of Europe altogether.”

At half-past ten o’clock the officers went ashore. When they had left the ship, the others returned to the cabin.

“I should not take it to heart, Mr. Beveridge,” Will Martyn said cheerfully, seeing how depressed his employer looked at the news he had heard. “Of course the Greeks have behaved badly—horribly badly; but you see it is because the poor beggars are not much better than savages, and never will be better as long as they are kept down by the Turks. All these things will right themselves in time. As you said, they are no worse than the French when they rose, or than the Spanish peasantry whenever they got a chance, or the Irish peasantry, and we must not look at it from our own standpoint; once they are free they will get a settled government and become a nation again, and that is what we have got to help them to do. We are not going to land and take part in massacres. All we have got to do is to look out for a Turkish ship of war, and pull down her colours whenever we get a chance. But even more than that, what I want specially to do as soon as we can is to get rid of some of that cargo in our hold. That is what is bothering me at present.”

“Thank you, Martyn,” Mr. Beveridge said, holding out his hand to him. “It is trying to hear of a glorious cause being disgraced by such horrible atrocities, but the cause remains the same, and the atrocities are, as you say, such as have occurred among other peoples when their blood has been heated to boiling point. This will not shake my determination to aid Greece in her struggle for freedom.”

CHAPTER VII

A CHANGE OF NAME

THE next two days Mr. Beveridge and Horace spent entirely on shore. Speaking modern Greek fluently, they were able to converse with people of all classes from the mainland, and they learned from their reports that Captain O’Grady’s account of the utter confusion existing from end to end of the country was in no way exaggerated. As soon as the Greeks perceived that Mr. Beveridge was a well-wisher to their cause, and judging him from his possession of a large yacht to be a wealthy man, innumerable schemes were proposed to him, all involving his placing himself in the hands of the proposer and advancing him a considerable sum of money. These projects Mr. Beveridge resolutely turned a deaf ear to, his resolution being greatly strengthened by Horace, who distrusted all these plausible adventurers profoundly.

“We must wait, father,” he said, “until we see something like a stable government in power. When it has been at work a bit, and you find that it makes its authority respected, restores order, and unites the people in a common effort, it will be time enough for you to let them have money. To give it now would simply be to waste it, and, indeed, worse than waste it, for it would only add to the struggle for power on which the Greeks are wasting their strength. From all we learn the sailors of Hydra, Spetzas, and Psara are the only men who at present are acting with any common object. As everything depends upon crippling the Turks at sea, I should think we could not do better than get rid of some of our guns and ammunition by giving them to them. If we could get rid of twenty or thirty tons of our cargo it would put us in first-rate sailing trim, and at any rate get something off our minds. Then from there we could sail to Athens and get the papers we require authorizing us to act as a Greek privateer. Of course that would be no protection to us if we fell into the hands of the Turks; but we could do nothing until we get them without acting as pirates and rendering ourselves liable to be hung by any European man-of-war that might overhaul us.”

This course was determined upon, to the great satisfaction of William Martyn; and after a stay of three days at Zante sail was again set, and the Creole left the anchorage. It was well that she did so, for the next day all their Greek sympathies would have been insufficient to prevent their fighting on the other side. An Algerine barque that had separated from the Turkish fleet, which had just captured Galaxidhi and had taken possession of thirty-four Greek brigs, was attacked by eighteen Hydriot ships. She refused to surrender, and made such a gallant resistance that the Hydriots did not venture to run alongside and carry her by boarding. The Algerines, knowing that if their spars were shot away they would all be killed, ran her ashore near the southern cape of Zante.

The fight had been witnessed by thousands of refugee Moreots and Zanteot peasants, who opened fire upon the Algerines when they landed. Two English officers with twenty men had gone down from the town to enforce obedience to the quarantine regulations, which were very strict. They ordered the Greeks to retire, but these refused, and continued to attack the Turks. The officer commanded his men to fire over the heads of the crowd, when the Zanteots at once turned their muskets against them. One soldier was killed, and the rest retired into a house with the Turks and defended themselves until a stronger body of English troops came down from the town and rescued them. For firing upon the troops and killing one of them five Zanteots were afterwards tried and executed, and the lord high-commissioner issued a proclamation forbidding the entry of any Turk or Greek men-of-war into any Ionian port.

The Greek commercial navy, before the outbreak of the revolution, consisted to a large extent of the shipping of the four little islands Hydra, Spetzas, Psara, and Cazos. These islands, which were small and barren, had sprung into importance by the wise policy of the sultans at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Seeing that the exactions of their own officials rendered it impossible for the Greek and Mussulman sailors to compete with those of other nations, they had exempted from all taxes and other burdens persons settling on these islands, and had allowed to them perfect self-government. The result had answered their expectations. Colonies of Albanian sailors had established themselves at Hydra and Spetzas, while Greek seamen had settled in Psara and Cazos, and all four islands became populous and flourishing, owning among them nearly three hundred craft of from sixty to four hundred tons.

The contrast between the population and manners of the four islands was very marked. The two Albanian islands were governed by twelve primates, elected by the wealthy, while in the Greek islands the government was purely democratic. The Albanians were by far the more sincere and honest, while the people of the two Greek islands were the more courteous. All had early thrown in their lot with the revolution. The Peace of 1815 had caused a great reduction in the price of grain on the Continent and a fall of freights. Consequently many ships remained unemployed, the prosperity of the islands diminished, and the sailors became discontented and clamorous for employment. Spetzas had been the first to declare for the revolution, and had at once sent off some ships, which had captured a Turkish corvette of twenty-six guns and a brig of sixteen, which, with small crews, were waiting at Milos to receive the contingent of sailors from the Albanian islands. The Turks, expecting no attack, were taken by surprise; but the first Greek naval success was dimmed by the Mussulman prisoners being all carried to Spetzas, where some were at once murdered and the rest put to death with horrible tortures.

Psara quickly followed the example of Spetzas, but Hydra was some time before it raised the Greek flag. The people were in favour of the revolution, but the wealthy ship-owners, who possessed all the power, were averse to fitting out their vessels for unprofitable service, and opposed the revolution until a popular insurrection broke out and their authority was set aside. The united fleet of the three islands, instead of attacking the Turkish fleet, which was occupied in conveying store-ships to the besieged garrisons, swept the seas of merchantmen, and attacked and plundered an Austrian vessel. Two Hydriot brigs captured a Turkish ship, with a very valuable cargo, carrying, among other passengers, a recently-deposed sheikh El-Islam, or Patriarch of the Mussulmans, and all his family. These and all on board were murdered by their captors; but the affair in the end benefited the Turks, for the captors refused to conform to the regulation that had been laid down, that all booty should be the common property of the fleet. Quarrels began between the sailors of the different islands, so that the fleet broke up, and was for a long time useless for any concerted action against the Turks.

The Creole visited the three islands in succession, handing over to the authorities in each ten guns, with a considerable amount of powder and shot, a thousand muskets, and ten thousand rounds of ammunition. There was a large amount of shipping in each of the harbours, and Will Martyn had the Creole’s guns all loaded and double shotted before entering.

“There is no saying what these fellows may be up to,” he remarked to Horace. “Seeing us giving away so large a quantity of valuables, they may think that we have got a gold mine on board. I don’t mean to close an eye while we are in harbour, I can tell you.”

Mr. Beveridge, personally, was received with much honour at these islands, and the guns, which Will Martyn had taken care should be the largest of those in the hold, were dragged up by the people and placed in the batteries.

The Creole then crossed to the Piræus. The Acropolis of Athens was still held by the Turks, who were closely besieged there. Will Martyn landed with Mr. Beveridge. Horace told his father that he would rather not accompany him.

“You will be going about and seeing people, father,” he said, “and, as you say, you may have to go to other places to find some of the nominal authorities to sign documents, and so on, authorizing us to hoist the Greek flag, and giving us the usual papers carried by privateers. This may take time, for you and Martyn think that as the Greeks themselves have no such formalities, but fight the Turks just as they find them, it may be difficult for you to persuade them that letters of marque are really required authorizing the vessel, as a Greek ship, to capture, burn, and destroy all Turkish vessels she may meet.”

“It is a mere formality, Horace.”

“Well, father, I don’t think that Martyn or the others look at it at all in that light, and I know they consider it absolutely necessary that we should have papers of that sort. Even with such papers they say they expect there will be a lot of difficulty, if they take any prizes, in disposing of them, and that, unless they have papers signed by the central government, the chances are that the moment a Turkish prize is brought into port, the Greeks will seize it as public property, and want to cut the throats of any Turks prisoners. Certainly we should not stand that, and we should be in the position of having to fight the Turks at sea and the Greeks in port. So I should not be surprised at all if you are ten days, or a fortnight, before you can get all the papers you want. Of course Martyn’s signature will be necessary to all sorts of things, and as there is no humbugging him he will be wonderfully useful to you in all sorts of ways.”

“But why should you not go with us too, Horace?”

“I would very much rather not, father. Of course I am quite with you in wishing to see Greece independent, but I am so disgusted with all these stories of the horrible atrocities they have been guilty of, and at the way in which, instead of joining together to fight the Turks, they are all bent only on getting power or spoil, and of behaving more like a collection of bands of brigands than a united people, that I would rather not see any more of them at present, or I shall get regularly to hate them. In a short time, I have no doubt, we shall hear of a lot of things done by the other side. We may be sure that the Turks will avenge the eight thousand Mussulmans who were murdered at Tripolitza. We heard at Zante that they had begun it, and then one thing will balance the other and I may get enthusiastic about the Greeks again; but at present, father, what I should like to see is this, that the Creole should be employed as a rescue ship.”

“How do you mean, Horace?”

“I mean, father, that we should try to save as many of these wretched Turks, and their women and children, from massacre as we can; and on the other hand, that we should try to save as many Greeks as possible from the vengeance of the Turks. There ought to be lots of opportunities both ways. If we are with the Greeks when they capture a Turkish vessel we can buy off the prisoners. The Greeks are fonder of money than even of blood, and the money will be a deal better spent that way than if wasted among the politicians, the captains of brigands, or primates, and would do good to the cause of Greece by saving it from dishonour. When the Greeks make a descent upon a Turkish island we could send our boats ashore and take off a lot of the inhabitants, and we could do the same thing when the Turks attack a Greek place or island; and if either Greeks or Turks interfere with us at the work, I should say let us thrash them whoever they are. I consider that would be a glorious mission, and would be a credit to the flag we fly whether it is Greek or English; and if I were you I should speak out to Kolokotronis, or any other leader you may meet, and tell him frankly that you have come out to help the Greeks with arms and money, but that these massacres will turn all Europe against them; and that unless you are provided with an authority to take and hold all Turkish prisoners, and to protect them both from the populace and the sailors, you will withdraw altogether, and will do your best to prevent such atrocities, even if it comes to firing upon Greek vessels engaged in them.”

“I will do so, Horace,” his father said in a tone of decision. “We are a match, I fancy, for half a dozen of the Greek ships. They will find us a very different vessel to deal with than those slow-sailing Turks. I quite approve of what you say. For the first outburst of vengeance when they rose I am willing to make every allowance; but the revenge taken by the Turks at Kydonia should have reminded them that there are at least a million of their fellow-countrymen in Asia Minor whose lives have been endangered by their atrocities. Henceforth I will, as you propose, devote myself to saving life, and part of the money that I had intended for the Greeks shall go to make up to the crew for any loss they may sustain by missing the chance of taking prizes. I will hoist the Greek flag as I intended, and we, at least, will keep it unsullied.”

Horace repeated the substance of the conversation to Will Martyn and the other two officers, who cordially agreed; for although they had, of course, heard less at Zante of the details of the massacres than their employer and his son had done, they had heard enough to fill them with indignation, and to disgust them with the cause that they had come out to defend.

“That will be first-rate,” Martyn said, “and I can foresee we shall have lots of fun, and are likely to end by fighting both parties. There will be plenty for us to do. We will see if we can’t cut off some of the Turkish vessels laden with Greek captives for sale as slaves in the markets of Alexandria; while, as for the Greeks, if we slip in and save their captives they will be like a pack of wolves after their prey. If I am to go with your father, Horace, you may be sure I will take any opportunity I may get of speaking out, and I reckon I will open the eyes of some of these Greek swells by the way I will give it them. I tell you what, Miller: While I am away do you get up eight of those eighteen-pounders from the hold and mount them instead of the twelves. Now that she has got so much of her weight out of her she can carry them well enough, and I fancy we are likely to want as heavy metal as we can mount before we have done.”

At dinner that day Horace said: “Are you thinking of changing her name, father, when you change your nationality?”

“I wasn’t thinking of changing her name at all, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said in surprise.

“Well, I thought, father, the Greeks wouldn’t understand the name of the Creole at all. It was a good name for a slaver and did well enough for a yacht, and if we ever take her back to England I should like her to be the Creole; but I think it would be better to have some name that the Greeks will understand.”

“What name would you propose, Horace?”

“Well, father, I have been thinking of it, and if you have no objection I should like to call her the Misericordia, ‘the Pity.’ We came out here because we pitied the Greeks, and now we pity the unfortunate people, both Turks and Greeks, and you have agreed that our mission shall be to save both of them from slaughter.”

“I think it would be a very good name, Horace. The Misericordia it shall be. What do you say, Captain Martyn?”

“I think it would be a capital name, Mr. Beveridge,” Martyn said, “and the crew will fight all the better when they know what the name means and what we intend to do. Sailors have no particular love for the Greeks—they always regard them as treacherous beggars; and they have no particular hostility against the Turks, who fought pluckily enough on our side in Egypt, and have always been friendly with us. I am sure that when our fellows understand that what we are going in for is to save women and children from being murdered, whether they happen to be Greeks or Turks, you will find them ready to do anything.”

The next day Mr. Beveridge and Will Martyn landed, and Miller set the crew at work to mount eighteen-pounders in place of the twelves, and to get the ammunition for them into the fighting magazines in place of that of lighter calibre. Zaimes had accompanied Mr. Beveridge. Marco remained on board, but had leave every morning to go on shore the first thing after breakfast, and to remain there until late in the afternoon, when he came off in time for dinner. He brought news that it was believed the Turks in the Acropolis could not hold out much longer, as their provisions were running very short. After an absence of ten days the party on shore returned, and an hour after they did so the English flag was lowered and that of Greece was hoisted, while a flag with the word Misericordia replaced that of Creole at the masthead. Captain Martyn called the crew together.

“My lads,” he said, “you all knew that when we arrived here we were going to hoist the Greek flag instead of our own, and that we were going to act as a Greek privateer against the Turks. That, you see, is done, and we are authorized by the Greek government to capture or destroy any Turkish vessels we may meet. You see we have changed her name, and I will tell you why Mr. Beveridge has done this. We are going to fight for Greece, but at the same time, as British sailors, we are not going to stand by and see men, women, and children murdered in cold blood, whether they are Turks or anyone else. There has been a great deal too much of this sort of thing done on both sides, and we mean to stop it as much as we can. We are going to prevent the massacre of Greeks by Turks, and I hope we shall manage to lay hands on some of the Turkish vessels carrying Greek women and children captive to sell them as slaves; but on the other hand we intend to save as many Turks as we can from being massacred by the Greeks, and that is the reason why Mr. Beveridge has renamed his craft the Misericordia, which means ‘the Pity.’ I am sure, my lads, that there is not a British sailor who would not risk his life to save those of women and children, and that is what we mean to make our first object, although we hope to lower some Turkish flags before we have done with them; but in any case we mean to save life whether it is Greek or Turk we have to fight in doing so. It is a work, my lads, in which we may all be proud to take part, and in which, whether we fight under the English flag or the Greek, we shall be doing a duty dear to every British sailor. Now, my lads, we will give three cheers for the Misericordia.”

Three hearty cheers rang out from the sailors. They had all been on shore at Zante, and had heard enough from the soldiers they fraternized with there to fill them with disgust and indignation at the conduct of the Greeks, and this announcement that they would henceforth put a stop to such cruelty, even if they had to fight for it, filled them with satisfaction.

“We had hard work of it,” Martyn said to Horace, talking over his visit ashore. “In the first place they wanted us to hand over all prisoners we took, and half the plunder and value of the prizes, to their miserable government. We told them that we would see them at the bottom of the sea first. I was with your father at a meeting with the fellows they call Kolokotronis and Odysseus, and half a dozen other of their leaders, and you should have seen how your father spoke out. He got upon his legs and he just poured it out. I did not know, of course, what he was saying, but he told me a little about it afterwards, and I could see by their faces that it was hot and strong.

“He told them that their countrymen had disgraced their cause by conduct worthy only of the lowest savages, and that if they did not give him the authority he demanded, to interpose to save Turks from massacre, he would sail on to Constantinople, hoist the Turkish flag, and fight against the ships that behaved like bloodthirsty pirates rather than Greek patriots, and that they would find his ship a very different opponent to the Turks. I did not think your father had it in him. It was splendid, I can tell you, and the faces of those fellows were worth seeing. I don’t expect they ever had such a straight talking to before. I believe altogether he spent about a thousand pounds in bribing a dozen of them; anyhow he got what he wanted. In the first place we are authorized to hoist the Greek flag, and to capture and destroy Turkish vessels; and in the second, to dispose as we please of all prisoners. We may take on board Turkish fugitives and dispose of them at our pleasure, free from all interference from any Greek authorities or Greek ships. We are to pay a quarter of the value of all prizes and booty into the treasury of the central government, and are to send ashore to-morrow five thousand muskets and twenty rounds of ammunition for each.

“Your father has had a hard time of it. I don’t believe there has been a single Greek politician or leader who hasn’t called upon him privately, to what they call borrow money from him. At last I had to regularly mount guard over him and set Zaimes at his door to tell all comers that he was too unwell to see anyone, which was not far from the truth, for he was regularly upset at the meanness and trickery of the people he had come to spend his fortune to assist. However, thank goodness it is all over. I am precious glad that I am back, I can tell you, for I believe if I had stayed there much longer I should not have been able to have prevented myself from walking into some of them. Your father has been trying to find out whether they have got any general plan of defence; but they have no more plan than a lot of children would have if they got up a rebellion. Everyone wants to be a leader; everyone complains of everyone else. They scarcely seem to give the Turks a thought. All their energies are occupied by their own miserable squabbles and rivalry. Well, I don’t want to set foot on shore again as long as we are out here, unless it is on some real expedition.”

“What about the Turks in the Acropolis, Martyn?”

“They are negotiating, but the poor beggars know there is no faith to be placed in the Greeks, and that so far there is not a single instance in which they have kept their promises for the safety of garrisons who have surrendered. They want the guarantee of the European consuls for their safety, but they can’t give it, as they have no force here to protect them. I told our consul that we would lend him the whole of our crew if he liked, and that I thought we could pretty well clear out the town; but he said that that would be well enough if there was no one to protect. But that as there are something like two thousand men, women, and children up in the citadel, fifty men could never protect them against the mob. However, I hope the Turks will be able to hold out for some time yet. The Greeks only guess that their provisions are running short, and if a man-of-war, French, or English, or Austrian, comes into the harbour the consuls will ask its commander to protect the Turks, and will then guarantee their safety.”

“When are we going to sail?” Horace asked.

“To-morrow. The two Greeks will go ashore the first thing in the morning to lay in a fresh stock of meat and vegetables. As soon as all are on board we will get up anchor. I have heard lots of shocking stories on shore from Greeks who have escaped from Asia Minor and the Turkish islands. There have been massacres in almost every city where there were Greeks; at Smyrna, Adrianople, Salonika, Cos, Rhodes, in Crete and Cyprus, and as far as I can hear the Turks have altogether massacred nearly as many men, women, and children as the Greeks have done. I saw General Gordon, who is a warm friend of the Greeks, and he said that it was impossible to justify the ferocity of the Greeks, or to deny that a comparison between them and the Turks would give the latter the palm of humanity; that is, if the term humanity could be employed to either.

“We went up and saw some of the troops, as they call them, active, hardy-looking fellows. They seem in earnest enough, and are ready, as a French officer said to me, to submit to anything but discipline. He said that the Klephts and armatoli are as fine material for mountain warfare as one could wish to see; one day honest, hard-working peasants, the next engaged in partisan war, or in raids on their neighbours; frugal, hardy, active, and in their way brave; men who would never storm a position or stand against the attack of Turkish infantry or cavalry, as the war has everywhere shown so far; but who would defend a hillside or hold a ravine against good troops, and when driven out, make another stand at the first position they came to. Anyhow they are worth a lot more than the townspeople, who brag and vapour and go about armed to the teeth, but who take precious good care never to get within range of a Turkish musket.”

Early the next morning some large boats came off, and the muskets and ammunition were transferred to them, and at noon the two Greeks brought off a boat-load of fresh meat, vegetables, fowls, eggs, fruit, and other stores. As soon as these were slung on board, the anchor was got up, and the Misericordia, under a gentle breeze, stole out to sea.

“That is better, Miller,” Will Martyn said as he looked over the side. “She has not gone like that since we shook out our sails for the first time. I should say she is just about in her right trim now, and is ready to fight or sail anything of her size afloat. How easily she goes through the water. There is scarcely a ripple in her wake. She is a beauty.”

“Which port now, Martyn?”

“I was talking it over last night with Mr. Beveridge, and as soon as we get well off land I am going to shape a course that will take us down between Cyprus and Alexandria. It is of no use cruising about here. The Turks only move about under a convoy of their men-of-war, and it would not be much better across on the other side, for the Greek vessels are everywhere on the look-out. But they don’t like going far from home, and if we cruise well to the south we shall have a good chance of falling in with craft bound for Alexandria from Cyprus, Crete, and Syria, and any or all of them will be likely to be carrying Greeks captives to the slave-markets at Alexandria, Tunis, or Tripoli.”

“Those are the sort of craft to meet with,” Miller said. “I suppose they are sure to be armed. Of course one would be glad to rescue captives and save them from their horrible fate. But there will be much more satisfaction in doing it if we have a bit of a fight first.”

“Yes, I should say they were certain to be armed. No Turk would venture to sea at present unless he thought himself strong enough to beat off the attack of at least two or three of these Greek vessels. After cruising about for a bit we intend to dodge about Cyprus and the other Turkish islands, keeping near the coast so as to give Greek fugitives a chance of coming on board. We know that there have been massacres at all these islands, and may be again, and there must be thousands of unfortunate creatures who would give anything for such a chance of getting away. We can anchor in quiet bays, for we need have no fear of any boat attack; and if the Turks come out in force we have always the option of running away or fighting.”

“That is a very good programme, Martyn. We are not likely, as you say, to find any Greek craft cruising about between Cyprus and Alexandria. Turkish vessels going up towards the Dardanelles, or coming down from there, are prizes worth taking, for they may have pashas and rich officials on board; but down there they would be less likely to have anything that would repay the Greeks for the risks of a fight. As for risking anything to save their countrymen, Mr. Beveridge was saying he heard that at the massacre of the Greeks at Kydonia, although the Greek fleet, under Tombazes, was close at hand, and their launches went on shore and rescued four thousand of their countrymen, they compelled them all to purchase their passage to the nearest Greek island by giving up the greater part of the property they had saved.”

“Brutes!” Martyn exclaimed with great emphasis. “How these fellows can be descendants of the old Greeks beats me altogether.”

“The old Greeks were pretty cruel,” Horace, who had just joined them, said. “They used to slaughter their captives wholesale, and mercy wasn’t among their virtues. Besides, my father says that except in the Morea very few indeed are descendants of the Greeks; the rest are Bulgarian or Albanian, neither of whom the Greeks of old would have recognized as kinsmen.”

“It is a case of distance lending enchantment to the view,” Miller laughed; “our illusions are gone.”

“Never mind, we must make the best of them, Miller; they are not Greeks, but at any rate they are all that is left of the Greeks. Their actions show that their Christianity is a sham, but at the same time they are an intelligent race capable of some day becoming a great people again, and they are struggling to throw off the yoke of a race intellectually their inferiors and incapable of progress in any sort of way. That is what my father said to me as we were walking up and down the deck this morning. That is the light I mean to look at it in the future. It is a capable people struggling with an incapable one, and if they are savage and vindictive and debased it is the faults not of themselves but of those who have so long been their masters.”

“Good,” Martyn said; “that is the most satisfactory view of the thing, and we will stick to it and shut our ears as much as possible in future against all stories to the Greeks’ disadvantage.”

In the afternoon a fleet of vessels were seen standing out from the land.

“There is one of the Greek fleets,” Captain Martyn said. “Now we will try her rate of sailing with them. Stand on for a little bit longer and then haul her wind on the same tack they are sailing.”

The trial was perfectly satisfactory. By nightfall the Greek fleet were far behind, and the Misericordia again shaped her course for Cyprus. For a week they cruised backwards and forwards under easy sail about midway between Cyprus and Alexandria, without meeting with a single craft flying the Turkish flag. Half a dozen vessels were overhauled, but these were all Austrian, Italian, or British. The appearance of the schooner evidently excited profound distrust in the minds of the masters of all these vessels, for they all hoisted every rag of sail they could set and did their best to escape from her, but Captain Martyn had no difficulty in overhauling them and satisfying himself of their nationality. The astonishment of the masters when the smart gig manned by six English sailors rowed alongside was unbounded, and was only equalled by their satisfaction.

“You have given us a nice fright,” the master of one of the English ships said to Miller, who, accompanied by Horace, had boarded him. “What on earth are you flying that Greek flag for? We took you for a pirate, for half these fellows are no better when they get the chance.”

“We are a Greek privateer.” Miller said, “and carry letters of marque issued by the Greek government. We only wanted to assure ourselves that you were not Turks.”

“Turks be jiggered!” the master said angrily. “I should have thought anyone with half an eye could have seen that we weren’t one of those lubberly Turks.”

“Quite so, captain, we made that out some time ago, and we have only overhauled you to ask whether you know of a Turkish ship likely to be sailing from any of the Eastern ports. Our object is to rescue Greek women and children on their way to the slave-markets.”

“Then give us your flipper,” the master said; “that is a business an English sailor needn’t be ashamed of, though, as for sailing under a Greek flag, I would almost as lief sail under the skull and cross-bones, for nine cases out of ten it means pretty nearly the same thing. I have known many a ship sail in among those Greek islands and never be heard of again when there had been no storm to account for her disappearance. I would as lief anchor a ship near land in the Malay Archipelago as among the Greek islands. Still the women and children ain’t to blame for that. I was at Broussa two months ago and the slave-market was chock-full of Greek girls and children, and I thought then what a burning shame it was that Europe didn’t interfere to put down such villainous doings. Well now, as to Turkish ships, I don’t think you are likely to meet with any hereabouts. The Greeks have given them a bad scare, and I fancy that all the ships from Cyprus and from Aleppo and the other Syrian ports will run down due south till they sight land, and will hug that as near as they dare go till they get within shelter of the batteries of Alexandria. If you are after Turkish vessels you must stand south and anchor as close inland as the water will let you. Get down those lofty spars of yours. You don’t want them. That craft of yours sails like a witch. We think the Scarborough is a fast brig. You went through the water three feet to our two, so you can do without your topsails. I can tell you the look of your craft is enough to frighten one fifteen miles away; a more rascally-looking vessel I never saw, she looks like a pirate all over.”

“She was a slaver at one time,” Miller said.

“Ah! that accounts for it. I thought that long low hull and those lofty spars were never put together for an honest purpose. You seem to carry mighty heavy metal,” he went on, looking at the Misericordia, which lay with her head sails aback a few hundred yards away. “Four each side and a pivot; they look like eighteens.”

“They are eighteens,” Miller said. “You see we have got to keep a sharp eye on friends as well as foes.”

“I should think so. Well, I have just come out from Larnaca. I heard from our consul that there were bad doings in the north of the island, and that the Christians were having a very rough time of it all through Cyprus. I have no doubt there are a lot of Christians hiding there who would give every stiver they have got in the world to be on board this craft.”

“And you say there were some massacres going on when you were there?”

“Yes, and I heard that the Turks were attacking one of the Christian villages on the north-western corner of the island. It was some way up on Mount Olympus, a few miles from the coast. Morphou Bay is the nearest point to it. I hear it is naturally a strong place, and Christians from other villages round have gone in there. The people attacking it are not troops, who I fancy have nothing to do with these massacres, but the natives of the Mussulman villages. Some of the poor devils may have got down to the coast, and you might pick some up if you were to cruise along there.”

“Perhaps we might,” Horace said; “at any rate it would be worth a try. We will go on board again at once.”

“Will you have a glass of wine first? I got hold of some good stuff at Larnaca. Good wine is cheap there now.”

“No, thank you, we will be off at once,” Miller said.

“Well, good-bye, gentlemen, and good luck to you! There is nothing I would like better than to be going for a cruise with you for a few months, for no vessel can do better work than that which you are engaged on.”

Miller and Horace dropped down into their boat, and were rowed back to the schooner.

CHAPTER VIII

A BESIEGED VILLAGE

AS soon as they gained the deck of the Misericordia Miller reported the advice the skipper of the English brig had given as to their taking their station near the southern coast, to pick up vessels hugging the shore on their way to Alexandria and the west.

“I have no doubt he is right,” Will Martyn said; “that accounts for our not having seen a single craft flying the Turkish flag. Well, Mr. Beveridge, I think we can’t do better than take his advice.”

“There is something else though,” Horace broke in; and he then told them what the captain had said about the fighting among the villagers on Mount Olympus.

“Don’t you think, father, we might go there first? With this wind we should not be much more than twenty-four hours getting there, and we might pick up a lot of fugitives in hiding and possibly bring off the people from that village. It would not be a great loss of time anyhow.”

“I think we might, Horace; hearing of it in the way you did, it seems almost like a call to help them. What do you say, Captain Martyn?”

“Just as you like, sir. As Horace says, it is no great loss of time anyhow, and we certainly may do some good.”

The order was given and the schooner was headed for Cyprus with a brisk wind on her beam that heeled her well over and sent her through the water at nine and a half knots an hour. The news was soon known through the vessel that there were massacres going on in Cyprus, and that there might be some work to be done, so there was an air of increased activity and animation among the crew. The wind held steadily, and next morning the mountains of Cyprus could be seen lying like a cloud in the distance, and by eleven o’clock the north-westerly point of the island was but five or six miles away. Rounding the point they entered the great indentation known as Morphou Bay. Martyn now ordered the topsails to be lowered.

“We will run along about a mile off shore,” he said; “they can make out the flag then. We will go along as far as the other end of the bay and then come back again. If there are any people in hiding in the woods they will keep an eye on us, and as we come back will come off in boats if they have got them, or will come down to the shore and signal. We can send our boats in for them.”

As they were still going through the water faster than they wished the foresail was also lowered, and they then went quietly along the coast, keeping a sharp look-out with their glasses on the shore. They passed several villages and could see that their appearance created much excitement, and that the population at once deserted their houses and made off.

“They are evidently all Mussulman villages,” Mr. Beveridge said.

“They are Mussulman villages at present, Mr. Beveridge,” Martyn agreed, “but the chances are they were Christian a short time ago. You see they have all got fishing boats either riding at anchor or hauled up, and I fancy that most of the fishing is done by the Greek inhabitants. I expect the Turks have cleared them out. What do you say, Mr. Beveridge, to our firing a shot or two at each of the villages as we pass? That will act as a warning to the Turks to keep out of range. If there are any Christians left they may take the opportunity of seizing the boats and coming off. We might lie-to for half an hour opposite each village to give them a chance of doing so.”

“That would be a very good plan, I think, Captain Martyn.”

As they were passing a village at the moment the Misericordia was at once brought round. Two of the broadside guns were loaded, and two shots were sent over the village. Then the craft was hove-to, and waited for half an hour. As there were no signs of life, she again proceeded on her way. Three more villages were fired at with the same result. Half a mile beyond the furthest Tarleton exclaimed: “There is someone swimming off, Captain Martyn; he has just put off from that point! There, do you see that black spot a little way off the point?”

Martyn turned his glass in that direction. “I see him,” he said. “Lower the small gig, Mr. Tarleton; take four hands, row off, and pick him up. You had better go too, Horace. The chances are he won’t speak anything but Greek.”

In a couple of minutes the boat left the side of the schooner and rowed in the direction of the swimmer, the vessel being again thrown up into the wind. Horace stood up while Tarleton took the tiller lines.

“Can you see him, Horace?” he asked.

“No, not yet. There is too much ripple on; but if you keep her head as it is now I shall make him out before long.” Three or four minutes later he exclaimed: “I see him, he is dead ahead!”

Five minutes later the swimmer was alongside. He was a lad of about Horace’s age.

“Are you Greek?” he asked in surprise and in some alarm, as he looked at the uniforms of the crew as Horace helped him on board.

“We are fighting for Greece,” Horace said, “although we are all English. We heard that there was some trouble here, and came to see if we could save any fugitives.”

“I saw the flag,” the lad said, “and heard you fire twice at the village. My mother and sisters, and twenty or thirty others, are hidden in the wood there. The Mussulmans came down from the mountain villages three days ago and killed all they could find; but we were expecting it, for they had gone to the next village first, and a man from there brought the news just before they arrived. We lived on the outskirts and had time to get away, but I think my father and brothers have been killed. Do go on shore and take them off.”

“We must go back to the ship first,” Horace said. “This boat is too small to be of any use; besides, we must send a stronger crew. No doubt the Turks are watching us, and will come down if they see us landing.”

The schooner had filled again and was following the boat, so that in two or three minutes they were on board. Horace lent the young Greek some of his clothes, and the schooner stood in towards the point, with a man in the chains sounding as they went.

“Ask him whereabouts they are, Horace.”

“Just on the other side of the point; but they will see us coming.”

“I see no signs of them yet,” Tarleton said when, having got within three hundred yards of shore, the anchor was let go.

“It is likely enough,” said Martyn, “that some of the Turks may have been coming down through the wood, and if the poor beggars heard them they would not dare show themselves. Now, Mr. Miller, you take charge of the long-boat with ten men. We will cover your landing.”

The four broadside guns were loaded with grape, and their crews mustered to quarters, while the rest, armed with muskets, lined the side.

“Take the boy with you, Mr. Miller, he can lead you to where his friends are hiding. Don’t stop to fire as you make for shore. We will dispose of any Turks there may be about.”

The boat had not rowed more than fifty yards before five or six musket shots were fired from the bushes near the edge of the water.

“Give them a round with the aftermost gun,” Captain Martyn said; and in a moment the water near the bushes was torn up with a shower of grape. “Give the next gun more elevation, boatswain. Send the shot well into the wood. That’s it. The same with the other two guns. That will clear them all out.”

There was no further firing at the boat. As soon as it touched the shore Miller jumped ashore with eight of the men, while the other two pushed the boat off a few yards. Led by the Greek boy, the party ran along the shore and were lost to view round the point. Two more rounds were fired into the wood, but everything was quiet there, and in five minutes Miller’s party made their appearance round the point with a number of fugitives. No time was lost in getting them into the boat, which at once rowed off to the schooner. There were but three men among them, the rest were women and children. Most of them were completely exhausted.

“GIVE THEM A ROUND,” SAID CAPTAIN MARTYN

Horace, after asking them a question or two, said to Zaimes: “You had better prepare some soup, Zaimes, as quickly as you can. They have had nothing to eat for three days.”

While this was being done, a sip of wine and a mouthful of bread were given to each. In the meantime some sailors were rigging up a partition with sail-cloth across the main deck, and here hammocks were slung for the use of the women and children. As soon as the poor creatures had taken a basin of hot soup they revived a good deal and poured out expressions of profuse gratitude to their rescuers. They had passed a terrible three days crouching among the bushes, and expecting every moment to be discovered. A few of the women had snatched up their jewels before taking to flight, but most of them were absolutely destitute. Mr. Beveridge and the two Greeks persuaded them to go below and take the sleep they so much needed. As soon as the deck was clear the anchor was got up, and the schooner proceeded on her way. She reached the farthest headland of the bay just as night began to fall, and Martyn decided to anchor there till morning. From the Greek lad who had first swum off, they learned that the village among the mountains still resisted.

“They say there are two or three hundred there who have taken refuge from the villages round. There are some rich men among them, and that is the reason why the Mussulmans are so anxious to take the place.”

“How many men are besieging it?”

“That I don’t know,” the boy replied. “I should think four or five hundred.”

“But you have heard nothing for the last three days? The place may have fallen since then.”

“No, I went last night to the village in hopes of finding bread in some of the houses, but there were too many Turks about. I was near enough to hear them talking. Some of them were going up to-day to join in the siege.”

“How far is the place from the sea?”

“It is ten miles from this north shore, but it is not more than four or five from the western coast.”

“Is there any road?”

“Not from that side. The roads from the mountain villages all lead down to the bay.”

“Is it too steep to climb from the other side?”

“Not too steep to climb on foot. Donkeys and mules could get up there.”

The matter was talked over in the cabin that evening, and it was agreed that if a guide could be obtained an attempt should be made to carry off the occupants of the village. During the night a boat with twelve fugitives came off from the shore and as the Misericordia sailed slowly along the coast on the following day several parties of from three to ten people came out from the trees and waved white handkerchiefs and scarfs. All these were brought off, and four or five boats full of people were picked up during the day. Their occupants had seen the schooner passing on the previous day, and had at night, when the Mussulmans in the village were asleep, stolen down to the beach, launched boats, and put out to sea in the hope that the schooner would return next day. All were overwhelmed with joy at finding themselves under the Greek flag, although the greater portion of them had lost everything they possessed. The women and children were, like the first batch, provided for below, while the men and boys were told they must sleep on deck, which was no hardship in that balmy climate.

Among those in the last boat picked up near the west point of the bay was a young man who was a native of a village lying a short distance from the one that was besieged. He happened to be down in the coast village when the Turks commenced hostilities there, and hearing that the village to which he belonged had been destroyed, he had remained in hiding near the coast. Marco and his brother, who mingled with the fugitives, had learned this, and at once took the news to the cabin. “He says he has been a goat-herd, and knows all the paths among the mountains.”

“Then he is the very fellow we want to get hold of,” Will Martyn said. “We had better have him in here and question him.”

The young Greek was brought in. He knew of several paths from the village down to the western shore.

“Now what sort of place is this village?” Captain Martyn asked.

“It stands at the top of rocky ground that slopes away all round it. There are vineyards and gardens among the rocks. Since the trouble in Greece began, the people have been frightened, and have built a wall five or six feet high round the village, and the Christians in all the villages round decided that if there was trouble from the Mussulmans they would go there to help defend it.”

“Is there high ground round the village?”

“Yes, the hills rise very high on three sides, but they are too far away for guns to do much harm; besides, the houses stand thickly together. My people will fight till the last, but I don’t know how long the provisions will last. I know they all made up their minds that if they were besieged and saw no hope of succour, they would at last kill all the women and children to prevent their being made slaves by the Turks, and then they would march out to fight until the last man was slain.”

“How long would it take us to get up from the shore to the village?”

“One can come down in an hour, but it takes three hours’ hard work to get up.”

“Could you after dark take us close to the point where one of these paths comes down to the shore?”

“Oh, yes, I could do that easily.”

“Very well, that will do for the present. Now, Mr. Beveridge, it is for you to decide,” Martyn said. “Of course the affair is a risky one; but it seems to me that forty well-armed English sailors ought to be able to make their way into the village without very much difficulty, for of course the Turks will be scattered about all round it. The difficulty is not in getting in, but in getting out. We should have to bring perhaps two or three hundred women and children, and cover their retreat down to the water. Of course the men would help us, but still it would be a stiff job in the face of four or five hundred of the enemy. These Turks may know nothing of soldiering, but they are mountaineers and are used to arms, and for irregular fighting like this, would be quite as formidable as the best troops. If we knew anything about the ground we should be able to give a more decided opinion. What of course we should want, if possible, would be some post, either a defile or a steep eminence that we could hold for half an hour and keep the Turks back until the women and children are well on their way down the mountain. After that we could make a bolt for it, and might get down without much loss; but if there is no place where we could make a stand anywhere along the road, we should be in an awkward fix, especially if the path is a bad one, as I expect it is. You see the whole party would have to go in single file, and if there are four or five hundred of them, it would be next to impossible to guard the flanks and keep the Turks off if they made a rush, while every shot they fired would tell on such a long line. You understand, Mr. Beveridge, I am putting the matter to you in the worst light so that we should all understand the sort of business it is likely to be.”

“I see that it is a very serious affair, Martyn; but at the same time, when we know that there are so many lives at stake, I think that we must run the risk, however great.”

“Very well, then, that is settled, Mr. Beveridge, and I am sure we are all glad that you have decided so. The next question is, who shall go, and who shall remain behind.”

“I shall certainly go,” Mr. Beveridge said. “I am not going to allow others to take risks that I do not share myself.”

“We ought to be as strong a party as possible,” Martyn said. “At the same time we must leave enough to sail the schooner, if not to fight her. It is probable that yesterday morning, as soon as our flag was seen, messengers were sent off at once to Limasol and Larnaca to tell them that a Greek vessel was in the bay; and if there are any Turkish vessels of war in either of these harbours, we shall be having them coming round.”

“That is likely enough,” Miller said. “We must certainly be ready to get up our anchor and be off at a minute’s notice.”

“Well, Miller, then you must remain on board with ten men. We will load all the guns before we go. Ten men are enough to get up sail and to fight the pivot-gun. You had better not waste any time in getting up the anchor, but buoy and then slip the cable. We can recover it, if we like, afterwards. If you should be driven off the coast while we are away, lower a sail under her fore-foot so as to deaden her way and encourage the Turks with the hope that they are going to catch you. Lead them a dance for seven or eight hours, then cut the drag adrift, set every stitch of sail, and run back again. You will be here in plenty of time to get us all on board before they can come up again. Of course if we see that you are gone we shall choose some position where we can make a stout defence, and shall hold it until you come back to the anchorage.”

“All right, sir. I will obey orders. Of course I would rather have gone with the expedition ashore; but someone must stay on board, and if you are going I must take the command in your absence. Ten men will be quite enough for me. We can leave the main and foresail standing when we anchor, so that will be plenty of strength.”

“Well, as that is all settled, we will bout ship and cruise east again. It will be dark in an hour, and it is well they should think on shore that we are off again to the east. I daresay they can make us out from points on the mountains not far from the village. If they see us sailing away, it will never enter their heads that we have any intention of interfering in their little game up there.”

Accordingly the schooner was again put about, and retraced her course along the shore until it became quite dark; then she stood out to sea until well out of sight of land, when she was headed west again. The news had already got about through the ship that there was to be a landing party to rescue a number of Christians besieged by the Turks among the mountains, and the sailors were in the highest spirits, cutlasses were ground, pistols and muskets served out to those who were to land, and the disappointment of those who were to remain behind was mitigated by Horace mentioning to them that not improbably they might have a brush with the Turks on their own account.

Cartridges, muskets, and pistols were served out, and the arms carefully examined. Each man was ordered to take with him a water-bottle filled with weak grog, and two pounds of bread in his haversack, and a hearty supper was served out. Once round the point of the bay the schooner was kept close in shore. The Greek kept a sharp look-out on the hills looming high above them, and about nine o’clock announced that they were now near the place where a track from the mountain came down to the shore. The anchor was at once dropped and the headsails lowered. Then the sailors took their places in three boats, two of the men who were to stop behind going in each to bring them back to the schooner when the landing had been effected. Zaimes was to accompany the party, while Marco remained with Mr. Miller on board.

Ten of the fugitives, active young men, had begged to be allowed to accompany the expedition, but the offer had been declined, and they were told that they might be more useful helping to work the guns of the schooner should a Turkish ship-of-war come round. When the arms had been purchased a dozen good rifles had been among them, and after Mr. Beveridge, Zaimes, and the three officers had each armed themselves with one of these, the rest were divided among the best shots of the party. Tom Burdett, much to his disappointment, was left on board to assist the first lieutenant.

As soon as the boats reached the shore the men were formed up. Tarleton was to lead the advance party of ten men, having with him the guide. Close behind these were the main body, twenty strong, led by Martyn; behind them Mr. Beveridge, with Zaimes and the surgeon, who was also accompanying the party, had their place. Horace commanded the rear-guard of ten men. Although this nominal division was made, the whole party kept closely together, as the night was so dark that they might otherwise have missed each other. None of the fire-arms were loaded, lest an accident should occur by a gun being discharged by a fall, by striking against a rock, or by the trigger catching in a bush.

After a few hundred yards’ walk along the shore the Greek struck upon the track and led the way up, the rest following in single file. The climb seemed interminable to Horace. At times it was so steep it was difficult to scramble up, and in the darkness there were many falls. There were frequent stops, to enable the men to get their breath; but after three hours’ climbing they at last reached comparatively level ground, and the guide told them they were within half a mile of the ridge from which they could look down upon the village.

“Well, we will move slowly forward until we come either to some bushes or a bit of a hollow where we can get some shelter, for it is quite sharp up here, and as soon as the men begin to cool down a bit they will feel it. I wish we had brought blankets now, but it never struck me that it would be cold. Mr. Tarleton, let your ten men scatter. Don’t let them wander too far, but let them search about for some place where we can get shelter. We will remain here; and if any of the men find a place, send one back to bring us up. We have got another four hours to wait before daylight.”

In ten minutes one of the men came back with news that they had found a patch of bush large enough for them to take shelter in. In a short time they all arrived at the spot. The bushes were sweet smelling and free from thorns, and the men soon crushed their way into them and lay down.

“You will remain in charge, Mr. Tarleton. I shall go on and take a look down at the village. I don’t suppose we shall see much, but we may be able to make out whether they are still holding out. Will you go on with me, Mr. Beveridge, or stay here?”

“I will go on with you. I find it bitterly cold here; for not being accustomed to hard work, as your men are, I found that climb almost too much for me; and hot as I have been, I should not like to stop still in this keen air, even with the shelter of the bushes.”

“Well, we will take it easy this last bit, Mr. Beveridge. Come along, Horace.”

Again preceded by the guide, and followed by Zaimes, they ascended the shoulder of the hill. It was a steep pull, but in a quarter of an hour they reached the crest. Just as they did so they heard the report of a gun, followed at once by several others. An exclamation of satisfaction broke from them. Their climb had not been in vain; the village was still holding out. Fifty yards farther the ground fell away suddenly in front of them, and they stood at the edge of a deep descent. Extending round the foot of the hills that formed the amphitheatre in the centre of which the village lay, was a line of fires; some blazing brightly, others dim red spots. Another chain of fires, much closer together, extended across the mouth of the valley. The village, lying in the black shadow of the hills, was invisible to them, and not even a single light indicated its position.

“That is where it is,” the guide said, pointing down to the centre of the hollow.

As he spoke a flash of flame, followed a second or so later by a report, shot out from the spot towards which he was pointing.

“They are keeping a sharp look-out,” Martyn said; “they are not to be caught napping. Now the point is, which is our best side for going down on the village without being seen?”

“The best point,” the guide said, “would be from the head of the valley. Orchards extend from the village to the foot of the hill, and a ravine runs some distance up there. If we could get into that, we might get some distance through the orchards before we are noticed.”

“Could you lead us along the side of the hill to this ravine in the dark?”

“I think so. I am sure I could lead you. The danger would be from setting stones in motion and so calling the attention of the enemy. The hillside is very steep, and a stone set rolling would go right down to their fires.”

“We must risk that,” Martyn said. “It would be a great thing to be able to take them by surprise. Don’t you think so, Mr. Beveridge?”

“I should say it was well worth trying. But it is the getting out, not the getting in, that seems to me the difficult part of the business.”

“There is no doubt about that,” Martyn agreed. “Will you ask him if this part we are standing on goes straight down to the village? The slope looks to me almost too steep.”

Mr. Beveridge put the question to the guide.

“He says the road zigzags. Olive-trees grow up for some distance—about a third of the distance, he says.”

“That is good,” Martyn said, “because if we get the people with a sudden rush across the open we can defend the lower edge of these trees, and the women and children will be hidden from below till they get up above the trees, where they would be pretty well out of danger except from a chance shot. I think, Mr. Beveridge, it would be a good thing to leave Tarleton with fifteen men here. If we can take them by surprise five-and-twenty of us ought to be quite enough to make our way in. Even if there are six hundred of them they must be scattered pretty thinly round this circle, and are probably thickest down at the mouth of the valley. The rear-guard here will of course be concealed until we sally out. Then if the Turks from the other side and the end of the valley try to climb the hill on either side of the path so as to cut us off, our fellows here could open fire and prevent them doing so, and as the enemy would not be able to see how many men there are, it would stop them a bit.”

“I think that would be a very good plan, Captain Martyn.”

“Very well, then. Horace, do you go back to the bushes, bring Mr. Tarleton and the men up. Tell them to move as quietly as they can when they get near this point.”

The men got up willingly when Tarleton gave the word, for although the bushes afforded some shelter, they were already feeling very chilled, and were pleased to be in motion again. They met Martyn a short distance from the spot where Horace had left him. The men were halted.

“Now, Mr. Tarleton, you are to take the fourteen men who came ashore with you in the gig. For the present you had best return with them to the bushes and wait there till daylight. Then you will come back to this point. Post the men where they cannot be seen from below. Be sure that not a head is shown. Take your own post at a point whence you can see down into the valley without being seen yourself. You will remain in hiding while we fight our way into the village. As soon as you see the sortie begun get your men ready for action, and let them lie down without showing themselves more than they can help at the edge of the brow from which they can fire down into the valley. Your duty is to prevent any parties of the enemy working along the side of the hill to take the fugitives and us in flank as we come up the path. As the women and children arrive tell them to push on along the path as fast as they can, without stopping or paying attention to any fire that may be opened upon them. They will be told before they start that the schooner is in readiness to take them off. Still, you may as well hurry them along. You will remain here until the last and form the rear-guard. But we shall all make a stand here as long as we can so as to give the women and children plenty of a start. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shall I go with you or wait here?” Macfarlane asked.

“I think you might as well stay here, doctor. There won’t be any time for you to be dressing wounds till we are back here again.”

Tarleton called out the men who had landed with him, and marched off with them.

“Now, my lads,” Martyn said to the others, “we are going to work along the side of the hill so as to come down behind them. But I fancy it will be very steep in places. Sling your muskets behind you so as to have both hands to hold on by. If you once begin to roll you go right down to the bottom, and then there is an end to our chance of surprising them. Be careful, above all things, how you walk, for if you set a stone rolling it will put them on their guard. We have to go as quietly as mice. Now follow me in single file, and keep as close as you can to each other, yet so far off that if you stumble you won’t touch the man in front of you.”

The men fell in, and Horace took his place at the rear. A few steps and they halted. The guide then went on in front of Martyn, and Mr. Beveridge and Zaimes fell in behind him. The hill rose so abruptly on the right that it was necessary to keep along on its slope, and very cautiously the men made their way along the hillside. Each step had to be felt before they put their weight down. Sometimes it was slippery grass, and so steep that they were obliged to crawl on all-fours to make their way along it. Sometimes they passed patches of bare rock and sometimes slides of loose stones. They had gone but a short distance when Martyn passed the word along in a whisper for them to sit down, pull off their shoes, and fasten them round their necks. Indeed, had it not been for this precaution, there were places across which it would have been impossible to pass. As it was, it took them a full hour to traverse the half-mile between the point from which they had started and the head of the valley. At last a sharp fall told them that they were at the edge of the ravine. As soon as they descended into it there was a short halt to allow Mr. Beveridge to rest.

“I am sorry I came,” he said as he sat down faint and exhausted. “I did not reckon on this sort of thing, Captain Martyn. If I had done so I would have remained with Tarleton.”

“It is all right now, Mr. Beveridge. We have done our climbing, and it is a marvel that we have done it without alarming those fellows below, for some small stones rolled down once or twice. But if they noticed them, no doubt they thought that it was some sheep or goats on the hillside. Now, my lads, before you go any further, you had better take a drink from your bottles. You will have to be careful in going down the ravine, for there are sure to be loose stones lying about.”

After a halt of five minutes they proceeded cautiously down, and at last, to their great satisfaction, stood on level ground, and soon entered a grove of fruit-trees, where they halted and lay down. There was a short consultation whether their guide should try and make his way into the village to inform the besieged of the help that was near in order that they might assist by opening a fire upon the besiegers as soon as the sailors made their attack. The idea was, however, abandoned, because, were he seen by the Turks, it would put them on the alert; and because, in the second place, he might be shot by the besieged as he approached the village. It did not seem to Martyn that there could be any difficulty in their getting in. It was not likely that more than fifty of the enemy at the outside could interpose between them and the village, and these, taken by surprise, and ignorant of the number of their assailants, could offer no effectual resistance, and they would be up under shelter of the guns of the defenders of the village before the Turks could rally from their first surprise.

Another two hours and daylight began to appear. Martyn waited until it was light enough to make their way through the trees without difficulty. Then the men, most of whom had fallen asleep as soon as they lay down, were roused.

“Now, my lads, you are to keep together. Keep your muskets slung, and use cutlass and pistol. I don’t expect there will be any serious resistance, but, at any rate, don’t straggle. Of course we don’t want any prisoners. Shoot or cut down any one who opposes you, and follow me straight on. Now, load your pistols.”

As soon as this was done they proceeded through the wood. The guide, as before, led the way. His instructions were that directly they were through the Turks he was to run on at the top of his speed, shouting to the villagers not to fire, as those approaching were friends. Martyn, Mr. Beveridge, Horace, and Zaimes, followed close behind the guide, the line of seamen extending behind them. They were nearly through the orchard when a shout was given and they saw a dozen figures leap up from the ground.

“Come along, lads!” Martyn shouted.

The sailors gave a cheer, and at a run the party rushed forward. The Turks, astounded at the appearance of this body of sailors, snatched up their muskets, one or two fired at random, and then the whole fled when their assailants were still thirty yards away. A few pistols were emptied at the fugitives, and then, paying no further attention to them, the party kept straight on. When they emerged from the trees the village was but some three hundred yards away. The Greek, waving his red sash and shouting “Friends, friends, do not fire!” dashed forward at full speed across the gardens that intervened between the orchard and the rocky knoll upon which the village stood. A row of heads appeared above the wall and a line of musket-barrels pointed outward. As the Greek approached shouts of welcome and triumph broke from the besieged, which swelled more and more loudly as the party of sailors were seen running in a compact body towards the wall.

A few straggling shots were fired by the Turks, but these passed harmlessly overhead, and the party reached the wall without a single casualty, and were soon helped over. The delight of the Greeks was only equalled by their astonishment at the approach of this body of foreign sailors. All hope of either escape or rescue had left them, and they had thought only of fighting to the last. As soon as they understood from the guide, Zaimes, Horace, and Mr. Beveridge that there was a ship in readiness to take them off, and that there was a chance of fighting their way through the besiegers, the village was the scene of the wildest delight. The men shouted, screamed, danced, laughed, and wept by turns. The women seized the sailors’ hands and kissed them, to the confusion of the tars, threw themselves on their knees, and poured out passionate ejaculations of thanksgiving that a hope of rescue should be afforded them, and it was some time before anything like order was restored. By this time the alarm had spread round the circle of the besiegers, and their anger was exhibited by shots being fired into the place, many of them pressing forward so threateningly that the defenders manned the walls, and opening fire upon the Turks drove them back out of range of their guns.

CHAPTER IX

RESCUED

AS soon as the excitement subsided a little, Mr. Beveridge assembled the heads of the families in the village church. “You must prepare to leave at once,” he said. “Our landing will be shortly known, and it will be guessed that we intend to take you off in our ship. The consequence is, in addition to the enemies now round you others will gather, and it will be no longer possible to cut our way through. What we propose to do is to make a rush out, the women and children following us. As soon as we have gained that wood and driven the Mussulmans out the women and children will hurry up the path, while all the fighting men will hold the wood and keep the Turks at a distance. There are some more of my men at the top of the hill there; these will keep off any parties of the enemy who try to scale the hillside at other points. As soon as the women are fairly at the top the men will fall back gradually. The sailors will cover the retreat. We shall hold the top of the hill till we know that the women have got nearly down to the sea-shore, and then fall back. We are risking our lives here to save you, and we shall expect all the men to fight valiantly and to obey our orders. It is only by working well together that we can hope to beat off the Turks as we retreat, and to get safely on board ship. You must not load yourselves with baggage; of course each man can take anything he can carry wrapped in his sash, and the women can take bundles such as they can carry on their heads, but they must beware not to take too great weights. Anyone who lags behind will have her bundle taken off and thrown away.”

“Would it not be better to wait till night?” one of the elders of the village asked.

“No. The captain of the ship says that in the dark we should not be able to keep off the enemy nor to travel fast. We may lose rather more in the first rush in daylight, but after that the light will be all in our favour. How many men have you armed with muskets?”

“There are a hundred and forty-six men, and all have guns.”

“How many women?”

“There are about two hundred women and girls, and a hundred and eighty children of all ages.”

“Very well, I leave it to you to make preparations. You must tell the women that they are to keep together, and to follow about a hundred yards behind the men as they advance. As soon as the wood is taken they are to hurry through it, mount the hill by the path, and then without stopping a minute go on at the top of their speed to the sea-shore. It is just possible that some Turkish ships-of-war may have driven our vessel away, but if that is so she will be back again this evening. If they find she has gone they must sit down under shelter of the rocks near the shore, and we will keep the Turks at bay till the ship arrives. Make your preparations and get your valuables together, for in an hour from the present time we shall sally out.”

While this was going on Martyn had formed up the villagers, for the firing had now ceased. The besiegers had before shrunk from attacking the wall, relying upon famine to compel the defenders to surrender, and the addition, small as it was, to the garrison rendered any idea of assault more formidable than before. Horace acted as Martyn’s interpreter.

“Now,” he said, “I expect we shall have no difficulty in carrying the wood, for the enemy can have no idea that we intend to escape in that direction, or that we mean to sally out at all; therefore it is not likely that they will have more than fifty or sixty men at that point. In the first place I want forty determined men who can be trusted to obey orders.”

One of the leaders of the defence chose out that number of men. Martyn divided them into two parties and told off five sailors to each.

“Horace, you will take command of one of these bands, and you, Jones,” he said to the coxswain of his gig, “will take command of the other. Your bands will fall in behind the main body, which I shall lead. We shall go straight at the wood. You will follow us till you are half-way across the open, and will then take post, one to the right and the other to the left, fifty yards from the line we take. Your work will be to check any of the Turks who may come running down from the ends of the valley, and to cover the passage of the women. As soon as they have all passed along you will both run in and join us in the wood. Now, lads, I want the wall undermined for a width of ten yards or so, so that when we push it it will all fall together and leave a wide front for us to pour out. It is not above three hundred and fifty yards or so to the wood, and we shall be half-way across before the Turks can pull themselves together, and they won’t have time for much more than a shot each before we are upon them.”

In an hour the whole of the villagers were gathered. There were five or six wounded men unable to walk. These were laid on doors, and four Greeks were told off to each. The children were told off, one to each woman. Twenty of the Greeks were to form a special escort for the women, and Martyn’s order to their leader was, “See that each woman takes along the child told off to her. If she doesn’t help it along, take off her bundle and throw it away; force her to look after the child. Not a single child shall be lost if we can help it. Life first, property next.”

Martyn was well pleased with the bearing of the Greeks. The men looked ready and eager for the fight; the women, stern and determined. All of them had knives or daggers in their sashes. Some, in addition, had their husbands’ or fathers’ pistols. Their bundles were poised on their heads, and each, with the exception of a few of the old women, had an infant in her arms or held a child by the hand. The twenty English sailors formed the first line; behind these came the main body of the Greeks. Horace’s and Jones’ parties were drawn up three or four paces in their rear, and behind these were gathered the women.

“Now,” Martyn said to the Greek fighting men, “on one point my orders are distinct. Not a shot is to be fired until we reach the trees. Firing would be no good whatever; it would be a loss of time, and your guns would be empty just when you want them; besides, you would be as likely to shoot those in front of you as the enemy. All you have got to do is to follow me closely until you get into the olive grove, then scatter and clear it of the Turks; but don’t go a foot beyond them in pursuit. Directly it is clear let each man take up his station behind a tree at its edge, and defend himself there until the order is given to fall back.”

Zaimes translated the order, then the sailors advanced to the wall, from which the lower stones had been removed as far as was safe. “Now put your shoulders to it, my hearties, and heave all together. One, two, three; now!”

The walls shook as the sailors flung themselves against it. “It is going. Now another try.” There was a shout as the wall toppled over. Then with a cheer the sailors sprang forward, led by Martyn, dashed over the fragments of the wall and down the steep rock, the Greeks pouring after them in a confused mass, and then the whole dashed across the flat cultivated ground towards the olive grove. As Martyn had foretold, not a shot was fired until they were nearly half-way across, though loud shouts of alarm were heard, then a straggling fire was opened; but the enemy were evidently too flurried and alarmed to take aim. Without a check the sailors ran on, cutlass in hand, but the Turks did not await the attack. Outnumbered and surprised they had no sooner fired than they dashed away among the trees to join their companions right and left, and the olive grove was deserted when the sailors entered.

“That will do, lads!” Martyn shouted. “Leave the Greeks to hold the wood. Sheath your cutlasses and unsling your rifles. Come back with me to help the others; keep back the enemy in the open.”

There was, however, no occasion for assistance. The women, instead of waiting, had followed close behind the flanking parties, and were already coming into the wood. By the time Martyn joined the flanking parties the women had all passed, while Horace and Jones were just beginning to fall back with their commands. By this time the valley rang with shouts and cries, and guns were being aimlessly discharged, but the sailors were back in the olive grove before the Turks had mustered strongly enough to think of advancing. The sailors lay down in the intervals between the trees, and as soon as the enemy began to advance a heavy fire was opened upon them, the twelve rifles telling with deadly effect. The Turks on the opposite side of the valley instead of advancing at once to the assistance of their comrades, made a rush at the village as soon as they perceived that it was no longer defended, thinking for the moment much more of plunder than of attacking the retiring Greeks, while the parties who had begun to advance towards the wood rapidly retired again before the heavy fire opened upon them.

“Go round and stop those Greeks firing, Horace; the fools are simply wasting their ammunition,” Martyn said savagely as the Greeks continued to blaze away when the enemy were already out of range of their guns. Horace hurried off one way and Zaimes the other, and in a minute or two the firing ceased. As it did so the report of guns could be heard on the hill above them.

“That is Tarleton’s party at work,” Martyn said to Mr. Beveridge. “Of course the Turks have seen the women mounting the hill, and I suppose some of them were beginning to climb up to cut them off. Tarleton’s fire will stagger them a bit.” From the shouts in the valley it was evident that the enemy were gathering for a serious attack. Horace had returned to Martyn’s side.

“Now, Horace, do you take ten of the men and ascend the path half-way up the hill. Post five of them on each side of it to act as flanking parties. Zaimes, do you tell your countrymen it is time for us to be off. We must get well up the hillside before these fellows make their rush. Mr. Beveridge, will you make your way up the path at once. These Greeks are as active as goats, and I should recommend you to be pushing on to get a start of them.”

In a couple of minutes the entire party had left the wood and were mounting the path, Martyn and his sailors forming the rear-guard. The Greeks sprang up the path with such speed that the sailors, active as they were, had hard work to keep near them. Mr. Beveridge was speedily overtaken.

“Jones, you take Mr. Beveridge’s rifle; and do you, Hawkins and Baldock, help him along. Make haste, lads! we shall have a storm of bullets coming up after us in no time;” for as soon as the fugitives appeared on the path above the level of the tree-tops a loud shout had broken from the enemy, and it was certain they would soon be upon them. So rapidly, however, was the ascent made that Martyn and the sailors reached the spot where Horace with his party had taken up his position before a shot rang out from below. There was a slight shoulder on the hillside at this point, and lying down here the men were sheltered from the fire below.

“Wait here, my lads, until you get your wind. Their guns will hardly carry this height, and there is no fear of their showing themselves above the trees, at any rate for the present.”

Mr. Beveridge threw himself down on the grass, and even the sailors were glad of a pause, for in the five minutes that had elapsed since they left the wood they had climbed half-way up the hill and were fully three hundred feet above the olive grove. A roar of musketry broke out from below, and some of the Mussulmans dashed out from the trees, waving their guns and calling upon the others to follow them; but as soon as they showed themselves the sailors under Horace opened fire. Some of the others would have joined them, but Martyn forbade them.

“It is no use trying to take aim, lads, just after such a run as that. You must wait until your breath comes quietly, and your hands get steady again. You would be only throwing away powder and ball, and we shall probably want all we have got before we are on board the schooner again.”

The firing above still continued, and looking along the hillside men could be seen straggling up in considerable numbers on either side.

“Forward, lads! we must move on again. Horace, you may as well bring your men straight up. There is no fear of their venturing on an attack up this path. Bring your father on with you. There is no occasion for haste; we will push straight up now. Forward! Don’t run, but go at a steady pace that you can keep up till we reach the top.”

Horace followed with the rear-guard at a leisurely walk wherever the inequalities of the ground sheltered the path from the bullets that still came singing out from below, and stepping out briskly whenever they were exposed to fire. The coxswain was waiting with orders when they reached the top.

“The captain’s orders are, Mr. Beveridge,” he said to Horace, “that your party is to remain here for the present with these twenty Greeks. You are to spread along the edge here for a bit and keep up a fire, if the Turks try to climb the hill hereabouts. The captain is with a party away there on that high ground back on the left, and Mr. Tarleton with the rest back there on the right, so as to prevent the varmint working round in front of us. You are to let them know if you see any large bodies of men climbing the hill, either right or left of you.”

Horace divided his party in two, telling Jones with five sailors and ten Greeks to take post a hundred yards to the left of the path, while he with the others went the same distance to the right.

“Don’t let them waste their ammunition, Jones. My father and Zaimes will go with you, and as you three have rifles you may do something to check those fellows from climbing up away to the left. It is no use the others firing, their guns won’t carry half the distance. Of course if the Turks try to come straight up from the wood your party will all open fire upon them.”

As soon as he got to his station Horace lay down, and with one of the sailors with him who had a rifle, opened fire upon the stream of men ascending the hillside near the head of the valley. After firing three or four rounds he told the sailor to desist.

“We are only wasting our ammunition, Frost,” he said. “They are seven or eight hundred yards away, and the rifles are of no real use at more than half that distance.”

Ten minutes later he sent off sailors to Martyn and Tarleton, to tell them that the Turks continued to climb the hill in large numbers, and that he should think that at least two hundred men must have gone up on each flank, that flames had broken out in the village, and numbers of men were pouring out from there, and would probably join in the attack. A few minutes later a message came from Martyn:

“The captain says, sir, that now the women have got half an hour’s start we shall fall back. Your party are to retire by the path. He and Mr. Tarleton will work down the hill on your flanks. You are to keep your eye on them, and regulate your pace by theirs, keeping about a hundred yards in their rear, unless you are pressed, when you can double on till you are in line with them. He has sent orders to Mr. Tarleton, sir.”

Horace was expecting the order. A sharp fire had broken out on either side, and he knew that the Turks were trying to work round to cut them off.

“Run on,” he said to the sailor, “and tell the other party over there to join me in the path.”

In three minutes the united body was marching to the rear. The crackle of musketry was now incessant, and Horace soon caught sight of the two flanking parties making their way down the hill at a distance of a hundred yards or so on either side of the path. They were in scattered order, loading as they retired, crouching behind rocks to take a steady aim, and then retiring again; going at a run when the ground permitted it, hanging to the rocks and bushes when they afforded shelter. On the higher ground, to the left of Martyn’s party, were a number of Mussulmans. They were pursuing similar tactics to those of their opponents—at times crouching behind rocks, and then bounding forward with loud yells.

“Get ready to fire, lads,” Horace said. “The next time those fellows make a rush give them a volley. They are not thinking of us yet, and we shall take them by surprise. Take steady aim; don’t hurry. Halt; drop on one knee. They will be crossing that open space in a minute.” He repeated the order to the Greeks. “There they come,” he said a moment later. “Get ready! Now fire!”

Thirty guns rang out; several of the Turks fell, and the rest, with a shout of surprise, bounded back into the bushes.

“Now retire briskly for a bit, and load as you go.”

After a hundred yards’ running they again fell into a walk. Horace kept his eye upon Tarleton’s party. They did not seem so severely pressed, and had the advantage that their foes were on somewhat lower ground than they were. Presently a sailor came in from the left.

“Captain Martyn’s orders are that the two flanking parties are to fall back quickly to the path, then to double down the hill to that shoulder a mile below. You are to act as rearguard, and to follow close behind them.”

In two or three minutes the two flanking parties, taking advantage of cover which concealed them from the enemy, made a rush to the path. The body under Tarleton gained it first, and at once started down at the top of their speed. Martyn’s party were but a minute later. He himself paused till Horace came up at a run.

“We can go faster down this path,” he said, “than they can follow over the rough ground, and there are such a lot of them that they will jostle each other on the path, and won’t get along as fast as we shall. How are you feeling, Mr. Beveridge?”

“I am all right now we are going downhill, Martyn. It is only the climbing I can’t stand. This is really very exciting work, though I don’t like running away.”

“We will make another stand presently, but I wanted to be getting on. They will get stronger every minute, and we shall have to fight hard presently. Do you see that the schooner has gone?”

An exclamation broke both from Mr. Beveridge and Horace. In the excitement of the fight neither of them had thought of the schooner.

“There she is, five-and-twenty miles away to the northwest, with two Turkish frigates lumbering after her.”

The firing had ceased; the yells of the Turks rose loudly in the air, but they were fully two or three hundred yards in the rear.

“We are in plenty of time,” Martyn said. “We will line the other side of that flat step when we reach it. We can keep them back there for some time.”

There was no attempt at keeping in order, the path was too steep and broken; but they went down running and leaping, each as he best could. Down the path, in front, was a long straggling line of Greeks, with the sailors, keeping in two distinct bodies, among them. As soon as the head of the line came down on to the flat step in the hill they spread out right and left, and in less than ten minutes from the issue of the order to retreat the hundred and eighty men were lying down along the lower edge of the level ground, which was some forty yards across, the centre of the position being left vacant for the last party that arrived. The instant the rear-guard threw themselves down they opened a heavy fire upon the Turks, who were crowding down the path. Horace was lying next to his father.

“Do keep your head lower, father,” he said, as the Turks left the path and bounded in among the rocks and shrubs and opened fire.

“But I can’t take aim if I don’t see, Horace.”

“No, father, that is right enough; but you might move a foot or two back, so as to be in shelter while you are loading. Then, if you push your rifle up before you, you would only have to raise your head to look along the barrel and fire. Some of these mountain fellows are good shots.”

The firing in front of them increased every moment as the Turks poured down and took up their positions, until puffs of smoke seemed to dart out from every bush and rock. Martyn now went along the line posting the men. Horace’s party were left lying thickly opposite the path, in case the Turks should attempt a rush. The rest were disposed two yards apart, the sailors being placed at regular intervals among the Greeks. Fortunately the ground fell sharp away from the flat, so that even from the higher ground those lying behind it were completely sheltered, except when raising their heads to fire. This, by Martyn’s orders, they did but seldom.

“Let them blaze away as much as they like,” he said, “they do us no harm. The great thing is to have every musket loaded in case they make up their minds to try a rush, and I don’t think they will do that. The more smoke they make the better, for it prevents them taking aim. We can stop them here for hours, as long as they don’t work round our flanks.”

Satisfied that all was going on well, Martyn returned to Mr. Beveridge.

“We have stopped them for the time effectually, sir.”

“Yes, this is a capital position, Martyn.”

“Capital as far as it goes, sir. Of course if these fellows were soldiers they would either gather and make a rush, or march away and work round our flanks; but being only peasants, there is no one to command, and every man fights for himself. Macfarlane is at work with the wounded.”

“Did you lose many men in your retreat, Martyn?”

“No; three of the Greeks were killed and half a dozen of them were wounded, fortunately not severely. Two of our own fellows were hit, but neither of them badly. I have sent them and the Greeks on ahead to join the women on the shore. Tarleton lost two Greeks, killed, and had about as many wounded as I had. One poor fellow was so badly hit that he could not keep up with the others on the retreat. Two of our men tried to carry him; but it hurt him so much that he begged them to put him down; and as soon as they did he drew his pistol and shot himself. So, altogether, we have lost six, which is little enough, considering we are more than half-way down to the shore.”

“If they do try to outflank us, I suppose we must fall back again?”

“Yes, if they succeed we must do so. Of course we shall try to prevent it. Directly I see any signs of their trying it on, I shall make a strong effort to drive them back; but I don’t think they will try it at present, the sole object of each man seems to be to fire away his ammunition as quickly as he can. I have just been giving orders to the Greeks and our fellows to shove their caps up in front of them on the ends of their ramrods, so as to encourage the Turks to keep on firing, and to push a musket up and fire occasionally, without raising their heads to take aim. The smoke hanging about along the line will hide the trick of the caps, and the shots will keep the Turks blazing away.”

For two hours the firing continued; but towards the end of that time it slackened considerably.

“I expect a good many of them are running short of ammunition,” Martyn said. “Now they have done firing they will have time to talk a bit, and may arrange to march off somewhere, and come down between us and the shore; so I think it is time for us to be making a move. I will go along and tell every third man to fall back at once. I think, Mr. Beveridge, it would be as well that you should go with them. I shall send Tarleton in command, and tell him to pick out a spot, from a hundred to three hundred yards from the shore, and place the men in position there. Five minutes later you shall pick out every second man, Horace, and go down and join them. We will keep up a more rapid fire now, so that they sha’n’t have any idea we are falling back. Of course, when you join Tarleton, you will take up your position with him. I shall be down five minutes after you. When we are all there we can form a semicircle, with the ends resting on the sea, and there will be an end of this constant fear of being outflanked.”

Five minutes later Tarleton, with a third of the men, went off at the double down the path. Those left behind renewed their fire, taking aim among the rocks and bushes, and this at once provoked a fresh outburst of firing on the part of the Turks. In a short time Martyn told Horace to get his men together and be off, and in twenty minutes he joined Tarleton, who had taken up his post at a little more than a hundred yards from the shore. The men were slashing down bushes with their cutlasses, and piling them and stones so as to make a low breastwork. The party Horace had brought at once joined in the work.

“It is a screen we want more than a defence,” Tarleton said. “You see we are commanded everywhere from the hill, but these bushes will hide us, and they will only be able to fire into them at random; besides, we want them cut down in front of us to be able to use our guns.”

They were soon joined by the rear-guard.

“The Turks must be some distance behind,” Martyn said. “We could hear them blazing away when we were nearly half a mile on the road. That is a good work, Mr. Tarleton; we shall get it finished by the time they come.”

So strong a party made quick work of it, and in another quarter of an hour the screen of bushes was completed down to the shore on either side, the sweep being some three hundred yards in length, and the breastwork in most places three feet high.

“It won’t keep out bullets,” Martyn said; “but from the distance they won’t see how thin it is. At any rate it is a good screen.”

The whole of the Greeks and twenty of the sailors were placed at intervals of about six feet apart behind the screen, and each man was told to dig up the soil with a knife or cutlass in front of him, and with that and a few rocks to make a protection for himself against stray bullets. The other twenty sailors Martyn retained under his own command to carry to the assistance of the defenders at any point against which a serious attack might be made. Mr. Beveridge had gone down at once to the women and children who were sitting under shelter of the bank by the sea-shore, and cheered them by assurances that the schooner would be sure to return some time during the night. It was not until a quarter of an hour after the screen had been completed that parties of Turks could be seen descending the side of the hill. They did not seem to be hurrying.

“They think they have got us in a trap, Horace,” Tarleton said, “and that they have only to wait a bit to starve us out. Perhaps it is just as well the schooner made off, for it would have been hot work all getting on board under their fire, whereas now we shall be able to slip off in the dark almost without their knowing it.”

When the Turks approached to within a distance of three or four hundred yards of the breastwork, the party with the rifles opened fire upon them, and they at once fell back some little distance. For half an hour nothing was done, and then a party of fifty or sixty men were seen reascending the hill.

“They are going to make a siege of it,” Martyn said. “They don’t like the look of this breastwork.”

“But what are they sending the men away for, Martyn?” Horace asked.

“Because it is just as necessary for them to eat and drink, Horace, as it is for us. We have got our water-bottles and biscuits, and the Greeks have all brought something with them; they were warned to do so before they started. But those gentlemen all came off in a hurry. I don’t expect any of them had breakfast, and in the excitement not one in twenty is likely to have caught up as much as a gourd of water, so I have no doubt those men you see going up the hill are on their way to their villages for a supply of food and water, and perhaps to get some more ammunition if they can find any. I will warrant half those fellows in front of us have fired away their last shot. You will see they won’t disturb us any more to-day.”

THE CAPTAIN IS WOUNDED

A few shots only were fired from either side during the course of the day, this apparently being done on the part of the Turks from pure bravado, as they generally showed themselves conspicuously, brandished their long guns over their heads, and shouted defiantly before firing. One of them, however, having been shot by a sailor armed with a rifle, the amusement ceased, and during the afternoon all was quiet. An anxious look-out was kept seaward all day. At five in the afternoon one of the sailors sang out, “Sail, ho!”

“Where away, Baldock?”

“About west-north-west I should say, sir, though I ain’t sure of my bearings here.”

Martyn went up to where the man was standing on a rock that projected eight or ten feet above the surrounding ground, a position which would have been dangerous had not the Turks been almost out of range.

“There, sir, do you see just under that streak of white cloud? it is a little black patch.”

“I see it, Baldock.”

“I believe it is the schooner’s gaff top-sail, sir; it is too narrow for a square sail.”

“I think you are right, Baldock. It might be the peak of one of the native lateen sails, but I think it is too far away for that. It is about the direction we might expect the schooner to come from. She was more to the north-west when we saw her last, but to get round the Turks she would have to bear either one way or the other, and if she ran to the south that is just about where she would be on her way back. Hullo! that was a near shave; we had better get off this, Baldock.”

“Are you hit, sir?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it is of any consequence; it is in the arm, but as I can move it all right, it is only through the flesh.”

Half a dozen guns had flashed out in reply to the shot, which had been fired from a distance of less than a hundred yards, the man having crept through the bushes unseen. Martyn’s coat was taken off and his arm bandaged at once.

“It is rather foolish to expose yourself like that, Captain Martyn,” Mr. Beveridge said as he came up. “Your life is too valuable to us all to be risked in that way.”

“It was rather foolish,” Martyn laughed; “but I thought the fellows were out of range, and did not give them credit for enterprise. Anyhow there is no great harm done. I think we have made out the schooner, sir, and it is worth getting a ball through one’s arm to know that she is on her way back.”

“Do you feel sure it is her?”

“Well, I can say that it is not a square top-sail; that is certain, and it must either be her gaff top-sail or the peak of a lateen sail of one of these native craft; but I think it is the schooner. If it is, we sha’n’t be long before we can make out her fore-top gallant-sail. No native craft carries a lateen and anything like a square sail.”

“If it is the schooner, how far is she off, do you think?”

“Five-and-twenty miles, I should say. There is not much breeze, but that is all the better, for she will be slipping along now at least two knots to the Turks’ one, while in a strong breeze she would not go more than five to their four. It is five o’clock now, and though we can’t feel any wind here, I expect she is making five or six knots an hour. Anyhow she ought to be here between ten and twelve.”

A quarter of an hour later Baldock said: “May I take another squint from the look-out, sir?”

“Yes, but don’t stand there long, Baldock. I expect that fellow has moved off again if he was not hit by any of our shots. Still it is as well not to give him another chance.”

Baldock stood on the rock shading his eyes from the light of the western sun, which was now getting near the horizon. For a minute or two he stood uncertain, and then said:

“It is the schooner, sir, sure enough. I can just make out a black line below the sail; that must be her fore-top gallant-sail just showing.”

A cheer broke from the sailors lying along the shelter of the screen of bushes.

“That is good news, Baldock,” Martyn said. “Come down now; another half-hour will settle it anyhow, and there will be light enough till then.”

The next observation settled the question. It was certainly a square sail underneath the sharp peak of a gaff top-sail. The joy of the Greeks was extreme when they heard that the vessel that was to carry them away was in sight.

“The schooner will be in a nice mess,” Martyn grumbled to Tarleton. “With what there are on board now, and all these, there will be something like six hundred of them; a nice cargo that.”

“There is one thing,” Horace laughed, “I expect she has carried as many before.”

“Yes, I daresay she has taken six hundred slaves, but we can’t pack these Greeks as they pack slaves. There will be no moving on board, and as to fighting the guns if we fall in with a Turk, it will be well-nigh impossible. Why, she will be as deep in the water as she was when we sailed out of Plymouth. What is the weight of them all, Horace, do you suppose?”

“Not very great, Captain Martyn. I don’t suppose there are a dozen of the men weigh over ten stone. I suppose the women average seven, and the children, counting babies, say four. As there are as many children as there are men, that would make the average seven stone all round, but even if you said eight stone, which is a hundredweight, and they are certainly not that, or anything near it, that would make thirty tons, and it won’t be over that if you throw in all the bundles. You calculated that you got fifty tons out of her hold.”

“Oh, well, that is not so bad. If it comes on to blow we will make shifting ballast of them, and pack them all up to windward on both decks; that ought to make her as stiff as a church. It will be a big job getting them all on board tonight. There is one thing, I don’t suppose the Turks have made her out. Of course they don’t know that we are expecting a vessel, or anything about her rig. We must make a fire down on the shore as soon as it gets dark, and keep a sharp look-out for her, putting the fire out as soon as she is near enough for the light to begin to show on her sails. Then we will open fire all along the line as if we thought we heard them creeping up towards us, and that will cover the rattling of the anchor chain. I will hail Miller to muffle the oars, and in that way we may manage to get most of them on board at any rate before the Turks have an idea of what is going on. By firing an occasional shot we shall keep their attention fixed, and gradually withdraw from the line as we did from that place we held up there.”

CHAPTER X

A DARING EXPLOIT

SOON after nine o’clock Will Martyn took his post on the shore at the northern end of the position. A dropping fire was kept up all round the semicircle, as if the defenders feared that the assailants might be trying to crawl up towards them. Martyn continued to listen intently for half an hour, then he thought he heard a sound on the water. In another minute or two he could make out the sound of voices.

“Miller has got his head screwed on the right way,” he said to himself. “He is showing no lights.” Another five minutes and he could dimly make out the outline of the schooner.

“Misericordia ahoy!” he shouted.

“Ay, ay,” came across the water.

“I am going to put out the fire so that the light won’t show on your sails, and in a minute or two I am going to open fire heavily to cover the rattle of the chains. Directly you hear us begin let go the anchor; don’t answer.”

Horace was standing by the fire, and he at once scattered the brands and threw sand over them. Martyn ran up to the front of the position and shouted, “Open fire!” and the rattle of musketry broke out all round the screen. The Turks, surprised at the sudden din, and fearing that a sortie was going to be made, replied briskly, and for four or five minutes the fire was maintained. Horace down on the shore heard the rattle of the anchor chain and the creaking of the blocks, followed shortly by the sound of the tackle as the boats were lowered.

“Please muffle the oars, Mr. Miller!” he shouted, and the answering hail came across the water. Twelve of the sailors came down from their posts to assist with the boats, and in three or four minutes there was a slight splash of oars, and the four boats of the schooner ran gently ashore.

“All well, I hope?” Tom Burdett asked as he jumped out.

“All well, Tom, with the exception of about half a dozen slightly wounded.”

“Thank God!” the boatswain said. “I tell you we felt mighty sore at having to run away and leave you just at daybreak this morning, and you can’t tell how glad we were when we caught sight of the fire first and then made out the popping of the guns. Have you got the Greeks out, Mr. Horace?”

“Yes, there are over five hundred of them here.”

“My eye!” the sailor said, “that is something like a cargo.”

“I have got twelve men here, Tom. That will give you four and a helmsman to each boat with what you have got. Has Marco come ashore with you?”

“Yes, Mr. Horace. I thought I might be useful if you had got the Christians with you.”

“Yes, that is what I wanted you for, Marco. Now, then,” he said to the women who were clustered behind him, “take your places in the boats. Help them in, lads; there are lots of children among them. You need not be afraid of packing them closely so long as you leave yourselves room to row, for there is not a ripple on the water. Father, would you mind going off with the first lot?” he said as Mr. Beveridge came up. “Marco has come ashore to help here, and Mr. Miller does not talk their language. If you take Zaimes with you he can help settle them down as they come on board. Mind, lads, you are to make as little noise as you can. There are six hundred of those Turks lying round us, and if they got a notion of what was going on they would be coming on us like a pack of wolves, and in the dark they would be among us before we knew that they were coming, and your first boatload would be your last. Impress upon the Greeks, father, when they get on board, that not a word must be spoken.”

“Mr. Miller will see to that, sir, no doubt,” the boatswain said. “He has got the whole lot of them down between decks, and he and Bill Scoons have got the deck to themselves.”

The women and children were crowded into the boats, which were first backed stern on shore to allow them to enter. The sailors lifted the children, and wading into the water put them in. The smaller boats pushed off as soon as they were filled, and they were back again just after the two larger ones started. The schooner was but a hundred yards away, and so quickly did the work go on that in little more than a quarter of an hour the last batch of women and children left the shore. Horace directed Marco to see that the wounded were carefully lifted into the next boat, and to go on board with them; he then ran up to Martyn. The continuous fire had ceased now, but dropping shots were kept up all round the position.

“The last batch has gone on board, Captain Martyn,” he reported.

“Thank God for that, Horace! That is a load off one’s mind. It is a smart piece of work to have got them on board so soon. I did not expect you for some time yet. I have been listening sharply. Of course I heard sounds, but even here they were faint, while the Turks, being twice as far away, can hardly have heard them, and if they did would not have made them out, knowing nothing of what is going on. Now do you and Tarleton go off, one each way, and send every third man down to the boats; but if the third man is a sailor send the next Greek to him. When you get down to the shore go along to the boats and see the men off. As soon as they are in the boats start back again, sending the rest of the Greeks down to the shore. Then when you join me here I shall know that there are only our own men to draw off. Tell them all to keep up a pretty sharp fire when the Greeks have left.”

In a very few minutes they were beside him again. “The boats took the first batch off in one trip, sir,” Tarleton reported, “and they will be back again by the time the last fellows we have sent down get to the shore.”

“We will give them five minutes and then be off.”

“Mr. Miller sent word by the boatswain, sir, that he had got the guns loaded with grape, and blue lights ready, so that if they should at the last moment press you he will sweep the hillside as soon as you bring the men down to the shore.”

“I hope we shall not want it,” Martyn said; “but it is well to be on the safe side. I am sure we don’t want to kill any more of these poor beggars than we can help. Of course they wanted to massacre the Christians, but as they know their own people have been massacred in tens of thousands by the Greeks, it is only human nature they should take revenge. Anyhow I am glad there has not been much bloodshed. The only time we got fairly at them was when they first gathered for a charge at that olive grove, and again when they came down the path to that place where we stopped them. Of course a few fell while we were falling back, but I should say that from forty to fifty would be quite the outside; and likely enough it may not have been half that. It has been a much easier business than I expected. I must say, when we first got into the village and I saw what a crowd of women and children there were there I thought we were going to have a very tough job before we got on board the schooner again. Now I think we can fall back. Go down to the shore again, please, and start the men from that end, so that we can keep on firing from here up to the last moment.”

In a very few minutes the last of the defenders stepped into the boats and rowed off to the ship.

“All safe, Captain Martyn?” Miller’s voice asked as the boats came alongside.

“All safe, Mr. Miller.”

“Then we will give a hearty cheer, sir. They will know in a few minutes that you have gone, and it will make no difference. Now, lads, all together.”

And three hearty cheers broke from the English sailors, swelled by shouts and yells from the Greeks clustered on deck. As they stepped on to the deck Miller shook hands heartily with Martyn, Tarleton, and Horace.

“Thank Heaven you are all back safe again!” he said, “and, as I hear, without the loss of a single life. We have had an anxious time of it, as you may guess, since you have been away. I suppose we may as well get the boats up, sir?”

“Certainly. We sha’n’t want to go ashore again, Miller.” The boatswain’s whistle rang out, the falls were hooked on, and the boats run up to the davits.

“Don’t swing them in at present,” Martyn said. “We want all our room on deck. What have you done about the Greeks, Miller?”

“The cook had a big copper of soup ready, and they each had a basin as they came on board. We have given up the whole of the lower deck to the women and children. Our fellows and the men sleep on deck.”

“I thought that was how you would manage, Miller; indeed I don’t see any other way that it could be done.”

“I have got all the scuttles open down below,” Miller said, “and the hatchways off, so I think they will manage. It will be pretty close, no doubt, but none of these people are particularly fond of fresh air.”

“You have got supper ready for the men, I hope, Miller. They had something to eat in the village at daybreak, and they have had the biscuits they took with them; but I expect they are all ready for a regular meal. Of course they will have a ration of grog all round.”

“I have seen to all that, sir, and Marco came up just before you came alongside, to say that supper would be ready for us in five minutes. How he managed it I don’t know, for he, Mr. Beveridge, and Zaimes have been busy settling the women below ever since they came on board. How did the chief get through it?”

“As well as anyone, except in the climbing. There is a lot more in him than we thought, Miller. I watched him when he was loading and firing, and he was just as cool and quiet as if he was sitting here on the quarter-deck, and what was better, he always fell in with what I suggested without any talk or argument, and if I were asked I should say that he really enjoyed the whole business. I have never seen him look so bright and animated. Well, I am quite ready for supper; at least I shall be when I have had a wash.”

In a short time the party in the cabin was seated at supper. All were in the highest spirits. Their enterprise had been a complete success in every respect, and they were the more pleased that it had been accomplished without the loss of a single life on the part of the crew. The supper was not quite so varied as usual, and Marco apologized for its shortcomings.

“There is no occasion to say a word, Marco. It is excellent,” Martyn said. “I don’t know how on earth you have managed it.”

“I had most of it ready before we dropped anchor, Captain Martyn,” he said, “but I went ashore with the boats and have been helping with the women until a few minutes ago, so I have not had time to finish the things properly; but I thought you would rather have them so than wait.”

“Much rather, Marco. Now, Miller, let us hear your report. I have not had time to ask you a single question since I came on board. We made you out from the top of the hill twenty-five miles away, with two Turkish frigates after you.”

“Yes,” Miller said, “we were as near as possible caught in a trap. It was lucky I had had the anchor buoyed and the chain ready to slip. Of course we kept a sharp watch all night; I was on deck half an hour before day began to break, for I knew that that was the dangerous time. It was very dark then.”

“Yes, we know that,” Martyn put in. “We pretty nearly broke our necks scrambling along the face of a hill nearly as steep as a wall.”

“Just as the first gleam of daylight came,” Miller went on, “I made out two large craft coming along about a mile and a half from shore. They were not quite abreast of us, perhaps half a mile south. You may guess we lost no time in slipping the chain and getting up our head sails. Fortunately there was enough breeze even in here to fill our sails. I knew they could not make us out as yet, lying in here under the shadow of the land, and, indeed, I was half inclined for a moment to lower the sails and trust to their not making us out at all, but as it would soon be light, and no doubt they would be keeping a sharp look-out for us, I saw it wouldn’t do. It was not long before I saw that, though, of course, they had a good deal more wind than we had, we were holding our own with them.

“Ten minutes after we got under weigh they made us out and changed their course, steering so as to cut us off before we were clear of the northern point, while I stood a little more out so as to get farther from the shelter of the land and catch a little more breeze. They closed a bit with us, and one of them began to try the distance with his bow-guns, but though we were not quite out of range, the shot went altogether wide of us. I never saw such lubberly shooting. We were better than a mile ahead when we came out beyond the point and got the true wind. As soon as I felt her beginning to walk along I got a couple of sails overboard to deaden her way and stood for the north-west. The Turks got out stun-sails and did their best to come up to us, and as the wind was pretty fresh they walked along faster than I should have given them credit for, and I had to get one of the sails on board again to keep my distance. They fired occasionally, but as I kept them in line they could only bring a couple of bow-chasers to bear.

“I don’t think we altered our distance by a ship’s length for six hours, by which time we were a good thirty miles away from the island, and nearly dead to leeward; so I thought it was about time to begin to have some amusement. Directly we had started I had got the cook to make a tremendous fire in the galley, and had put six eighteen-pounder shot in it. I kept coal heaped on, and stuck a couple of extra lengths on to the chimney to make it draw, and by this time the balls were red-hot. We did not begin with them at first, but having got the second sail out of water we luffed a little so as to get the pivot to bear, and Tom Burdett sent the first shot smack into the frigate’s fore-foot. She yawed a bit, and let us have four or five of her forward guns on the starboard side, and this time a couple of shot went through our sails. As I did not want to run any risks I held on till I put another half-mile between us; then I began again with the pivot.

“The boatswain is a capital shot and hulled the leading frigate every time. Evidently she did not like it. I expect she had no idea that a craft of this size carried such heavy metal, and she came up into the wind and gave us a broadside. I put the helm down at the same moment as she did and returned the compliment. We trained the guns high, and as good luck would have it one of the shots struck the maintop-mast and down it came bringing the fore and mizzen-topgallant masts down with it. We gave a cheer, and the Greeks yelled like fiends. I had sent the women and children down into the hold, but the men were on deck, and they danced about like lunatics when they saw the top hamper of the Turk go over her side. We wore round and gave her the other broadside, then I set the Greeks to work to load the broadside guns, while our fellows went to the pivot again.

“Now was the time to try the red-hot shot while she was lying broadside on to us, and we plumped the whole six into her, one after the other; then we stood off again, for the other frigate had come up and was joining in the game. If we had had a spar knocked out of us it would have been all up, for they each carried something like forty guns. As soon as they got pretty well out of range I hauled my wind and stood south. The first frigate was still in complete confusion. With my glass I could make out the men trying to cut away the wreck, but it was not long before I saw a thin wreath of smoke rising from her forward hatchway, and presently I saw her ensign half hauled down as a signal of distress to her consort, which at once gave up the chase, which she must have already seen was useless, and bore down to her. Thinking I had done enough, and being in such a stew about you all, I left them to settle matters as best they could and began to beat back to the island. When we were five miles away a pillar of smoke was rising from the frigate, and with the glass I could make out boats passing backwards and forwards between her and her consort, which was lying-to near her; and the last we could make out of her was that she was in flames from keel to truck.”

“Capital, Miller, that was splendidly done!” Martyn exclaimed. “Fancy a schooner with ten men on board destroying a forty-gun frigate. That was a capital idea of yours of heating the shot.”

“The cook is in a great way,” Miller laughed, “for we pretty well melted the galley, and we shall have to get a fresh one next time we put into port. And now tell me about your share of the day’s work.”

“Well, we have done very well,” Martyn said; “but you have quite taken down any conceit we may have felt. I quite envy you.”

“You need not do that, Martyn,” Mr. Beveridge said; “one may be as proud of saving five hundred lives as of destroying a frigate, admirable as the action was. I will tell you about our doings. I have no doubt Martyn will be too modest to do justice to himself. Ah! what is that?” He broke off as he heard the report of a gun, followed by several others.

“The Turks venting their dissatisfaction,” Martyn said. “I expected it before this. Of course they heard our cheer, but at the distance they were they may not have made out it came from the water, and I expect they were some time before they crawled forward and found out that our lines were deserted. We will fire a round of grape over their heads as a hint to them that they had better clear off, and as there is no hope of either plunder or blood they will not care about risking their lives for nothing. Will you go up, Mr. Tarleton, and just touch off one of the port guns. Don’t fire in the direction they are shooting from. We only want to frighten and not to hurt them.”

In a couple of minutes the vessel quivered as an eighteen-pounder sent its contents rattling among the rocks. Tarleton soon rejoined the party, and Mr. Beveridge proceeded to relate to Miller the events of the day.

“The next time I land, Mr. Miller,” he concluded, “I shall take good care to ascertain the nature of the ground we have to cross. I have never been accustomed to active exercise, even as a boy I never cared for it; but I could not have believed that human lungs could have failed in their action so completely, or human heart bump as mine did in going up that hill. As for the scramble along it in the dark, it was a sort of nightmare. Martyn and Zaimes hauled me along like a helpless bundle. I was only conscious of my feet continually slipping from under me, of grasping at the grass, of having my knees bruised against rocks, and of thinking every moment that my coat collar must give way and that I must roll to the bottom of the hill. Zaimes had hold of that, and Martyn of my arm, and I should say that my flesh will be black and blue for weeks. I mentally registered a vow that though I was ready to fight for the Greeks I was not ready, and never would again undertake to climb among mountains for them. There is a limit to the endurance of human nature, and the limit was very distinctly passed upon that occasion. Moreover, my dignity as a man suffered. I was humiliated at my own helplessness, and was deeply impressed with the thought that my whole life had been a mistake when it resulted in my being hauled along by Zaimes, who is a year or two older than I am, I believe. I made a resolution to practise athletic exercises, but I am afraid that, like many other good resolutions, it will be dropped with the memory of that terrible hour.”

“Where are you thinking of landing all these people, Mr. Beveridge?”

“I have not the least idea, Martyn. Where do you think?”

“So that we get rid of them as quickly as possible, sir, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. There is one thing certain, it will be weeks before we shall get the decks white again, and I should say that a thorough fumigation of her from stem to stern will be advisable. I don’t suppose the British authorities would be grateful to us if we were to dump them all down in Zante or Corfu, because it is certain they would have to feed the greater portion of them for a considerable time. On the other hand, if you land them at any Greek port there is a very strong risk of their all dying of starvation; the new government have other things to think about.”

“It is very awkward, Captain Martyn, very awkward,” Mr. Beveridge said seriously. “However, it is evident that now we have rescued them they can’t be allowed to starve.”

“There is one thing, father,” Horace put in. “I think that money would be much better laid out in feeding them than in enabling the politicians and the Klephts to spend it in gaudy dresses and in keeping bands of armed ruffians round them.”

“Certainly it would, Horace. As to where they had better be landed, I should say that we might give them their choice of say four or five places. It would be much better that they should be divided, as they would in that way be more likely to get employment than if they were all turned out at one place. Some might be landed at some of the Greek islands, some in the Morea, others at Athens, and some, perhaps, in the Ionian Islands, where they would be under the British flag.”

“I think they would be a deal better off there, father, than in Greece or the Greek islands, where at present everyone is thinking of war, and the fields are going out of cultivation. They certainly would do a great deal better in Corfu, Cephalonia, and the other islands than they would elsewhere; and if they were landed in small batches they might find work. I expect most of them have got a little money, and as living is very cheap, if you were to give them a couple of pounds a head it would enable them to live a long time while they are looking for work. Besides, there are committees on those islands for helping refugees; so I do think it would be better to land all those who have no friends in Greece, or any particular wish to go there, in our islands. I should say Zaimes and Marco might go round among them in the morning and ask if any of them have friends in the Greek islands or the mainland, and to put it to the others, that though they can be landed in Greece if they like, they will probably be better off and certainly much more free from anxiety and danger, in the Ionian Isles.”

“I think that that would be a very good plan,” Mr. Beveridge said. “When are you going to get under sail again, Captain Martyn?”

“As soon as I have finished this cup of coffee, Mr. Beveridge, we will get a boat lowered and find the buoy and pick up the anchor Miller slipped this morning. I don’t want to lose that, and the chain. As soon as we have got it on board we will be off. There is not much breeze here after dark, but we may as well get what benefit we can from it. I have no fear of the other Turkish frigate looking in here on her way back; and if she did, now that we have got all our crew on board, I have no doubt we could give a good account of her. But I want to be under weigh. There will be no comfort on board till we have got rid of our passengers. Whereabout do you think the buoy is lying, Miller?”

“I fancy we were anchored a couple of hundred yards or so farther out, and a quarter of a mile astern. You know where you landed last night. You had to march along the beach some little distance before you came to the path on the hills.”

“That is so, Miller. I am afraid we shall have some little trouble in finding it. However, we will have a try. It is just eight bells now, and it won’t be light for another six hours. I don’t want to waste that time if I can help it.”

“Well, I will take one of the gigs, and Tarleton can take the other. We will take some blue lights with us, and I expect we shall soon find it.”

“Very well. Directly you do, hang on to the buoy-rope and get the end of the chain into your gig. Hail me, and send Tarleton back. We will get up her anchor at once, and the gig and the long-boat shall tow the schooner up to you. Then you can pass the end of the chain on board, and we will get it round the capstan and have the anchor up in no time. Now, Mr. Beveridge, if you will take my advice you will turn in at once. You only got a couple of hours’ sleep last night in that orchard, and have had twenty-four hours’ really hard work.”

“I will take your advice, Martyn;” and Mr. Beveridge touched the hand-bell beside him. “Marco, you must help me to my cabin, for I am so stiff I don’t think I could get out of my chair by myself.”

“We will help you in, sir,” Martyn said; and he and Miller raised Mr. Beveridge from his chair and almost carried him into his cabin. Then they lit their pipes and went on deck.

The buoy was found after a few minutes’ search, and in another ten minutes the schooner was under-weigh and stealing out from the land.

“I will take the watch,” Miller said. “You had better all turn in. I will put a couple of the hands who remained with me at the wheel, and let all the rest lie down. As they will be on deck one can rouse them up in a minute if they are wanted.”

The next day the two Greeks went among the fugitives and questioned the heads of each family as to the number of their party, the means they possessed, and whether they had any friends in Greece. Most of them possessed a little money, the proceeds of their last harvest and vintage, and some eight or ten had sums varying from a hundred to four hundred pounds, besides the jewels of their females, which, in their cases, were of considerable value. Some of the poorer ones had literally nothing beyond the clothes in which they stood and a few almost worthless trinkets. There were not half a dozen of the whole number who had friends or connections in Greece. Some thirty of the unmarried men expressed their desire to join the Greek army and fight against the Turks; the rest thankfully embraced the offer of being landed on islands under the protection of the British flag. It took a whole day to ascertain all these particulars, and on the following day the exiles were asked to divide themselves into parties according to the villages from which they came, in order that acquaintances and relations should be landed together.

When this had been done, Zaimes distributed, in the name of Mr. Beveridge, to the head of each family a sum amounting to two pounds for each of its members, except to those whose resources were sufficient to maintain them for a considerable time.

The wind was very light, and it was six days after they weighed anchor before they entered the port of Zante. Another week was spent in landing the fugitives among the Ionian Islands, each party being in proportion to the size of the island and the facilities of obtaining employment there. The gratitude of the poor people to Mr. Beveridge, and indeed to all on board the schooner, was very great, but they were all much depressed on landing. At first their delight at having escaped with their lives was unbounded. But as the days went on, and the feeling that they had lost all else, were separated for ever from their birthplace and home, and were in future to live among strangers, overwhelmed them.

Mr. Beveridge went a great deal among them, and endeavoured to cheer them with the assurance that the war could not last very long, and that at its termination, whenever that might be, there would certainly be a general amnesty, and that all fugitives would then be permitted to return to their homes. He therefore advised them to keep this always in mind, and to lay by every penny they could spare of their earnings, so that they would eventually be able to return to Cyprus and resume their former life. When the Misericordia left Cyprus there remained on board only some half a dozen families who had friends in Greece, and the young men who intended to join the Greek army. Never did a vessel undergo a more thorough washing and cleaning up than the schooner on her voyage round to Athens. The deck was scrubbed and holy-stoned twice a day; the lower deck was equally cleaned, and, in addition, the woodwork received two coats of fresh paint, after having been thoroughly fumigated.

“The Greeks may have their virtues,” Martyn remarked to Miller, “but cleanliness on board ship is marked by its absence.”

“There is no doubt about that,” Miller agreed. “I have always heard that a cargo of Mohammedan pilgrims to Mecca was about the most painful experience a sailor could have; but I back the Greeks against them. I don’t think the schooner herself liked it. She seemed to have lost all her liveliness and to be depressed at being turned into a human pig-stye. I don’t believe it was worse between decks when she had a cargo of slaves on board.”

“Mr. Beveridge has just told me,” Martyn said, “that I am to tell the crew that at the next pay he shall give three pounds a head to each man as a reward for their work at Cyprus and the inconveniences they have been since put to.”

“They will appreciate that,” Miller said. “They certainly have been put about a good deal, and they will be pleased at the recognition of it as much as with the money. Besides, the same thing may happen again, and it is a good thing to keep them all in a good humour, especially as at present there hasn’t been any chance whatever of prize-money.”

“What are the next orders, sir?” Martyn asked Mr. Beveridge when they had finished supper.

“There will be nothing particular going on for some time, I should imagine, Captain Martyn. The Turkish army does not seem to be ready to advance, and the Greeks are not troubling themselves to get up an army at all. After the last affair every man made off with the booty he had gathered to his own village; and there, I am afraid, they are all likely to stay till a Turkish army invades them. Athens and Nauplia may hold out for some time longer—for weeks, perhaps, possibly for months. Therefore, for the present I leave it entirely with you to cruise where you think best.”

“Then, sir, we will go south. Since we have come out we have not taken a prize worth having; and I think that as prize-money was certainly one of the inducements held out to the sailors when they joined, we might as well try to pick up a few Turkish merchantmen. There is no doubt that the ships from Smyrna and all the Syrian ports, as well as from the islands, keep near land, and that even those bound for Alexandria and the African ports coast round there also. Some of these no doubt carry rich cargoes, and many will be taking Greek slaves to Alexandria and Tunis; so we shall be carrying out your object by releasing them, as well as picking up some prize-money. I think the men well deserve a little indulgence in this way. Their work has not been altogether pleasant for some time. They have been turned out of their quarters, and have had to sleep under the awning forward. I have heard no grumbling among them, for I am sure they were glad to do all they could to help the poor creatures we have had on board. Still, they will be glad of a chance of what they would consider legitimate business.”

“Very well, Captain Martyn, let it be so. I quite agree with you as to the excellent conduct of the men. They have certainly had a good deal of hardship to put up with, for everything has been very uncomfortable since our visit to Cyprus.”

In a few minutes the boatswain’s whistle was heard, followed by the tramp of the men round the capstan and the stir of getting up sail. Then the watch was set, and the schooner sped along under a gentle breeze towards the south.

For the next two months the Misericordia cruised on the coast of Syria. Scarce a day passed without some vessel being overhauled. Many of these were small coasters laden only with grain or other cargoes of small value. These were permitted to proceed on their way without interference. Of the larger vessels some contained mixed cargoes. In the cases where no Greek captives were on board, the valuable portion of the cargo was transferred to the schooner, and the ship was then permitted to proceed on her voyage. Where Greek slaves were found on board, the captain was given the choice of having the vessel burned, or giving a bond for an amount equal to half her estimated value and that of the cargo, signed by himself, the representative of the owners, if there was one on board, and the principal passengers.

These bonds could not, perhaps, have been enforced in any court; but Mr. Beveridge had confidence in the honesty of the Turks, and in every case the amounts were duly forwarded to the agents he named. Seven ships contained valuable cargoes of silks, tobacco, and wine. These were all bound for Alexandria and Tunis, and carried a considerable number of Greek women and children, the survivors of massacres in towns in Asia Minor. In these cases the Turks were all placed in their boats within two or three miles of land, and the vessels with prize crews on board were consigned to Greeks at Corinth and Athens, who had undertaken to act as Mr. Beveridge’s agents, and who were to dispose of them and their cargoes to Greek merchants.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE HANDS OF THE TURKS

TOWARDS the end of the cruise the schooner had just returned to the coast of Asia Minor after having run across to Athens and taken on board the officers and men who had sailed the last prizes taken there. On the day after they took up their place on their cruising ground they fell in with a large polacca brig. The vessel mounted ten small guns, and fought with some obstinacy, and it was not until Martyn placed the schooner so that she could rake the brig’s decks, which were crowded with men, that she hauled down her flag.

“Lower two boats, Miller. You take charge of one and Tarleton the other. By the look of those fellows I don’t believe they are Turks at all. I believe they are from Algiers or Tunis; pirates at ordinary times, but who have come here to pick up slaves cheap. They are treacherous beggars, so be on your guard. There is a very strong crew. Don’t row alongside till I lay the schooner broadside on.”

In five minutes Miller hailed from the deck of the prize, “You are right, sir, they are Algerines, and as cut-throat a looking lot as ever I came across. She is crowded below with Greek women and girls, and as far as I can see at present she has no cargo of any sort. I have sent one of the boats for Marco. He can speak to the women, who are making a fearful hubbub down below.”

“Have you disarmed the crew, Mr. Miller?”

“Mr. Tarleton has just finished that. We have had to knock a good many of the scoundrels down. They are as savage as wildcats.”

The schooner was brought alongside the polacca and lashed there. The deck of the prize showed that the fire of the schooner had been terribly destructive. Over twenty bodies lay scattered about, principally round the guns.

“Are they all dead?” Martyn asked as he stepped on board.

“They are all dead now, but they were not when we boarded her. But as they lay there they fired their pistols among us. Two or three pretended to be dead, and then sprang up, knife in hand, and several of the men have got nasty cuts; so that was soon put a stop to. Some of the fellows below made quite a fight of it, and the men had to use their cutlasses pretty freely. However, they are all disarmed and bound now. I have no doubt they are Algerine pirates, and deserve to be hung to the yard-arm every man-jack of them.”

“Have you overhauled the hold yet?”

“Yes, sir. It is filled with these unhappy slaves. She evidently came merely in ballast, with money to buy them.”

“Well, no doubt these fellows have been pirates, Mr. Miller, but as we have no means to prove it we must let them go as we have the others, though it is a nuisance, for they only warn the people at the ports against us. We won’t put them on the mainland this time, but land them on one of the little islands. They may be some time in getting a craft to take them to the mainland, and then they will find it rough work making along the coast. However, we can settle upon that later. The first thing to do is to get the decks roughly cleaned and the dead bodies thrown overboard.”

A dozen men were set to work with mops and buckets, while others fastened shot to the feet of the Algerines and dropped them overboard. As soon as this was done Marco was sent below to tell the captives that they could come on deck.

As the women poured up, looking almost dazed at their sudden release, and at the bright sunlight after the stifling atmosphere of the dark hold in which they had been confined for six days, Horace saw one of them, a woman of some five-and-thirty years of age, to whose side a girl of fifteen was clinging, looking round with an air of excitement, in strong contrast to the comparative apathy of the others. She glanced round at him and the men engaged in tidying up the deck, and then with a cry sank fainting on the deck. He hurried up to her, and partly raised her, when he was struck by the cry of the girl, “Oh, mother, mother!” He looked at her in astonishment.

THE GREEK CAPTIVES ARE BROUGHT ON DECK

“Are you English?” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she cried, “we are English; but we have been seized and carried away by these horrid Turks. Mother said she fancied she heard some shouts in English, but she thought she must have been mistaken, as only a Greek came down and spoke to us in the hold, and she did not think it possible that it could be English. And have you rescued us out of the hands of the Turks, sir? Mother said they were taking us away to sell us as slaves.”

“Yes, we have rescued you,” Horace said. “You are free now. If you will hold your mother’s head for a moment I will fetch the doctor; we have one on board.”

“If you would get a little water, sir, she will soon come round. She has fainted several times since we were captured.”

Horace, however, caught sight of Macfarlane.

“Doctor, here is an English lady among the captives. She has fainted. Please see to her. I will run to get some water;” and he sprang over the bulwark on to the deck of the schooner.

“Bring some brandy with you too,” Macfarlane said as he hurried to the side of the fainting woman.

Horace rushed down to the cabin, and returned with a jug of water, a decanter of brandy, and a tumbler. The doctor sprinkled some water on the lady’s face, poured a few drops of spirits between her lips, and in a minute or two she opened her eyes.

“It is all right now, madam,” he said as she looked round in a confused way. “You are safe among friends and British sailors.”

“Thank God for His mercies!” she murmured, while tears fell down her cheeks. “It seems almost too great happiness to be true.”

In a few minutes she was well enough to be assisted down to the cabin of the schooner, where she was left to the care of her daughter for a time. Half an hour later she was able to relate her story to Mr. Beveridge. She was, she said, the wife of an English merchant at Smyrna. They lived a short distance out of the town, and had, since the troubles began, gone but little abroad, for although it was only the Greeks who had been involved in the massacre that had taken place there some months before, there was a good deal of hostility upon the part of the lower class of the population against all Christians. One evening she had been with her daughter in the garden, her husband being engaged till late at his business in the town. It was just getting dark, and she was about to re-enter the house, when five or six ruffians of the lowest class rushed into the garden, seized her and her daughter in spite of their shrieks, threw thick cloths over their heads, and then carried them away. They were taken for some distance, when they stopped, and she heard an animated conversation and the clink of money. Then they were placed in a boat, and presently carried up on to the deck of a ship and taken below.

When their mufflings were removed they found they were in the hold of a vessel with a large number of Greek captives. She endeavoured in vain to make herself understood by the sailors who came below, and who, she perceived at once, were not Turks. She told them that she was English, and that her husband would pay a large sum if she and her daughter were set on shore unharmed. No attention was paid to her entreaties, but on her persisting she was brutally knocked down, and in a short time a man, who was evidently an officer, came down and forced them both to take off their European dresses and put on others that some of the Greek women were ordered to hand over to them. It was now evident to her that they had been seized by some of the ruffians of the town and sold to the Algerines, who were in no way particular as to the nationality of their slaves, and that they were destined to be sold in the slave-market of either Tunis or Algiers.

A few hours after they were taken on board they heard the anchor run up, and could soon tell by the ripple of the water against the planks that they were under weigh. All hope now left them, and they had passed a terrible six days, overcome by despair, and half suffocated by the foul air of the hold. Hope had again sprung up when a gun was fired overhead, and it was soon evident that the vessel was engaged in an encounter with an enemy. At last the firing ceased, then there was a sound of shouting and the clashing of swords on the deck above their heads. Presently the hatchways had been opened and a Greek had come down and told them that the vessel had been captured from the Turks, and that they were free. She fancied that she heard English voices, but until she had reached the deck and saw the faces and uniforms of the sailors, she thought that she must be mistaken. After that she remembered no more until she heard the doctor’s voice.

“I am rejoiced indeed that I have been enabled to save you and your daughter from the horrors of slavery,” Mr. Beveridge said. “We have had the pleasure of rescuing many hundreds of Greek women and children from the hands of the Turks, but I never expected to find a countrywoman among them. This cabin will be at your disposal, except that we must, I fear, take our meals here. The cabin adjoining will be wholly yours. In the course of a week I hope to land you at Corfu, thence you will be able to write to your husband and arrange either for joining him again at Smyrna, or taking a passage for England, which would, I should think in the present state of things, be the wisest course. My purse will be entirely at your disposal. I am the owner of this schooner, which is called the Misericordia, and although we fight under the Greek flag, and have come out to assist them to obtain their independence, we are principally devoting ourselves to saving the unhappy victims of this war.”

The lady, whose name was Mrs. Herbert, expressed her deep gratitude, and Mr. Beveridge at once took possession of Miller’s cabin, as the lieutenant would, he had no doubt, remain in charge of the prize. When the capture was made, the schooner was some eighty miles to the east of Rhodes, and after talking the matter over with Miller, Martyn decided to land the Algerines on Caxo, an islet lying some fifty miles to the south-west of Rhodes. Miller and Tarleton were for the present to continue on board the prize. The prisoners, forty-eight in number, were transferred into the schooner. The next evening they arrived off Caxo, where the Algerines were landed in boats. Martyn then went on board the polacca.

“I have been thinking, Miller, that as we seem to have frightened all the Turks into remaining in port for the present, I will leave you and Tarleton on board the polacca, and give you twenty men and let you cruise on your own account, while we take these women and children round to the Ionian Isles. We will shift two of the eighteen-pounders on board this craft. No one will suspect you, and you will have a good chance of picking up some more prizes, while the sight of our white sails sends everything running into port as far off as they can be seen. We can rendezvous here again this day fortnight.”

“I should like that very much,” Miller said, “and I think it is a capital plan. I must ask Mr. Beveridge to let me have Marco, or I shall have no means of making myself understood either by Turk or Greek.”

A fortnight later the schooner returned to the island. She had had rough weather for the last three days of her voyage, but the sky had now cleared again.

“There is the island,” Martyn said, as Horace came up at six o’clock in the morning to take charge of the watch, for he had now command of the starboard watch, and Tom Burdett had the port. “There is the island, but there is no sign of the polacca yet. I wonder Miller is not here first. If we had been having calms I should not have been the least surprised at his not turning up, but with this strong southerly wind there is no reason why he should not have been here. Go up to the main-top, Horace, and take a look round.”

But Horace could see no sail in sight.

“You are not uneasy about Miller surely,” Mr. Beveridge said at breakfast, seeing that Martyn was not in his usual spirits.

“Well, I am rather uneasy, sir. Miller would be more likely to be a day too soon than too late, and with the wind from the south he could have calculated his time here from wherever he happened to be, within an hour or two. The wind has been strong with us, and for aught I know it may have been blowing a gale more to the east. We don’t know much about the sailing qualities of the polacca, certainly she was very light in ballast, and if she has been caught off a lee shore in a heavy gale she may not have been able to claw off, especially if she happened to be embayed when it came on. Of course we must give him twenty-four hours more, but if he does not come then we will shape our course north-east and cruise along the coast; as we get eastward we may pick up some fishing craft or small coaster and hear what the weather has been there, possibly even get news of the polacca. If Miller gets here after we have left, he will guess what course we have taken. Very likely he will land a boat and learn that we have been here, and the course we took when we sailed away, and would then be guided by circumstances. At any rate, if nothing has happened to him, we are sure to meet sooner or later.”

“Do just as you think best, Captain Martyn. I most sincerely trust that there are no grounds for your uneasiness. Hitherto everything has gone well with us, and it would be terrible indeed if anything should have happened to our two friends and so many of our brave fellows.”

The day passed slowly. A look-out was kept in the top, but until the sun went down no sail was seen above the horizon. The crew shared the anxiety of their captain, and gathering in groups, discussed what could have occurred to prevent their consort arriving at the rendezvous.

“I don’t believe as the Turks have caught them,” one of the sailors said. “You won’t never gammon me into taking in such a yarn as that. I don’t believe as there is a Turk living would get the weather gauge of Lieutenant Miller. As to tempests, that is different. We don’t care for tempests one way or the other on board the schooner, but then she is a craft such as you don’t see twice in a v’yage round the world. If they had been in her I shouldn’t have felt noways uneasy; but seeing as how they are in a outlandish brig whose ways they don’t understand, it may be that if they was caught off a lee shore by a heavy gale, even the first lieutenant with our men at his back couldn’t get her out of the mess.”

“I said all along,” another sailor put in, shaking his head, “as there was bad luck coming. Three days ago I dreamed of a black cat, and everyone as knows anything knows as there ain’t nothin’ more unlucky to dream about than a black cat.”

“Surely, Bill,” another said, shaking his head gravely.

“Well, mates, it is my opinion,” Tom Burdett said gruffly, “as there is something in dreams, but in nine cases out of ten it is something as has gone afore and not what comes after. I know once when I came back from a v’yage I had written a letter to tell my old woman what time I should arrive. I reckoned to be in to dinner. Well, the coach broke down and I did not get in till nine o’clock. The old woman had made a plum-duff pretty nigh as big as my head, knowing as I was fond of it, and she was in such a taking at my not having been in to eat it at dinner that I sat down and I finished that there pudding cold for supper. Well, I dreamt of about ten million black cats and about as many sharks mixed up together, but if you will believe me nothing came of it; and ever since that I have held to the opinion that when you have a bad dream, what you have got to think about when you wake ain’t what it means in the future, but what you have been having for supper.

“Now, I expect if Bill there was to turn his mind back he would remember that the night as he had that dream, he had been filling hisself up with fruit or such like trash afore he turned in. I don’t say as nothing has happened to Lieutenant Miller and our mates, but I am cocksure as that black cat Bill said he dreamt on hadn’t nothing to do with it either way. Why, bless me, in my village there is hundreds of women as thinks of nothing but dreams and tokens. It is no matter what you dream of, they have got a ’terpretation of it, and if the ’terpretation happens to be a bad one they bother their husbands and brothers and sons, as the case may be, not to put to sea, and there is many a good fisherman whose cupboard is bare half the year, through listening to them. I may have my ideas as to whether harm are come to that polacca or not, but if every seaman on board the ship was to dream of a black tom-cat and his wife and family, it wouldn’t make not so much as a shade of difference, in my opinion.”

Martyn did not wait for daylight, but when the middle watch was relieved sail was made, and the schooner bore away to the north-east. Land was sighted about four o’clock, and by nightfall they were coasting along at the distance of about a mile. When it became dark they stood on and off the shore, as Martyn wished to examine every inlet and bay as they went on. As soon as it was daylight the schooner proceeded on her way. The sails of several craft were made out seaward during the course of the day, but none of these resembled the canvas of the polacca, and attention was concentrated upon the shore, every rock being closely scanned with glasses, and a sharp look-out kept for signals of any kind.

In the evening a small fishing-boat was overhauled as it made its way into a village. The fishermen were interrogated by Zaimes, who understood a little Turkish. They had seen nothing of any craft answering to a description of the polacca. Interrogated about the weather, they replied that the storm four days before had been an exceptionally severe one, coming on very suddenly and blowing with tremendous force for some hours.

The next morning they were at the mouth of the Gulf of Adalia.

“If Miller has gone to grief anywhere,” Martyn said to Horace, “it is as likely as not to be somewhere in this bay. He might very well have been cruising about in here to pick up anything coming out of Adalia, which is the principal port along this part of the coast. It is a large bay, you see, and if he happened to be well up it when he was caught in that sudden gale it is probable enough that he would not be able to beat out in that craft. I see on the map there are three or four small towns between this Cape and Adalia. I don’t want to show ourselves inside the cape, for the probability is the schooner would be recognized directly. What I think will be the best plan would be for you and Zaimes to take one of the boats and coast along close in to the cape. There is a place called Grambusa a mile or two around the corner, and another place called Yanar a little farther on. I want you either to board a fishing-boat and find out whether they have news of a wreck between this and Adalia, or have heard of any Greek or European prisoners being brought there from farther east. If you can’t succeed in getting hold of a fishing-boat, Zaimes might land and try to pick up the news at some cottage in the outskirts of the village. There are Greeks in all these sea-side villages, for most of the fishing is in their hands, and though in the towns there were massacres I don’t suppose they would be disturbed in quiet villages where they had been settled for generations.”

Zaimes was summoned, and agreed at once to land, as both Martyn and Horace were of opinion that there was more probability of their getting trustworthy information that way than from fishermen, who would be scared at finding their boat suddenly overhauled. Accordingly, taking a gig with six men Horace and Zaimes started for the shore, while the schooner turned her head west.

“I shall cruise backward and forward,” Martyn said. “I sha’n’t go more than four miles from the cape; so when you come out again you will only have to lie on your oars till I come back for you.”

They rowed direct to shore, crept along close to it till they saw the village half a mile ahead, and then rowed in and landed Zaimes. He was absent an hour, and his walk assured Horace that he had bad news even before he reached the side of the boat.

“I am afraid you have bad news, Zaimes.”

Zaimes shook his head. “Very bad; it could hardly be worse. There are several Christians in the village, and I learned from them that four days ago a brig that was caught in the storm was driven ashore close to Adalia. It was found that she was a Turkish vessel which had been captured by pirates. The people would have torn them to pieces, but the pasha, who had come down to the shore with a body of troops to try and save those on board the ship when she was seen to be driving ashore, protected them from the mob and lodged them in prison. They say that he has sent off to Smyrna, where the governor of Anatolia resides, to ask for instructions, and it is expected that orders will come for their execution in a day or two.”

“Stretch to your oars, men,” Horace said. “The others have been wrecked and captured by the Turks, and the sooner we are on board with the news the better.”

The men bent to their oars and made the boat fly through the water, and when they rounded Cape Khelidonia they saw the schooner a quarter of a mile away in the act of going about. They were seen almost as soon as they caught sight of her, and she remained thrown up in the wind until they got alongside. Martyn and Mr. Beveridge were both on deck, and as soon as Zaimes had told his story they went down into the cabin for a consultation.

“What on earth is to be done?” Martyn said; “Adalia is a large town. Zaimes says there are troops there, likely enough a whole regiment. It would be hopeless to try to attack it with thirty men. The only thing I can see at present would be for us to sail right in, anchor off the town, and threaten to bombard it with red-hot shot if they don’t give up the prisoners. The objection is that they are likely to have some batteries there, and in that case we might get the worst of it. Besides, it is likely enough that they might hang Miller and the rest of them at the first shot we fired.”

“No, that is not to be thought of,” Mr. Beveridge said. “It seems to me that we might anchor within sight of the place, send a boat ashore with a white flag, and offer to pay any ransom they might fix for the prisoners. I would rather pay ten thousand pounds than that harm should come to them. What do you think, Horace?”

“If we could have got at the pasha before he sent off to Smyrna that might have done, father; but having once referred the case to Smyrna, I am afraid he might consider it too risky to let them go. But we might try that if everything else fails.”

“But what else is there, Horace?”

“Well, I should say, father, the best thing would be to land Zaimes and myself again. He has already made some acquaintances in the village here, and no doubt they could rig us both up in dresses like their own. Then we could go boldly on to Adalia, find out exactly how things stand, what sort of a place they are imprisoned in, how strong is the guard, and how close the barrack of the troops is to the prison. I should suggest that you sail away west, so that if, as it is likely enough, the schooner has been noticed by any of the peasants in the villages scattered about among the hills and word sent to Adalia, the report may also go that it has sailed right away. Then you should capture a small Turkish craft; a large fishing-boat would do. Leave ten men on board the schooner, and sail in the prize nearly up to Adalia. If you anchor, say a couple of miles this side of the town, and hoist a little flag, say a red flag over a white, to your mast-head we should recognize you and come down to the beach.

“If it is in the daytime you will make us out with your glasses easily enough, and send a boat ashore for us. If it is nighttime we will empty out a little powder, moisten it, and flash it off; then you can send ashore for us. I should order the schooner to come every night, keeping three or four miles off shore, sailing up nearly to Adalia, and then returning so as to be round the cape again before daylight. In that way we could communicate with her and go on board again when we liked. Till we examine the place there is no saying whether there is a possibility of rescue or not. If we find that there is no possibility of anything being done in that direction we can embark on board the schooner again, and carry out the plan you suggested: anchor off Adalia, and send in to offer a ransom, with the alternative that if it is not accepted we will bombard the place about their ears. In that way, you see, we shall anyhow lose nothing by this expedition of Zaimes and myself ashore.”

“I think your plan is an excellent one, Horace,” Martyn said, and Mr. Beveridge equally approved of it.

“I don’t think there will be any great danger about it, Martyn. There seems no reason why any suspicion should fall upon him and Zaimes if they are dressed in the same way as the Greeks in these villages.”

“No, I don’t see why there should. Of course they will only speak with other Greeks. I certainly think the plan of our getting hold of a small native craft and anchoring near the town is a capital one. It will save a great deal of time, for it is somewhere about fifty miles from the cape to the town, and it would, in fact, save a whole day, as, if they come off to us in the evening we could do what there is to do that night, whereas, if they had to walk all the way down the coast to the cape and come on board there it would be too late to do anything that night, and we should have to wait until the next.”

Zaimes was called in, and eagerly embraced the proposal when it was explained to him. He was passionately fond of his brother, from whom he had never been separated, and was ready to dare anything to attempt his rescue. It was agreed they had better wait till dark before they landed. Accordingly the schooner sailed west for some hours and did not return to the cape until after darkness had fallen. Then Zaimes and Horace were landed, and as soon as the boat returned the schooner again sailed away. Before leaving the ship Horace had dressed himself as a Greek, and on landing they walked to the village.

“You had best remain outside for a few minutes, Mr. Horace,” Zaimes said, “while I see the man I conversed with this morning. I told him then that my brother was on board the polacca that was wrecked, and that I should endeavour to get the ear of some person of importance at Adalia. He said that he was sure that I could do nothing, but anything he could do to help me he would, for his people came years ago from Naxos, which, as you know, is our native place. I will just go in first to see if he is alone and to tell him that I have a friend with me. As soon as I see that he is in the same mood I will call you in.”

In three or four minutes the door of the cottage opened again and Horace was called in.

“This is the young friend who accompanies me,” Zaimes said to the man. “He is not a relation, but he has been with my brother ever since he was born, and is willing to join me in the effort to save him.”

“It is quite hopeless,” the peasant said. “You are only risking your lives. Still, that is your business. You are ready, you say, to buy of me two suits of our clothes. I have one suit belonging to my son, who is at present away in a coasting ship, and I have a suit of my own that I can let you have.”

Zaimes and Horace had both brought on shore a considerable amount of gold stowed in belts beneath their clothes, in case they should find any opportunity of bribing a prison official, and had in their pockets an ample sum for any ordinary expenditure. As the peasant only asked about three times the amount which the clothes would cost new, they paid for them without bargaining, and at once put them on.

“I have a brother at Adalia,” the man said, well pleased with the bargain he had made; “and if you go to him and say that you come from me, his brother Alexis, of this village, I am sure he will be glad to lodge you, especially when you tell him that you too belong to Naxos.”

After receiving instructions as to how to find the man’s brother in Adalia they started at once upon their journey. They lay down for three hours in the middle of the night in a wood, and entered Adalia at eight o’clock in the morning. They went straight to the address the peasant had given them. It was a small house with but two rooms, and its master was a cobbler. As soon as Zaimes mentioned his brother’s name, and said that they were ready to pay for the accommodation, the shoemaker agreed at once to receive them. He was a chatty fellow, and was very anxious to hear news about affairs in Greece, when they told him that they had but lately arrived from there.

“Now,” he said, “what is your business? Of course I can see that you do not belong to us. You are from Naxos, as you say; I notice a few turns of speech such as my father used to use. But what have you come here for? and why have you bought my brother’s clothes from him, for I recognized them directly you came in? I like to know things, not because I am inquisitive, but because I do not want to have the pasha’s executioner suddenly coming in at the door and taking off my head, without even explaining the reason why.”

“I am what I told you, a Greek of Naxos,” Zaimes said; “and as I explained to your brother, I have a brother who is one of the crew of that ship that was wrecked here six days ago; and I have come to see whether, by greasing the palms of some of the officials, I can manage to get him out.”

“That you can’t,” the man said decidedly. “If he were in the civil prison it might be done; but the pasha, guessing perhaps that many of us Christians would sympathize with them, or possibly having an idea that the mob might rise, handed them over to the soldiers, and they are confined in a room in the military prison in the centre of the barracks, where there are lots of sentries. The gates have been closed since they were taken there, and no civilian is allowed to enter under any pretence. So you see there is no bribing to be done. Of course the sentries are changed frequently. There is no knowing what officer has the prisoners specially under his charge. And even if he were bribed, there would be no getting them past the sentries. So you can give up the idea altogether of getting your brother out.”

“How long does it take for a messenger to go from here to Smyrna?” Zaimes asked, with a slight glance at Horace to show that he was changing the conversation purposely.

“By ordinary travelling some two weeks; but a mounted messenger, with relays of horses, can do it in four days.”

“Then in another three days the answer may come from Smyrna?”

“That is so. I wonder myself that the pasha took the trouble of sending to the governor of Anatolia, instead of hanging the prisoners at once.”

“I suppose he thought that the governor might like to have them sent to him, so that he could forward them to Constantinople.”

“Are you thinking of delaying the messenger’s return? That might be done, you know.” And the man drew his finger across his throat significantly.

“I don’t see that the delay would be of any use,” Zaimes replied. “If there is no chance of getting my brother out, it matters not whether the messenger arrives to-day or a fortnight hence. However, it is a matter that may be worth thinking over later. At any rate we will go out and have a look at the barracks. Will you go with us? I am not without money, and can make it well worth your while to aid us by your advice.”

“I am ready enough,” the man said. “Trade is dull, and a man must live; and besides, I would gladly save a Christian and a native of my own island from the Turks.”

“I would not trust him too far,” Zaimes said in an undertone to Horace when the man went into the apartment behind to speak to his wife. “He is now inclined to help us, especially if he thinks that he will be well paid for it. But we had better not let him know anything of our plans. When he saw there was danger, what with fear as to his own safety and the hope of a bigger reward than he could expect to get from us, he might decide to turn traitor. We had better let him suppose that we have given up all hope.”

“I agree with you, Zaimes. His hint about the messenger may be a useful one. I don’t mean, of course, that we should cut the poor beggar’s throat; but we might bind him and fasten him up for a few days if we find there is need of time to make our preparations.”

“I am afraid time will not help us,” Zaimes said. “The fellow can have no motive for lying; and if what he says is a fact, I don’t see a shadow of a chance of our getting them out, even if we had all the crew of the schooner here.”

“We shall know more about it when we have seen the place, Zaimes. I expected they would be securely locked up, and it is not much worse than I looked for. It is hard if we can’t hit on some plan for getting them out.”

CHAPTER XII

PLANNING A RESCUE

EVEN Horace was obliged to admit, when he with Zaimes and their guide had walked round the barracks, that he saw no chance whatever of being able to get the prisoners out by force. The barracks consisted of an old castle, a portion of which was, as the shoemaker told them, now used as a military prison; and round this at some distance ran a strong wall some fifteen feet high, loopholed for musketry. The troops were lodged in huts between this wall and the castle.

“There you see,” the guide said, “what I said was true. You could not get a bird out of that place, much less a man.”

“That is so,” Zaimes agreed. “Well, what cannot be done, cannot. However, we will talk it over this evening at your house. Now let us walk about and view the city. Truly it is a fine one.”

Few towns, indeed, have a finer situation than Adalia, standing as it does at the head of a noble bay, a great portion of which is fringed with lofty and precipitous cliffs. The town, which at that time contained some ten thousand inhabitants, stands on ground sloping upwards from the sea in terraces rising one above another. It was surrounded by a ditch and a double wall of massive construction, with square towers every fifty yards. Beyond the walls stretched gardens and groves of orange, lemon, and mulberry trees. Ten mosques with their domes and minarets reared themselves above the houses, and there were several churches belonging to the Christian population, which was, the guide told them, about two thousand in number, the great proportion of whom spoke only the Turkish language. “I can talk equally well in both, for it is but fifty years since my father settled here, and we always talked Greek in the family as long as he lived. Now I always speak Turkish; it is safer, and does not remind the Turks continually that we are of Greek race.”

“Where does the pasha reside?” Horace asked presently.

“I will show you his place; it is at the lower corner of the north wall. His gardens stretch down to the wall by the water, and another high wall on this side separates them from the town.”

Passing through several streets they arrived opposite the residence of the pasha of the sanjak of Tekeh, of which Adalia is the chief town. The residence itself stood at the angle of the two walls dividing the garden from the town. It was a massive building. Some soldiers sat on benches at either side of the gate that opened into the court-yard, and townspeople and officials passed in and out.

“The public offices are in the court-yard,” the guide said. “The pasha’s private dwelling and his harem lie behind it.”

“I suppose we can walk in?”

“Certainly,” the guide said; and they passed through the gates into the court-yard. On one side was a guard-room, stables, and other offices; on the other were the rooms of the secretaries and officials and that in which the pasha transacted business and received visitors. The portion of the house facing the gates was blank on the basement story, except that a door faced the gateway. Above were a line of windows, all closed with jalousies. “That is the dwelling-house,” their guide said. “I believe all the apartments of the family face the garden. Those windows you see there are only those of the apartments of the servants and slaves.”

After leaving the pasha’s they walked down to the bottom of the town, where two gates with strong flanking powers opened upon the port, which was smaller than Horace had expected to find it. However, he was glad to see that there were several craft anchored in the roadstead, some near the port, some at a distance, showing that vessels did not come in unless for shelter in bad weather or to discharge heavy cargoes. Whatever the craft, then, in which the crew of the schooner might arrive, it would not attract attention by anchoring outside the port, as arranged. They returned with their guide to his house and had a meal there. Zaimes was profoundly discouraged. He saw no prospect whatever of rescuing his brother or the other prisoners, and the strength of the walls and the guns that were mounted upon them—a step which, the host told him, had been taken a few months before to defend the town against the Greek fleet, should it make its appearance there—showed that there was no prospect of the Turks being alarmed by the appearance or threats of a craft like the schooner.

“It seems altogether hopeless,” Zaimes said to the Greek.

The latter shook his head, “I can see no possible way,” he replied. “If it had been an ordinary prisoner in the jail it could be managed without difficulty. I could have got one of our countrymen of some influence to have approached the prison officers, or I myself could have worked with the warders; a small sum of money would have done it. But now it seems to me hopeless, and even if we stop the messenger and gain another eight days while the pasha sends again to Smyrna, we should only run some risk and gain nothing.”

Zaimes assented mournfully.

“You had better make the man a present, Zaimes,” Horace said when they were alone for a minute after the meal was finished. “Tell him that it seems to us to be hopeless, and that we shall probably go right away; but that if, thinking it over, we can hit upon any possible plan we will be back again this evening and sleep here.”

Zaimes carried out the suggestion, gave their host a gold coin, and said that they saw no use in staying longer, but would think it over in every way and might return that evening.

“If you go outside the town you must be back by sunset,” the man said; “the gates are closed at that hour.”

“We will not forget, but I do not think you will see us again.”

“Even if our people don’t arrive this evening, Zaimes, I think it will be just as well not to go back into the town,” Horace said as they issued out through the gates into the country. “I don’t say for a moment that the man is not honest, but it is just as well not to put temptation in his way. He knows that we are friends of the prisoners, and he, no doubt, guesses that we belong to the craft that captured the polacca that was wrecked. No doubt he would not openly betray us; that would bring him into discredit with all the Christians in the town. But a few words whispered to some Turk, and an agreement to share any reward that may be given for our capture, would answer the purpose just as well. I don’t say he would do it, you know, but it would be just as well not to run the risk.”

On issuing from the gate, Horace saw that there was a narrow road running between a deep dry ditch at the foot of the city walls and the outlying gardens and orchards.

“This will be our shortest way down to the water, Zaimes, let us follow it.”

The Greek turned without question. When they had gone half-way down between the gate and the bottom of the hill, Horace stopped. “Now, let us have a good look at this place. On the other side of that wall is the garden of the pasha’s house. I counted the number of steps up from the house to the cross-road leading to the gateway, and I have counted them coming down again; we are about fifty yards below the upper wall of the garden.”

“I daresay it is so,” Zaimes replied listlessly.

“This ditch is about ten feet deep, and from the bottom of the ditch to the top of that first wall is from five-and-twenty to thirty; between that wall and the higher one inside it is about fifteen feet; and the inner wall is about fifteen feet higher than the outer one; those square towers form junctions between the two walls. Now, we may be quite sure that there are no sentries either on the wall or on the square towers. I don’t suppose there are sentries anywhere except in the batteries on the water-face, but there certainly won’t be here, for they would command a view down into the pasha’s garden; so we may quite conclude that except for the trouble of scaling the walls there is nothing to prevent our getting over. A couple of rope-ladders and one or two twenty-foot planks with bits nailed across them to give a foothold would take us on to the inner wall; then we should need another long ladder to get down into the garden. That would be about thirty-five feet, I should say.”

“Yes, I see all that,” Zaimes, whose face had again become animated as he listened, agreed; “but what would be the good of getting into the pasha’s garden?”

“No good at all, if we were by ourselves, Zaimes, but with Martyn and twenty men from the schooner a good deal of good, I should say. We have only got to make a sudden rush into the house, which will, of course, be open to the garden, seize the pasha, and carry him and some of his wives and children off to the craft that our fellows come in, and then on to the schooner. Then we can send ashore to say that unless the prisoners are sent off in a boat to us by twelve o’clock in the day we shall hang the pasha. Maybe when we get hold of the pasha there will be no occasion to carry him and his women off; the mere threat of it might be enough. We can tell him that it will be painful to us to have to hoist them up to the top of the wall in sacks, but that we shall be obliged to do it unless he signs an order for the prisoners’ release, and sends it off at once by an officer to the jail. A handsome bribe that will enable him to make his peace with his superior at Smyrna may help to quicken his perception.”

Zaimes seized Horace’s hand with fervour, shook it wildly, clasped his hands on his breast, raised them to heaven, and poured forth a stream of exclamations of delight. The quiet habits of many years had been thrown to the winds in a moment, and the excitable Greek nature burst through all restraints. “You have given me new life,” he exclaimed as soon as he had calmed down a little. “Just now there did not seem even a shadow of hope. Now there is a chance that once again I may clasp my brother in my arms. Your plan is difficult, it is dangerous, and yet we may succeed. It is a desperate undertaking, but what is that? I would give my life for my brother, and your sailors would all risk theirs for their comrades.”

“Let us sit down here quietly for a few minutes, Zaimes, and take a good look at these walls. It is evident by the look of this road that it is very little used, and even if anyone did come up they would only think that we had been working in the orange groves behind us and were taking a quiet smoke. It is lucky that there is a moon to-night; it would be an awfully difficult job to get over those walls and into a place we know nothing of if it were a dark night. There will be no difficulty in throwing up a grapnel and getting on to the first wall. The greatest difficulty will be in crossing from that one to the one behind it. Of course with a regular gangway it would be easy enough, but we should not be able to get materials for making one. However, with a couple of stout spars put up a foot apart with ropes between them a foot from each other so as to make ratlings, we could get up, though it wouldn’t be a very easy job passing women down. Still, I hope it won’t come to that. I should think if we capture the pasha and his children, if he has any—and I suppose with half-a-dozen wives he will be sure to have some—we might leave the women alone, though, of course, we should threaten to take them. But I’ll tell you what we shall want, and that is a man who can speak Turkish well, so as to explain exactly to the pasha the fix he is in.”

“Yes, we shall want such a man,” Zaimes agreed.

“Very well, Zaimes, then I think you had better go back to our friend at once. Even if he did mean treachery, he would have taken no steps yet, as he won’t expect us back till the evening if we come at all. Tell him that you want a service of him in which he will run no personal danger—for you know we can dress him up in some of our things, and put a bit of black cloth as a mask half over his face—and that he will be paid twenty pieces of gold for a night’s work. That will be a fortune to him.”

“That will be the best plan,” Zaimes said. “Where shall we meet you?”

“I will go down the hill to the bottom to see what sort of a road there is along the sea, and I will wait there for you. If the road is exposed to the view of the sentries on the batteries at the sea wall we must make our way through the orchards to this point; if not, we will move along there.”

“Do you think that Captain Martyn is sure to be here this evening?”

“He is quite certain to be. He knows that every hour is of importance, and he will get hold of some craft or other early this morning even if he has to go into a fishing port to get it.”

Zaimes retraced his steps up the hill, while Horace sauntered down until he came out on to the road leading to the port along the shore. A good many small houses were scattered along by its side, and some fishing-boats drawn up on the beach. At the angle of the wall there was a battery. Three guns pointed along the road and the Turkish sentry was leaning against the parapet by the side of them.

“We shall have to make our way through the orchards,” he said to himself. “There will be no getting along this road with the moon up. The sentry would notice us a quarter of a mile away. Besides, the tramp of so many feet would be certain to bring people to their doors. And we must come early if we can, so as to catch the pasha before he goes to bed.”

In half an hour Zaimes and the cobbler came up.

“It is agreed,” the former said in English; “twenty pounds will make him what he considers rich, and he declares he is ready to run any risk for a single night’s work in order to gain it. I think he is an honest fellow. I watched him closely when I went in, and if he had any thought whatever of betraying us, I think I should have seen it in his face.”

It was now four o’clock in the afternoon, and they soon made out a small brigantine anchored a quarter of a mile out, and about a mile and a half along the shore.

“I expect that is her,” Horace said. “She has only just come in, for there are some men upon the yards stowing away the sails, and that is just the position we agreed she should take up.”

When they had gone a mile farther they could see that she had small red and white flags at her mast-head. When they got opposite to her they went down to the water’s edge. Horace waved a white handkerchief for a moment and then sat down. A minute later the boat towing behind the brigantine was hauled up. Two men got into her and rowed leisurely to the shore. They were dressed as Turkish sailors, but Horace recognized them as they came close as two of the crew. They stepped in at once, and the boat rowed out again.

“Have you any news of Mr. Miller and the others, Mr. Horace,” one of them said, “if I might make so bold as to ask?”

“Certainly you may. They are in prison, and there is no possibility of getting them out with the strength we have got; it would need three or four hundred men at least. But we have another plan, which we hope will be successful.”

“You will find the captain down in the cabin with your father, Mr. Horace. Everyone is keeping below except three or four of our chaps, who are got up, like us, in the clothes of the crew of the craft.”

“Come along, Zaimes,” Horace said as he stepped on board. “You had better come with me. This man is going to help us, Davidson, so make him as comfortable as you can till Zaimes comes out again.”

Horace found his father, Martyn, and the doctor in the little cabin. He was heartily welcomed back, and eagerly questioned as to his news. He first told them of the impossibility of doing anything to effect the rescue of the prisoners, guarded as they were; and then explained the position of the pasha’s house and garden, and his own plan.

“Well, it is a bold scheme, Horace, but I should think it might succeed,” Martyn said when he concluded. “We ought certainly to be able to get hold of the pasha before an alarm is given, and if we do we might manage to make terms with him without the women knowing anything about it. That would be a great point, if it could be managed, for if they begin screaming they will bring the whole town upon us. You say there is one door from that part of the house into the court-yard on the other side, and of course there is a communication from the public rooms into the house. The first thing to do when we get in will be to post a couple of men at each of these doors to prevent anyone from running out and giving them the alarm. After that we can tackle the pasha quietly. As you say, though we may threaten, there would be no getting women up over those walls; they would have to be slung up like bales, and if the alarm were given we should have the town upon us before we had half finished the job. We could bundle the pasha off, tied up if he would not walk, and take a dozen children if there are as many, for the sailors could carry them if they were small; if not, they could be gagged and made to walk with a pistol at their heads; but with women, and especially Turkish women, it would be an awful business. Many of them are fat, and some of them I suppose would faint. If we can get the pasha himself and some of his children that will be enough; but as you say, I expect he will give in when he finds himself in our hands, and we tell him that we are going to carry him and his whole family off. Your idea of a bribe in addition is a very good one. Of course, as you say, if we were sure the men at Smyrna would send an order for them to be sent to him, we should be all right, for we could attack their guard at some lonely spot along the road; but the betting is ten to one that he orders them to be hung at once, and if the pasha here writes in return describing how he has been obliged to give them up, and sending a handsome present, he will hear nothing more about it. What time do you think we had better start, Horace?”

“About nine o’clock, I should say. It will take us a good hour getting from here and scaling the walls. It is not likely the pasha will be turning in before eleven, but it is as well to give a good margin.”

“I should recommend you not to go, Mr. Beveridge,” Martyn said. “You are not accustomed to climb rope-ladders. It is a job that is only fit for sailors.”

“I do not think I should be of much use,” Mr. Beveridge replied. “If I did, I would go gladly; but after the hindrance I was to you all at Cyprus, I will take your advice and stay here.”

“I will leave a couple of men with you.”

“No, Captain Martyn, you may want every man. Zaimes will remain with me. If you were going to attack the prison no doubt he would wish to be there and help to rescue his brother; but as it is, someone must stay here as we have eight prisoners down in the hold, and as he is no more accustomed to climbing ropes than I am, it is better that he should remain here.”

“Very well, sir, then I will see about getting the things we shall want made.”

The crew were at once set to work to prepare the ladders.

“We had better not make regular rope-ladders,” Martyn said. “They are well enough for us; but if we have to get people over the wall, we had better put in wooden rungs.”

Accordingly some spare oars were sawn up into lengths, and with these and four ropes, two ladders each forty feet long were manufactured. Then two spars twenty-five feet long were chosen. Cross-pieces were nailed to these a foot apart, and a long piece of canvas was nailed under this gangway, so that, as Martyn said, if any of the captives made a false step in going across it, they would not fall through. A single block was fastened to a grapnel, and a long rope attached for getting up the ladder to the top of the first wall. All this was but an hour’s work for twenty men. The doctor had been asked whether he would prefer staying on board or going with the party. He decided upon staying.

“If you were going to fight I would certainly go with you, Martyn; but I am no more accustomed to climbing up ropes than Mr. Beveridge is, and I should only be in your way, so I will stay with him and Zaimes and keep watch on board.”

“I think that is the best plan, doctor. It is sailors’ work. We shall have trouble as it is in hoisting that fellow Horace brought on board over the walls.”

The cobbler had turned pale with fright when Zaimes explained to him that they were going to take the pasha a prisoner, and that he would be wanted to interpret to him, and he protested that nothing could tempt him to undertake such a business.

“Nonsense, man!” Zaimes said. “You will run no more risks than the others. Look at them laughing and joking. They don’t look like men who are about to embark on a perilous expedition. However, I promised you twenty pounds, but if you do your work well and speak out boldly and firmly what you are told, you shall have another five.”

“It is a big sum for a poor man,” the cobbler replied. “I will do it, but I won’t answer for speaking out loud and bold; my teeth chatter at the very thought of it. If he should ever recognize me again, he would chop me up into mince meat.”

“How can he recognize you? You can either fasten a piece of black cloth over your face, or what will do just as well, get a cork and burn it, and rub it over your face till you are as black as coal. Your own brother wouldn’t know you then, and the pasha will have enough to think about without staring at you.”

“I like that better than the cloth,” the man said. “If there is a scuffle the black cloth may come off.”

“We will rig you up in the clothes of one of the sailors here. You can put them on over your own if you like, and then you will have nothing to do but to throw them away, wash your face, and walk boldly into the town in the morning.”

The brigantine had two boats. These were, as soon as it became dark, lowered, and a quarter before nine the landing party mustered. The men had already torn up some blankets and old sail-cloth, and wrapped them round their cutlasses and muskets so as to deaden the sound should these strike against the wall. The guns were not loaded, but each man carried thirty rounds of ammunition and a brace of pistols, which were to be loaded as soon as they got down into the garden, Martyn, however, giving the strictest orders that whatever happened not a shot was to be fired without his permission.

“I do not think it is likely that we shall meet with any resistance, lads,” he said before they stepped down into the boats. “If there is, knock them down with your fists; or if there is anything serious, use your cutlasses. Mr. Horace will place the four men told off for the doors, at their posts. These will follow him through the house regardless of anything that is going on around. Everything depends upon our preventing anyone from leaving the house and giving the alarm. I shall myself post men at all the lower windows before we enter. Their duty will be to prevent anyone from coming out into the garden. If there is yelling or shrieking in the garden it will alarm the town. As long as they only shriek in the house there is no fear of its being heard. Now you each know what you have got to do. As to scaling the wall, this must be done as quietly as if you were making sail on board a smart frigate.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE PASHA OF ADALIA

PACKED closely in the two boats of the Turkish craft the landing party rowed for the shore. As soon as they reached it the boats were drawn up on the strand, and in silence Martyn led his men across the road. Then he struck off into the orchard on the other side, so as to escape the notice of any of the people in the houses by the road. The cobbler and Horace went first, Martyn and the men followed a short distance behind. Half an hour’s walking took them to the edge of the ditch, and after a short search they found a bough that Horace and Zaimes had cut off and thrown down by the side of the path, to mark the spot where they were to make the ascent.

Two sailors were posted on the path, at fifty yards above and below them, in case anyone should come along, although the risk of this was exceedingly small. There was no difficulty in scrambling down into the ditch. As soon as they did so the sailor who carried the grapnel advanced to the foot of the wall, and at the second attempt succeeded in getting it to hold on the parapet. Another, with one of the rope-ladders, went forward, fastened the rope to it, and the two of them hauled the ladder up to the block, and kept the rope taut while Martyn mounted. He found, as he had expected, that there was a platform behind the wall for men to stand on while firing. Taking his place on it he took hold of the ladder rope and told the men below to loosen their end. Holding it partly up he fastened it at the block. Then two men joined him, hauled the wooden gangway up, and planted it against the top of the inner wall. The rest of the men followed, and Martyn led the way across. The others soon stood beside him, all stooping down on the platform as soon as they had crossed, so that their heads should not show above the skyline, should anyone happen to be looking out from the windows of the house.

Two sailors helped the cobbler across the gangway. Horace was the last to mount, with the exception of the two sentries, whom he summoned with a low whistle as soon as the others were up. When they reached the top they hauled the rope-ladder after them, and laid it ready for lowering again. By the time Horace crossed to the inner wall Martyn and most of the men had already descended to the garden by the second rope-ladder.

“That has all been managed well,” Martyn said when Horace joined him below. “Now, you and I will go forward and reconnoitre a bit.”

The house was seventy or eighty yards away. There were lights in several windows on the ground-floor, and at almost all the windows on the flat above it.

“We had better take off our shoes, Horace. It is no use running any risks. Shove them in your sash beside your pistols.”

They stole noiselessly up to the house and looked in at the windows. In one room were a group of servants sitting round a brazier, smoking; another room was empty; but in the third, which was much the largest, four Turkish officials were seated on a divan, and a Nubian slave was handing them coffee.

“That old chap is the pasha, no doubt,” Martyn whispered. “He is evidently master of the house. You see he is giving some order or other to the slave. Here is the garden door into a hall; let us see if it is open. Yes; that is all right. Well, I think now we will bring up the men. Now, as soon as we are in, Horace, you take four men; go in first and post them at the doors leading out of the house. I will take six men and seize the pasha and his friends. Other four will pounce upon the servants. Your cobbler fellow had better go with them to tell the servants that if they make the least row they will have their throats cut. The other men will scatter about in the passages and down stairs, and pounce upon anybody who may come along. As soon as you have posted your men, go to the room where the servants are, and bring the interpreter in to me. Tell the sailors to bind the fellows and lay them down, and put a couple of guards over them.”

They returned to the men and told them off to their several duties. All were ordered to take their shoes off, and put them in their belts.

“Now, you can draw your cutlasses, lads,” Martyn said. “Have you all loaded your pistols?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, mind they are not to be used; a pistol-shot might destroy all our plans. I hope to manage it so that there shall not be any noise whatever.”

They made their way quietly up to the house. Horace opened the door and led the way in, followed by his four men. They passed through the hall and a long passage, from which several rooms opened; and he was sure, by the direction in which he was going, that this must lead to the offices. At the end was a strong door; only one bolt was shot, as doubtless the officers would be leaving by this way. He put up a heavy bar that was standing beside it, stationed two of the sailors there, and then retraced his steps with the others. Just as he reached the hall again a sailor came up to him.

“This is the way to the big door, your honour;” and turning down another passage they arrived at a double door, which Horace had no doubt was the one that he had seen in the court-yard. Posting the men there he hurried back, and soon found the room where the servants had been sitting. The work had already been done. The sailors had all been provided with short lengths of rope, and the Turks were lying bound upon the floor. Telling the cobbler to accompany him, he went into the next room. Two sailors, with drawn cutlasses, were standing by the side of the pasha. The three officers had been bound, and were lying on the divan, with a sailor standing over each, while the other sailor stood over the attendant, who cowered on the ground in an attitude of abject terror. Martyn was standing facing the pasha.

“Now, Horace,” he said, “tell your man what to say to the pasha.”

This had been arranged between them, and Horace at once addressed the pasha.

“Do you speak Greek?”

The pasha shook his head.

“Tell him,” Horace said in that language to the interpreter, “that we belong to the ship to which the officers and sailors he has in his prison also belong, and that we have come here to fetch them away. We are fighting under the flag of Greece; but we are Englishmen by blood, and we shall do no harm to him or his family. The prisoners, however, we will have; and unless he sends at once, with an order for their delivery from the prison, and hands them over to us, we shall be obliged to carry him, the three officers here, and the ladies of his family and his children, off on board our ship as hostages; and if a hair of the prisoners’ heads is touched, we shall be forced to hang him and the whole of his family to the yard-arms of the ship.”

THE CAPTURE OF THE PASHA

The interpreter translated his words sentence by sentence. The Turk had at first looked perfectly impassive; but at the threat to carry off his women and children his expression changed, the veins stood out of his forehead, and his face flushed with fury.

“Tell him,” Horace went on, “that we should deeply regret to have to take such a step, and that we sincerely trust that he will see the necessity for his yielding to our demands. There is no possibility of assistance reaching him, we are a well-armed body of determined men, his servants have been secured, and all the doors are guarded, as also the windows outside—he is completely in our power. As we came in noiselessly and unobserved, so we shall depart. If he refuses to comply with our demands we shall, of course, be compelled to bind and gag all our captives, and to carry the ladies and children.”

When the last sentence had been translated, Horace said to Martyn, “I think, Captain Martyn, you had better get those officers carried into the next room, so that we can touch upon the money side of the question.”

Martyn gave the order, and the officers and the attendant were removed.

“Now, pasha,” Horace went on, “let us look at this thing reasonably. On the one side is the certainty that you and the ladies of the household and your children will be carried away; and that unless the prisoners are given up to us in exchange for you, you will be all put to death. On the other hand, you have but to surrender prisoners whom you did not even capture in war, but who were wrecked on your shore. We know that you have sent to Smyrna for directions concerning them. Were it not for that you would have handed them over to us without difficulty; but as the pasha there, who is your superior, now knows of it, you think that he will be angry when he hears of their escape, and that you might fall into disgrace. But I don’t think that the pasha of Anatolia, if he were placed in the same position as you are, would hesitate a moment in giving up a score of captives of no great importance one way or the other; and that if the matter were placed by you in the proper light before him, accompanied, perhaps, by a present, nothing more would be heard about it. In any case we are ready to pay you the sum of one thousand pounds as a ransom for them. We have sent your officers out of the room that they should not hear this offer, which will be entirely between ourselves. It is not meant as a bribe to you, but as a ransom, which, if you choose to send it to Smyrna, will doubtless assist the pasha there to perceive that being, with your whole family, at our mercy, you had no resource but to comply with our commands. We will give you five minutes to make up your mind.”

When this was translated, the pasha asked:

“How am I to know that, if the captives are restored to you, you will not still carry me and my family away?”

“You have simply the word of English gentlemen,” Horace said when the question was translated to him. “You see we are acting as considerately as we can. Your ladies upstairs are still unaware that anything unusual is going on. Our men have touched nothing belonging to you. We are neither robbers nor kidnappers, but simply men who have come to save their comrades from a cruel death.”

“I will write the order,” the pasha said firmly. “Had I been in the house by myself I would have died rather than do so. Being as it is, I cannot resist.”

“Who will you send with the order?” Horace asked.

“One of the officers you have taken away is the colonel of the regiment. He will take it and bring the prisoners here. He is the oldest of the three.”

Horace went into the next room and ordered the officer to be unbound and brought in by two of the sailors.

“You have heard, Colonel Osman, the terms that these strangers have laid down, and that unless the prisoners are surrendered, you, the two bimbaches, myself, and the members of my family, will be carried off as hostages and hung if the prisoners are not delivered up.”

“I heard that, pasha.”

“What is your opinion, colonel?”

“My opinion is that you have no course but to give up the prisoners. No one would expect you to sacrifice the lives of the ladies of your family and your children, to say nothing of your own and ours, merely for the sake of twenty shipwrecked sailors. It seems to me that it were madness to hesitate, pasha.”

“That is also my opinion,” the pasha said. “Therefore, colonel, I will now write you an order to fetch them from prison and bring them under an escort here. You will understand that it will be better that absolute silence should be observed about this affair. The less it is talked of the better. If the officer in special charge of them asks any questions you can intimate that, without knowing it, you believe that the messenger may have arrived from Smyrna with instructions as to their disposal. Dismiss the escort at the outer gate and bring the prisoners yourself here.”

The pasha wrote the order, which he handed to the colonel, who at once hurried off with it.

“You are sure that he will faithfully obey the order, pasha?” Horace asked through the interpreter.

The pasha nodded.

“One of the bimbaches here is his own brother, and he would be sure that his life would be sacrificed were there any treachery.”

At this moment there was a little shriek heard.

“I am afraid,” Horace said, “that one of the ladies’ attendants has come downstairs and has been seized. Perhaps you will like to go upstairs and assure them that there is no cause for alarm. In the meantime I will hand you this bag, which contains the amount of the ransom in gold.”

“You Englishmen act nobly,” the pasha said as he took the bag. “You had us in your power, and need have paid nothing, and you treat me as a friend rather than as an enemy. It is a pity that you fight for the Greeks. When I was a young man I fought in Egypt by the side of your troops.”

Horace escorted him through the sailors in the passages to the foot of the stairs and there left him.

“Your scheme is turning out trumps and no mistake,” Martyn said as he returned to the room. “There is no fear, I hope, of that Turkish colonel bringing all his men down on us.”

“I don’t think so.” And Horace then repeated what the pasha had said as to one of the officers in his hands being the colonel’s brother.

“That is good, Horace. I don’t think he would venture on it anyhow. Evidently the pasha has no fear. If he had he would not have sent him, because he must have known that his treachery jeopardized his own safety and that of his family.”

“How long do you think they will be before they are back?”

“Not much above half an hour, I should think. I don’t think the Turkish soldiers do much in the way of undressing, and certainly our fellows won’t. Now we will leave five men to look after the prisoners here, and we will put all the others in the offices you say look into the court-yard, so that if by any chance this fellow does bring troops down with him we can give them a hot reception.”

“If he does, Horace, do you take the five men in the house, rush upstairs, let one man put a pistol to the pasha’s head, and let the others snatch up any children they can find there and take them away over the wall—pasha and all—and march them straight down to the boat and get them on board ship. Let me know when you are off with them. We will defend the place as long as we can, and then make a bolt through the garden to the ladder and follow you.”

The men loaded their muskets and took their places at the windows of the offices. Horace and Martyn stood at the door leading from the house into the court-yard. The interpreter stood with them. Presently they heard the tramp of feet approaching. Then they heard a word of command, followed by silence, and the interpreter said:

“He has ordered the soldiers to halt. The prisoners alone are to enter the court-yard. When the gates close behind them the soldiers are to march back to barracks.”

The gates that had been left ajar by the officer as he went out opened, and in the moonlight they saw him enter, followed by Miller, Tarleton, and the sailors. The officer himself closed and barred the gate as the last entered. Then Martyn and Horace rushed forward and grasped the hands of their friends. These were for a time speechless with astonishment, but the men burst into exclamations and then began to cheer. Martyn checked them at once.

“Hush, lads! Come in silently and quietly. We will talk and cheer when we get away. Pass the word inside, Horace. Tell the men to file out at once. Form up in the garden. I will wait here till you have cleared the house.”

The greetings were hearty indeed when the two parties met in the garden.

“March to the ladder, lads,” Martyn said, “but don’t begin to climb it till we join you. Now, Horace, we will say good-bye to the old pasha. Bring the interpreter in with you.”

The pasha had returned to his room again where he had been joined by the three officers, the colonel having already liberated the other two.

“Tell the pasha that Captain Martyn wishes to thank him for the promptness with which the arrangement has been carried out, and also to express to him his very great pleasure that this incident should have terminated without unpleasantness. Captain Martyn wishes also to say, that although, in order to rescue his officers and men, he was obliged to use threats, yet that, as far as the ladies of the pasha’s family were concerned, they were threats only; for that, even had he refused, he should have respected the privacy of his apartments; and although he would have been obliged to carry off the pasha himself, his children, and these officers as hostages, he would have retaliated for the murder of the prisoners only upon the adults. No English officer would use disrespect to ladies, and no English officer would avenge the murder even of his dearest friends upon children.”

When this was translated to the pasha, he replied: “The courtesy that the captain and his sailors have exhibited since they entered the house is in itself sufficient to show me that his words are true, and that the ladies of my household would have been respected. I feel myself humiliated by thus having my prisoners carried off from the midst of the town, but I have no reason to complain. It is the will of Allah, and I shall always remember these English officers as gallant gentlemen. There are not many who would risk their lives to save a few of their countrymen.”

A few more words were exchanged, and then Martyn and his companions joined the sailors at the wall. Miller and Tarleton had by this time gathered from the men a short account of how their rescue had come about.

“Now,” Martyn said briskly when he reached them, “the sooner we are off the better. Horace, do you lead the way with ten of the men who came with us; let the last two of that party help your interpreter over. Mr. Miller, you with your party will follow. I will bring up the rear with the other ten men.”

In five minutes all were over the walls. The last party had pulled up the ladder from the garden after them, then removed and lowered down the gangway; and after Martyn, who came last, reached the ditch, the grapnel was shaken from its hold on the wall.

“It wouldn’t do to leave these things here,” he said to Horace. “There is no saying what yarn the pasha may set afloat. It is quite on the cards that if he gets an order from Smyrna to execute the prisoners, he will have it given out that they were marched to the court-yard of his house and there executed. At any rate our taking away the ladders will leave it open to him to give his own account of the matter. Now, my lads, you will all follow me. It is of no use forming up in order, as we are going through orchards; but keep close together, don’t straggle and don’t talk. You will have plenty of time to compare notes when you are once on board.

“Now, Miller,” he said as he started, “we are fairly out of it. I am delighted, indeed, to see you and Tarleton again. I thought at one time it was all up with you.”

“So did we,” Miller said, “and I can hardly believe we are free even now.”

“It is due to Horace and Zaimes, Miller, though it is to Horace entirely that the credit of hitting upon the plan by which we have got you out belongs. However we will talk all about that when we get on board. You will have to tell your yarn to the chief; besides, as I have told the men not to talk, I don’t want to set a bad example.”

Horace had greeted Marco warmly in the court-yard, and as soon as they started he fell behind with him, chatting with him in low tones.

“Zaimes couldn’t come with us, Marco, for he and the doctor had to stay on board with my father to look after some prisoners there, but he was here with me this morning and made all the arrangements for the escape. We landed at the mouth of the bay and walked here last night, both disguised in peasants’ dresses we got hold of. I know it was a great privation to him not to be able to come himself and aid in your rescue.”

Here Martyn, catching the murmur of voices, passed the word for silence, and nothing more was said until they reached the boats which they had drawn up on the shore. A few minutes later they were alongside the brigantine. Mr. Beveridge hailed them as they approached.

“Is that you, Martyn?”

“Yes, sir. Horace’s plan has worked perfectly, and we have got them all out. The boats can only carry half. He is waiting with the rest on the beach.”

“Thank God for that, Martyn! No one hurt at all?”

“No one, not even a Turk has been knocked down. The only scrimmage has been with one of the pasha’s wives’ maids, who fought like a wild-cat before two of our men could make her a prisoner.”

Directly the rest of the party came off the anchor was weighed and sail made on the brigantine, and she was headed from the land. In half an hour a look-out in the bow called out: “I think I can make out the schooner away on our beam, sir.”

“I think it is her,” Martyn said after going forward to have a look. “Light that red flare-up we brought with us, Horace.”

As soon as the red flame broke out, a similar signal was shown by the craft in the distance. The brigantine was headed for her, and the two vessels rapidly approached each other. Presently a hail from Tom Burdett came across the water.

“Captain Martyn ahoy!”

“Ay, ay, Tom! We have got them all. Everyone is safe and well.”

A cheer broke out from the schooner, which was answered by a louder one from the brigantine.

“Throw her up in the wind, Tom,” Martyn shouted, “and we will bring this craft alongside.”

In two or three minutes the vessels lay side by side. Before leaving the brigantine its crew were released. Mr. Beveridge, in his delight at the success of the plan, made them each a handsome present for the inconvenience they had suffered. The cobbler of Adalia had not come aboard with the boats, Horace having given him his reward of twenty-five pounds before embarking. As soon as the crew of the schooner were all on board the head-sails were filled, and she rapidly drew away from the brig. The boatswain was ordered to serve out a ration of grog all round, and the officers then assembled in the cabin, where the Greeks placed some cold meat and wine on the table, to which all, especially Miller and Tarleton, fell to with a good appetite. When they had done, Martyn told the story of the steps that had been taken for their rescue.

“You see, Miller, it was entirely Horace’s plan; he made the whole arrangements, and we had only to carry them out, which was the simplest thing in the world. Now let us have your account.”

“We were not very lucky,” Miller said. “We overhauled five or six craft, but for the most part they contained little of value. One or two of them had some silk and other goods on board, and these were transferred to the polacca. The weather kept fine, and thinking that our rig would not alarm the Turks we sailed in within three miles of Adalia. I was intending to go right into the roads and anchor there, when we saw the clouds banking up to the south. I had no barometer on board, but it looked so bad that we headed out again for the mouth of the gulf.

“We had not gone far when the gale struck us, blowing like fury right into the bay. We did everything we could, but the old tub drifted to leeward two feet for every one we worked out. The wind got higher and higher till it was blowing a hurricane. As soon as the water shallowed sufficiently to anchor, I let both anchors go; but the gear was all rotten, and the cables snapped like packthread. Finally we drove ashore about half a mile to the east of the town.

“There was a mob there waiting us, and the pasha with a lot of troops. We tied a line to a keg and it floated on shore. They hauled on it, and then we sent a hawser and swarmed along it. The Turks behaved very pluckily, joining hands and rushing into the breakers to get us ashore. As soon as they saw by our uniform who we were there was a regular hubbub, and I thought we should all have been killed then and there. However the pasha made the troops form up round us, and marched us into the town, and there we were stowed away in a room in that old castle. The prospect didn’t look good, for as we went in we saw that the troops were in huts all round us, and that there was besides a high wall outside them. The window of the place we were shut up in was about eight feet from the ground and very strongly barred, and in addition they kept four soldiers always on guard in the room.

“Two or three fellows came to us and spoke in different lingoes, of which we could neither make head nor tail. Then a chap came who spoke Italian. I don’t know much of it, but enough to make out what he meant when he spoke very slowly. The upshot of it was that they had sent to Smyrna for orders as to what was to be done, and that it would take five or six days for the messenger to go there and back. It did not seem to make much odds to us what the answer was. Knowing how they go on on both sides it was a moral certainty that we should be hung either here or at Smyrna, and it did not seem to us that there was much choice between the two places.

“Of course we often talked about you. We knew you would do everything you could, and that when you found we did not turn up at the rendezvous you would sail along the coast till you got news of us; but it did not seem likely that you could do anything to help us. We knew that you could not land more than twenty men, and with twenty men you could do nothing at all against about a thousand Turks with that strong wall in front of them. Besides, the old castle itself was capable of defence, and there were lots of them stationed in it. Things looked about as black as they could be. We were not starved; the Turks gave us plenty of bread and a sort of thin broth.

“This evening we stretched ourselves out as usual about nine o’clock. We were all asleep when the outer gates of the castle were opened, then there was a loud trampling of feet, then our door was unlocked. When an officer came in, followed by a lot of soldiers, we thought that it was all up with us. The officer made signs that we were to go with him, and I made so certain that we were being taken out either to be shot or hung that I said a few words to the men, telling them that the end had evidently come, and that we must die as Christians and British sailors. We were led out, and about a hundred Turkish soldiers closed round us. We were surprised when they marched us out of the place, but as we went on through the streets of the town we supposed they were taking us to some quiet spot outside the walls. Then we turned in through that gateway, and then you know the rest, Martyn. I don’t think that I am a coward, or that I felt afraid to die; but when you and Horace rushed out to speak to us, you could have knocked me over with a feather. It was not until I got out into the garden and found your party formed up there that I was quite sure it was not all a dream.”

When they had talked over the rescue Mr. Beveridge said: “Well, we have had enough of cruising for the present; we will make for Athens at once, Captain Martyn; by this time probably something will be going on there.”

It was late in February when anchor was dropped in the harbour of the Piræus. Mr. Beveridge at once went on shore with Martyn, and returned the next morning.

“Any news of importance, father?” Horace asked as they came on board.

“Yes, Hypsilantes is likely to be succeeded by his rival Mavrocordatos. A Samian adventurer named Lykourgos has got together a fleet and has proposed a landing at Chios; there can be no doubt that his intention is simply plunder, for even if he could drive the Turks out of Chios he could not possibly hold the island, as a large Turkish fleet will very shortly be ready to sail out of the Dardanelles. The worst of it is that the Chiots are utterly opposed to any movement of the kind. They are an agricultural people, and the island has always been mildly governed and lightly taxed; their municipal administration is already in their own hands, and their taxes collected by themselves. When Admiral Tombazes appeared off Chios with the Greek fleet during its first cruise, the inhabitants turned a deaf ear to his invitation to them to rise. In fact there is no doubt that the people of Chios have everything to lose and nothing to gain by becoming a part of Greece.

“They have sent urgent remonstrances against the landing of any Greek troops on the island, pointing out that there is a strong body of Turkish troops there; that the citadel could not be captured, and that the attempt would only inflame the passions of the Mohammedan population and end in ruin and disaster to the Christian inhabitants. Hypsilantes has written a mild letter to Lykourgos suggesting that it would at any rate be prudent to defer the enterprise. It is feared, however, that, like Greek commanders in general, the fellow will pay no attention to this, but will proceed on his own account. Martyn agrees with me that it would be as well for us to cruise about the island and see how matters go on, and endeavour to rescue some of the Turks from the fury of the Greeks, or some of the Greeks from the fury of the Turks.”

“I should say the best thing to do, father,” Horace said indignantly, “would be to attack the ship of this fellow Lykourgos and to hang him at his own yard-arm.”

“It would be a good action, no doubt, Horace; but as he has with him a fleet of seventy or eighty vessels it is probable that if we made the attempt we should decorate the yard-arms and not Lykourgos. At any rate we will stop here for two or three days, and give the men a run on shore. Just at present, owing to the fact of our having destroyed that Turkish frigate, they will be very popular characters, and are not likely to get into any serious row. They have still got the money I paid them for their conduct at Cyprus, and when sailors have got money in their pockets they are never happy until they have got a chance of spending it.”

Accordingly, the crew had twelve hours on shore, a third of their number going each day. On the fourth day the vessel sailed for Chios. They cruised round the island for a fortnight and frequently overhauled fishing-boats and had conversations with the crews. They learned that fresh troops had lately arrived at Chios, and that as these bands were principally composed of volunteers, Vehid Pasha, the governor, had great difficulty in maintaining order among them. He had persuaded the Christians to raise a monthly contribution of thirty-four thousand piastres to give regular pay and rations to the troops and so keep them in a good temper.

On the 22d of March the schooner made out a large fleet of vessels approaching the island. They kept away until they saw them anchor, and then themselves cast anchor at a short distance from them. A boat at once put off from the ship flying the flag of Lykourgos, to demand who they were and with what intentions they were there.

“We fly, as you see, the flag of Greece,” Mr. Beveridge replied to the officer, “and we have the authority of the Greek government to fight against its enemies. I do not, however, recognize any authority on the part of your commander, unless he is acting at the present time under the explicit orders of Prince Mavrocordatos, who is now President of Greece, and shall therefore consult only my own feelings as to whether or not I take any part in the proceedings on shore.”

“Our admiral will know how to make you obey orders,” the officer said angrily.

“Is he an admiral?” Mr. Beveridge asked, as if for information. “I was not aware that he had received any commission that would authorize him to use that title either from the last president or from the present one. When I am well assured that this is the case it will naturally modify my views; as to compelling me, you can look round at the armament of this craft. Three months ago we destroyed a Turkish frigate, and I fancy that if we were interfered with we could give a good account of many of those vessels anchored there. If, therefore, Lykourgos is really bent upon the capture of Chios, I should advise him to set about it without wasting his time in meddling with us. You may mention to him that I am an English gentleman who has fitted up this vessel for the purpose of aiding Greece to achieve her independence, and that in all honourable warfare I am ready to take my part. If I see that the object of your expedition is honourable warfare I shall lend all assistance in my power. If I find that it is merely plunder and destruction, I shall also do all in my power to prevent the Greek flag from being disgraced by acts only worthy of pirates; and, moreover, I will take care that my countrymen and the various nations of Europe shall obtain a fair account of what has been done here.”

The Greek was completely cowed by the calmness and confidence of the owner of the schooner, and returned to his boat without any of the swagger with which he had quitted it. Horace translated his father’s speech to Martyn and the other two officers as soon as Mr. Beveridge had returned to his cabin.

“The chief is a perfect brick,” Martyn said enthusiastically. “Fancy sending off such a message as that from this schooner to a fellow commanding sixty or seventy sail. Sir Richard Grenville could hardly have sent from the deck of the Revenge a more defiant message to the Spanish fleet.”

Miller rubbed his hands. “Shall I get the men in readiness for making sail and casting off the guns, Captain Martyn?”

“There will be time enough,” Martyn said, “when we make out a movement among them. We can get up sail in half the time they can. I should not be surprised if this fellow Lykourgos knuckles down. Did you see how his officer came down from his stilts? If this fellow had any pluck he would be sailing to meet the Turkish fleet instead of landing to pillage here, for, from what Mr. Beveridge said, that can be his only motive. Still, we will keep a sharp look-out on them. If we see the flag-ship signalling to the others, or her boats putting off to them, we shall know what to expect. You may as well get a buoy on the anchor-chain and have everything ready to slip. We are too near them to be pleasant if they open fire. Once under way and out of close range we can talk to them as we like.”

CHAPTER XIV

CHIOS

A QUARTER of an hour after the Greek officer left the schooner Miller said: “They are lowering a large boat from the Greek flag-ship, sir.”

Martyn brought his glass to bear upon it.

“There is a stir on board,” he said. “It looks as if the commander were going on shore.”

“Yes, there is some officer of importance being handed down the ladder. Now she is putting off. By Jove! I believe she is coming here; at any rate she is heading straight for us. Perhaps Lykourgos himself is coming to blow us out of the water.”

“Quite as likely he is coming to pay his respects,” Miller said. “The betting is ten to one the fellow is a coward; and that if the officer gave the message as he got it, he is impressed with the idea that the chief is an Englishman of great importance, possessed, perhaps, of unknown powers of destruction.”

“Horace,” Martyn said, “you had better tell your father. I can make out that the fellow in the stern is got up in gorgeous uniform. I expect it is Lykourgos himself.”

Mr. Beveridge came up on to the quarter-deck just as the boat came alongside. Martyn went to the gangway as a Greek officer came up and announced that Admiral Lykourgos had come to pay a visit to the English lord. Lykourgos mounted to the deck.

“I am the commandant of this craft, sir,” Martyn said. “This is Mr. Beveridge, the owner.”

Lykourgos advanced with an air of great pleasure and with outstretched hand.

“I am delighted to make the acquaintance of an English friend of Greece,” he said.

Mr. Beveridge bowed and shook hands with the Greek.

“What a contrast there is between them!” Miller whispered to Horace. “This theatrical-looking Greek with his oily manners, and your father in his quiet blue serge! Ah! he is asking him to go down into the cabin.”

The interview lasted about ten minutes, and then the two men returned on deck. Lykourgos entered his boat and rowed away.

“Well, sir, is it peace or war?” Martyn asked.

“Peace, as far as we are concerned,” Mr. Beveridge said. “The fellow made no allusion to my message to him, paid me a large number of absurd compliments, expressed boundless admiration at the result of Miller’s action with the frigate, of which he had heard, and hoped that he would have our assistance against the Turks. I told him what I thought of his enterprise, and that he was bringing destruction upon the heads of the unfortunate Christians. He assured me that I had been misinformed, that the Christians would join him to a man, and that he should make short work of the Turks, and should at once besiege them in their citadel. I said that I wished him success in that part of his undertaking, and that there would be no time to waste, as the Turkish fleet might, I understood, appear any day. But that, if he undertook siege operations, and his own force proved inadequate, we would land a party to assist him. He hinted that money might be required to support the siege. I told him that I had arranged with the central government that any assistance I had to give in that way should be given through them; but that, if the people of the island really did rise, I should be happy to furnish a thousand muskets and ammunition for their use. Seeing that nothing was to be got out of me he took his leave. He said the landing was to take place in half an hour.”

“Shall we send a party on shore with him, Mr. Beveridge?” Martyn asked.

“No, Martyn. He says he has got two thousand five hundred fighting men ready to land, and that being the case we should be powerless to interfere in any way. Besides, for the present I think it would be best to keep the men on board. I don’t trust the fellow in the slightest; and if he thought the vessel was left weak-handed, he is perfectly capable of making a sudden attack on her. No doubt he thinks we have money untold below, and I should say a great proportion of his vessels are no better than pirates, who have merely joined him in the hope of booty. I know that he has none of the Psara ships with him, for Chios lies so near their island that they would have no wish to draw the vengeance of the Turks upon themselves; and I know that they, as well as the Chiots, sent to Corinth to protest against the expedition. I don’t think he has any of the Hydriot ships with him either. They only sail under their own admirals, and do, to a certain extent, respect the orders of the central government. His ships, I fancy, all belong to the smaller islands, and are the sort of craft that are honest traders one day and pirates the next if they see a chance—the riffraff of the islands, in fact. If they really do besiege the Turks in the citadel, and I see that we can be of any assistance, we will land a party; but at any rate we will take matters quietly until we see how things go.”

“The vessels are all lowering their boats, Captain Martyn,” Tarleton reported.

“Very well, Mr. Tarleton. Let the men go to their quarters, unloose the guns and load with grape. It is quite upon the cards that these fellows may make a sudden dash upon us, thinking to catch us napping.”

The boatswain’s whistle was heard, and then Tom Burdett shouted out: “All hands to quarters! Cast loose the guns and load with grape!” And in a moment a scene of animated bustle succeeded the quiet that had reigned on board the schooner since her anchor had been dropped. In a few minutes, however, the crowded boats left the ships and rowed towards shore.

“That will do, boatswain; you can call the men away from the guns,” said Martyn.

“Shall we take the cartridges out, sir?”

“No, leave them as they are. Put a fold or two of sailcloth over the touch-holes. It is just as well to be on guard as long as we are in the neighbourhood of these slippery gentry. Horace, you take my glass and go aloft, and see if you can make out any Turks in the neighbourhood. It is four or five hours since the Greek fleet first hove in sight, and there is ample time for the Turks to have come down to oppose their landing if they thought themselves strong enough to fight in the open.”

Horace ascended the shrouds, and sitting on the cap of the mainmast examined the shore.

“There are half a dozen horsemen riding about, a short distance from the shore, sir,” he called down, “but I can see no signs of troops anywhere.”

“Then it is evident they don’t mean to fight,” Martyn said to the first lieutenant. “Between ourselves, Miller, I am very glad they are not here to oppose a landing; for if they had been, no doubt the chief would have wanted to fire a few shots to help cover the operations, and I should be sorry to lift even a finger to help in this wretched business. It is like a landing from one of the old buccaneer fleets on the Spanish Main. They used to pretend they went to attack the Spaniards, while in reality they simply fought for plunder. Still, those fellows had courage—plenty of it, which is more, I fancy, than these Greeks are likely to exhibit when they once get in front of the Turks.”

Lykourgos, with his twenty-five hundred men, marched without opposition into the town of Chios, where they burnt the custom-houses, destroyed two mosques, and plundered generally the houses of the inhabitants. They occupied the houses nearest the citadel, and placing riflemen in them opened fire, while a party began to throw up a battery on a commanding position known as Turloti.

The following morning Mr. Beveridge landed, and, accompanied by Miller and Horace, and a party of twenty sailors armed with rifle, cutlass, and pistol, proceeded to Chios. He found the streets of the town in disorder, the troops—or rather the armed men, for they were under neither discipline nor control—were wandering about, occasionally going within sight of the citadel, and discharging their muskets two or three times in that direction. They looked with surprise at the orderly little party of British sailors; but as they supposed these had come to help them, they received them with exclamations of good-will. They visited Turloti, where a score or two of men were working lazily, and then went down to the port, where another battery had also been begun.

“What on earth are they putting up a battery here for?” Miller said. “At this distance they might as well fire potatoes at the citadel. Ask that officer, Horace, what they are up to?”

The Greek replied that they were going to run their trenches forward against the citadel from this point.

“Well, then, they are fonder of work than I gave them credit for,” Miller said when he understood the reply. “If the whole of them were to set to work in earnest, it would take them a month to run their trenches from here up to the citadel, and, at the rate at which they are working now, it would take them a couple of years.”

Returning to the town Mr. Beveridge called upon Lykourgos, who had taken up his quarters in the bishop’s palace. The Greek received him with an air of much greater pomposity than he had shown at their first meeting. He evidently believed that the work was almost accomplished, and that he was already the conqueror of the island.

“I have been doing some good work this morning,” he said. “I have deposed the Demogeronts (the Municipal Council). You know they were poor creatures and lukewarm, and I have appointed a Revolutionary Committee.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Beveridge said gravely. “And what military work have you in hand? It seems to me that the men would be much better employed in working at the batteries than in idling about the streets.”

“The citadel will soon fall,” Lykourgos said loftily. “Cut off from all succour and surrounded by my army they must speedily surrender.”

“Undoubtedly they must, if they were so situated,” Mr. Beveridge said; “but, so far as I see, there is nothing whatever to prevent the Turks from sending reinforcements from the mainland.”

“I am writing to ask the government at Corinth to order the fleet here to blockade the island and oppose the Turkish fleet when they come in sight.”

“That would be excellent,” Mr. Beveridge said; “but the central government are not famous for speed, nor are the ships of Hydra and Psara very apt to obey orders unless these happen to suit their own views. Could you not send a few of those vessels of yours to prevent the Turks from sending reinforcements?”

“That would be quite impossible,” Lykourgos said decidedly. “In the first place, they are mere transports, the greater proportion carrying no guns, and those that do have guns of such light calibre that they could not oppose the Turkish cruisers that would no doubt convoy any vessels bringing Turkish troops across. In the second place, I could not spare a ship, for, were the Turkish fleet to arrive before the Greek fleet comes to my assistance, I should have to re-embark my army at once. I shall soon be in a position to press the siege more vigorously. I have already received messages saying the peasantry among the hills are about to join me.”

Mr. Beveridge, seeing that there was no prospect of any vigorous efforts to restore discipline among the Greeks, returned to the schooner. Day after day passed and nothing whatever was done. A few soldiers, when the fancy took them, worked for an hour or two at the batteries, or fired away their ammunition in the direction of the citadel. Neither Lykourgos nor his committee made any attempt to introduce either discipline among the troops or order in the town.

No news came from Corinth as to the movements of the Greek fleet, but a vessel arrived with a few heavy guns for siege purposes, and also brought several Philhellenes—as foreigners who had come to assist the Greeks were called—to direct the service of the guns.

In consequence of the disorder in the town the position of the better class of Christians became intolerable. Mr. Beveridge landed but seldom. He saw that nothing could be done, and that the expedition must certainly end in disaster, and accordingly preferred to remain on board and await events.

Two of the officers generally landed every day. Some of the men were also allowed to go on shore, but were forbidden to approach the neighbourhood of the town lest they should become involved in quarrels with the Greeks. One day, when Horace was ashore with Tarleton, he spoke sharply to a drunken Greek soldier who ran against him. Presently Tarleton said:

“There has been a Greek following us since you spoke to that drunken man, Horace. He looks a respectable old card. I fancy he wants to speak to you, having heard you talking Greek.”

“Why doesn’t he speak then?” Horace said.

“Perhaps he wants to talk to you in quiet, Horace.”

“Very well. Let us turn down this narrow street. There is no one about, and that will give him a chance of speaking if he wants to.”

The Greek, indeed, quickened his steps as soon as they turned down, and was soon alongside of them.

“You speak Greek, sir?” he said to Horace. “I have been wanting to speak to some of you officers, but this is the first time I have heard one of you speaking Greek.”

“Yes, I speak the language. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Do you belong to an English ship-of-war, may I ask?”

“No; I belong to an armed ship, which is the property of my father, who is a Philhellene, and has fitted it out at his own expense for the service of Greece, whose flag we now fly.”

“Your sailors are taking no part in the siege of the citadel?”

“No, sir. My father does not think the expedition a useful one, and we are only remaining here to see what takes place, and perhaps to give assistance to any who may need it.”

“We all need it, sir,” the man said eagerly. “We have been robbed and plundered by these ruffians, who call themselves our friends, and when they run away, which they will do directly the Turks come, we shall be held responsible for all their misdeeds, and a terrible vengeance will fall upon us. I was a wealthy man, sir, a fortnight ago; now I would give all I possess to save the lives of my family and myself, and there are eight or ten of my friends in the same position. We have jewels and money, and are ready to pay any sum to be taken off the island before the Turks come. You have but to name a price, and if it is within our means we shall be happy to pay it.”

“We are not Greeks,” Horace said angrily, “to make money out of the miseries of others.” And then, seeing the depressed look of the merchant, he went on more mildly: “We do not wish to make money out of your misfortune, sir; but I will speak to my father, and I think I can answer for him that he will be ready to afford you and your friends and families shelter on board his ship. We lately took five hundred Christians off from Cyprus and landed them on the Ionian Isles. We came out to fight, but my father has since named his ship the Misericordia, and his desire is to help persons in distress, whether they be Turks or Christians. I will speak to him when I return on board, and if you will be here to-morrow at eleven o’clock in the morning I will give you his answer.”

The merchant overwhelmed Horace with thanks.

“What is the old chap so excited about, Horace?” Tarleton asked as they resumed their walk.

Horace repeated the conversation.

“Poor beggars!” Tarleton said. “A nice position they are in! I wish we had the crew of a man-of-war here; we would clear out the town pretty sharply of these ruffians who call themselves soldiers, and send these peasants who are swarming about the streets back to their mountains. I see they have got the muskets your father sent on shore yesterday. Much good will they do them! The men had far better be at home looking after their vineyards and orchards.”

Mr. Beveridge agreed at once to afford shelter to the merchants and their families.

“I thought it would come to this,” he said, “and expected some of them would come off and ask to be taken on board before; but I suppose they did not know our real character. We shall have plenty more applying before this matter is concluded; but I doubt whether Lykourgos and his crew will allow them to come on board so long as they have a penny left to be wrung out of them. The scoundrel ought to be hung, if it was only for being named as he is. It is downright profanation to hear such names as Ulysses, Lycurgus, Leonidas, and Miltiades applied to men who do not seem to possess one single good quality, not even that of courage. Tell them, Horace, that we will carry out any arrangements for getting them off that they may suggest, and that at any hour by night or day the boats shall be at the spot they appoint, and that a strong body of men shall be sent on shore to cover their embarkation.”

Martyn himself accompanied Horace the next morning to shore, as he thought it would be better that he should hear what were the plans of the merchant, and might be able to make suggestions as to their being carried out. The Christian merchant was awaiting them. When they approached he entered the house by the door of which he was standing, and invited them also to enter.

“I know the owner of this house,” he said, “and arranged with him to have a room where we could speak undisturbed. Did any of the officers or soldiers happen to come down the lane when I was speaking to you, suspicion would be at once roused that some plot or other was on foot. Well, sir, what is your father’s answer?”

“He cordially invites you and your friends and their families to take refuge on board his vessel, and he will land you at Athens, Corinth, or in the Ionian Isles, as you may desire.”

The Greek clasped his hands in delight. “Oh, sir, you cannot tell what a load you have taken off my mind, or what we have been suffering of late, with the certainty that ere long the Turks will return.”

“This is Captain Martyn, who commands the vessel,” Horace said; “he has come ashore to concert measures for getting you on board, that is, if you think that there will be any obstacle in the way of your coming off openly.”

“Certainly there will. I am sure they would not allow us to leave. Three of my friends went to Lykourgos yesterday and said they desired to go with their families on board the Greek ships. He got into a fury and threatened to have them thrown into prison as traitors, fined them a thousand piastres each, and said that anyone leaving the island would be deemed a traitor to the cause of Greece and all his property confiscated.”

Horace translated this to Martyn.

“Then they must get off quietly, Horace; ask him if they have formed any plans. Tell him that I will land thirty men and bring them up close to the town, if they can slip off and join us.”

Horace put the question.

“We were talking it over last night,” the merchant said; “it is not easy, because we all have men who call themselves officers quartered in our houses. We think that the best way will be for our daughters and servants, with the exception of one or two, to slip off as soon as it becomes dark, going in pairs and carrying with them all the valuables they can. We ourselves and our wives will remain for two or three hours, so that the men seeing us will suspect nothing. Some of our servants, after escorting the ladies and children beyond the town, can return and take with them another load. It would not do to take large bundles, but the men can carry casks or barrels on their shoulders filled with valuable clothes and stuffs, and as there would be nothing unusual in a man carrying a cask of wine or a barrel of flour, they might pass without exciting suspicion. Then, at the moment agreed, we ourselves might slip away and join the rest.”

“That seems a likely plan,” Martyn said when he understood the details. “Now it is for them to name some spot where we can be awaiting them.”

“We have arranged that,” the Chiot said. “One of my friends has a large farm-house where he and his family take up their residence in summer; it stands half a mile from the town, on the brow looking down upon the sea; it is a white house with two large store-houses for wine and produce standing behind it.”

“I know the house,” Horace said; “the road passes a hundred yards behind it.”

“That is the house, sir. It will be dark by seven o’clock, and at that hour our servants will begin to start. It is probable that most of the children will be sent on there during the day. This could certainly be done without exciting attention. We ourselves will leave our houses as the clock strikes ten.”

“I should think, Martyn,” Horace said when he had translated this, “that we might manage to make things more easy for them if we send Marco on shore with half a dozen men directly we get back to the ship. We can tell him to hire a couple of carts and then to come to these people’s houses. At one they could take into the carts a dozen barrels of wine, that is to say, wine barrels filled with valuables; at another a dozen barrels of flour, at another a cask of currants or olives, and so on. I will go round with them, and it will merely seem as if we were buying stores for the ship. These rich merchants are certain to have the best of everything, and it will be natural that we should choose a time like the present to lay in a stock, and that they would be glad to sell cheaply. Marco and half the men could go with one cart and I could go with the rest with the other. That way we should attract less attention than by both going about in a crowd.”

“I think that is a capital plan, Horace; explain it to him, and get the names and addresses of the people who are going and the houses that each cart should go to, so that they may not cross each other on the way.”

Horace explained the matter to the merchant.

“That is kind indeed,” he exclaimed, “and will enable us to save all our most precious goods without fear of detection. I will go round at once to my friends and tell them to pack up their things. There are ten of us who have agreed to make the attempt together, which will make five houses for each cart to call at.” And taking out his pocket-book he wrote the addresses on two slips of paper.

There was nothing more to arrange.

“It will take us an hour and a half to get on board,” Horace said. “That will be one o’clock. At two we will start, and you may expect the carts to be at the houses somewhere about four.”

He and Martyn walked briskly back to the landing-place, where a boat met them, having put off as soon as they were seen approaching. Mr. Beveridge warmly approved of the plan, and at two o’clock ten sailors were landed. Zaimes as well as Marco accompanied them, and Miller also went to take charge of one party, as it was thought that they were less likely to be questioned if an officer went with them. They stopped at a farm-house by the way and hired two carts. It was arranged that the two Greeks should purchase in the town several carcasses of sheep and a quantity of fruit and vegetables to place on the carts with the other goods, so as to carry out more completely the idea that they were laying in stores for consumption on board, and on their way Zaimes suggested they should also get a small cask or two of currants and a cask of wine for each cart. In packing the goods these should be placed most conspicuously, so that if necessary they could knock in the head of the cask with currants, or bore holes in that with the wine, and show that the contents were what they seemed to be.

The operation was carried out without difficulty. At each place they visited, casks and barrels were at once rolled out from the warehouses and placed in the carts. There had evidently been an arrangement between the various families as to quantity, and by the time the last houses were visited the carts were filled to their full capacity, and the meat, vegetables, and fruit piled on the top of all. There was some joking from the soldiers as the carts passed down the streets, but the sight of the meat and vegetables dispelled any suspicions, and the Greeks joked back in return. Neither party knew how the other was getting on, as they had not caught sight of each other after separating before entering the town. Horace was first to reach the spot, a mile out, where they had agreed that whichever came first should await the other. In ten minutes the second party was seen coming in the distance, and when it arrived within a quarter of a mile Horace moved forward again.

Tarleton with the three largest boats was awaiting their coming on the beach abreast of the schooner, and by the time the contents of the first cart were transferred to the boats the second arrived. As soon as everything was on board the drivers of the carts were paid the sum agreed upon, and the boats rowed off to the schooner.

“Have you had any difficulty?” Mr. Beveridge asked as they came alongside.

“Not the slightest, father,” Horace replied. “We were chaffed a little about our stores, but no one had the least suspicion that they were not what they seemed.”

The casks were soon got on board and were slung down into the hold.

“What do you suppose they contain, father?” Horace asked.

“Well, of course all their jewels and money are in them, and no doubt all their valuable dresses. I expect that the bulk is made up of silk and brocades, most of which is extremely costly. Then there will be embroidered stuffs, some of the more valuable of which are worth almost a fortune in themselves. Chios is an extremely rich island and its revenues are a special appanage of the Sultan and his harem, and doubtless the merchants here supply the ladies of the court with many of their most valued robes and embroideries.”

While the boats had been ashore the sailors had again rigged up the screen across the main-deck for the use of the ladies and children, and had also made a smaller compartment for the use of the merchants. “There is one comfort,” Miller said, “as these people are swells they are not likely to turn the ship into such a pig-stye as that last lot did. How many do you suppose there will be, Horace?”

“I suppose they will run seven or eight to a family, that is seventy-five, and likely enough they may bring five or six men and women servants with each family; so I suppose you may calculate on a hundred and fifty, Miller.”

“Ah! well, we can manage that. I should like to see the face of that fellow Lykourgos to-morrow morning when he finds that some of the men out of whom he had expected to make most money have slipped through his fingers.”

As soon as it became dark thirty men were landed, armed to the teeth. Miller took command, and Horace accompanied him with the two Greeks to assist to look after the fugitives. When they reached the farm-house they found about thirty young children with their nurses assembled there with some eight or ten older girls. They were evidently in a state of great alarm, but their spirits rose when Horace and the Greeks entered and told them that a guard of English sailors were without and that there was no longer a fear of their being discovered by any straggling soldiers who might chance to visit the house. In a short time the servants, accompanied by young women and boys, began to arrive. Most of them carried bundles, and their bulky appearance suggested that they had put on a large quantity of clothes under the plain dresses they wore. The men all carried barrels or boxes. These all returned to the town and came back by half-past nine with another load.

Some excellent wine was served out to the sailors by the man who was in charge of the house, who told Horace that he had received orders from his master that the sailors were to carry away as many barrels of wine as they could take for the use of the schooner; and as it was certain that its owner would never have an opportunity of drinking it, Horace did not hesitate to accept the present, and thirty barrels of wine, each containing about five gallons, were brought out and placed in readiness for the sailors to take up.

“What are you going to do about your loads?” Horace asked one of the servants.

“We have orders, sir, to carry one of them as we go with you, and then when the others go off to the ship to return here for the second, if you will consent to our doing so.”

“Certainly,” Horace said. “There can be no possible objection to that, providing we all get down to the beach without any alarm being given, and of that I do not think there is any likelihood. The soldiers will have all returned to their quarters before this. The only chance is of our coming across parties of sailors returning to their ships. None of these would be strong enough to interfere with us, and even if they reported the matter when they got on board, I should say that none of the captains would feel sufficient interest in the news to take any steps about it.”

Soon after ten o’clock the merchants with their wives and grown-up sons began to arrive, and by half-past the last of the party were in. No further time was lost. Fifteen of the sailors, each with a barrel of wine on his shoulder, led the way under Lieutenant Miller. The merchants and their families followed, then came the servants with Horace and the rest of the sailors as rear-guard. The road was entirely deserted, and they reached the shore without encountering a single person. As soon as they did so, Horace told the servant men to set down their burdens and start back at once. The merchants with their wives and families were first transferred to the schooner, the sailors on shore taking charge of the rest of the fugitives and the baggage. Another trip conveyed the remaining Chiots to the vessel. When the boats returned the casks and barrels of wine were placed on board, and the sailors then took their places and rowed off. Horace found that the first party had already retired. Hammocks had been slung for the women and children, the female attendants sleeping on the deck. The merchants and their sons occupied a compartment screened off for them. The men-servants coiled themselves away between the guns on deck.

The two Greeks had gone off in the first boat, and already prepared some supper, to which Martyn and Horace sat down.

“I did not wait for you,” Mr. Beveridge said, “as I knew that it must be half-past eleven by the time you reached the shore, and another good half-hour before you were off. Poor people! their gratitude was quite distressing; the men considered that it was certain they would be massacred by the Turks, and their women carried off as slaves. I was obliged at last in self-defence to pack them off to bed. The women all wanted to kiss my hand, which would have been well enough for you young fellows, for some of the girls are lovely. The Chiots are celebrated for their good looks; but for a man my age it would have been simply embarrassing.”

“Perhaps they will renew the demonstrations to-morrow,” Miller laughed. “If so, I shall get Horace to explain to them delicately that our English custom is to salute on the face and not on the hand. I did not see any of the girls. I left it to Horace to do the polite indoors, while I kept a lookout with the men outside. I don’t know whether he came in for any kisses; if so, he kept it to himself.”

“No,” Horace laughed. “They were all too anxious about their parents’ safety to think of doing the civil thing to me; but, as you say, Martyn, there will be time enough to-morrow when we see what they are like. I expect to-morrow we shall have Lykourgos or some of his officers off here to protest.”

“That we sha’n’t,” Martyn said, “for we will get up the anchor at daybreak and be off before anyone knows what has happened. Your father agrees with me that the best plan will be to get rid of this cargo at once, and then we can come back again for another.”

“I have asked them where they would like to be landed,” Mr. Beveridge said, “and they had already agreed among themselves to go to Corfu. In the first place they have no love for the Greeks of the mainland, with whom they are furious for bringing destruction upon the island by coming here without a sufficient force to hold the citadel even if they captured it, and they would vastly rather be landed under the protection of the British flag. They will have time to settle afterwards where they will make their homes.”

CHAPTER XV

A WHITE SQUALL

ALL hands were called at five o’clock, when daylight was beginning to break in the east; the anchor was got up, sail set, and the decks washed down, the usual scrubbing being for once omitted in order to avoid disturbing their passengers.

“What are we going to do about feeding them, Miller?” Horace asked. “It was all very well for the people we had on board before to get their meals anyhow they could, but these have been accustomed to wealth and luxury, and, as the leading merchants of Chios, were people of importance.”

“Your father and the two Greeks were talking it over yesterday evening before you landed, Horace. Of course it is out of the question that they could all take their meals in the cabin, which your father at first proposed to give up to them. Marco suggested that a table should be rigged on the quarterdeck. We reckoned that there would be about fifty grown up or nearly so, that was allowing five for each family. Of course the children would have their meals with their nurses below.”

“That would certainly be the pleasantest way, Miller. There is plenty of room for two tables, and as far as length goes twelve or fourteen could sit on each side easily enough without the tables extending forward of the mainmast. I see Tarleton is getting the awning rigged up already. But the tables will want to be cleared away after each meal, or there will be no room for anything.”

“Oh, yes, five minutes will be enough for that. The men will bring up all their mess tables, they can be rigged and unshipped in no time. The order is that the men are all to get into their white ducks at eight bells, as your father means to show these Greeks what an English yacht is. Your men have rigged up another stove in their cooking place, and have borrowed a couple of the sailors, I suppose to wash and cut up vegetables, and to act as kitchen-maids.”

At seven o’clock the Chiots began to come up. Mr. Beveridge was already on deck, and requested Horace to assist him to set them at their ease. The men were all of the best Greek type, courtly and gentle in manner, with refined faces. The older women were all more or less inclined to corpulence, while some of the young ones fully deserved the terms of praise in which Mr. Beveridge had spoken of them the evening before. At first they looked timid at finding themselves in scenes so strange to them, but they were soon chattering and laughing with each other. They were immensely astonished at the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of the vessel and her fittings.

“Are all English ships as white and clean as this?” one of them asked.

“All ships of war and yachts. A yacht is a vessel kept by a gentleman simply for his own amusement and not for trade. This is a yacht, though we have mounted guns, and have come out prepared to fight.”

“It would be a great pity to fight and spoil everything,” the girl said.

“Oh, we can fight without spoiling everything; though of course sometimes a shot may knock things about a bit, the damage would soon be repaired.”

“But you can’t have been fighting yet,” one of the younger men said, looking round.

“We have only had one fight, and that was when most of us were ashore. That officer, whom you see there, was on board, and he only had ten men with him; but for all that he engaged two Turkish frigates, and destroyed one of them.”

There was an exclamation of astonishment, mingled with a little incredulity, from the group round Horace, some of whom thought he was trying to make fun of them.

“I can assure you that it is a fact,” Horace said. “He first crippled her, and then set her on fire by firing red-hot balls into her.”

“Was that near Cyprus?” one of the young men asked.

“Yes; the rest of us were on shore there, and we brought off five hundred Christians from a village that was besieged by the Turks.”

“Yes, that is true,” the young fellow said. “I was told about it by one of the officers who lodged in our house. He said it was wonderful, and so it was; and the men you have here all look so quiet too.”

“They are on their best behaviour now,” Horace laughed; “but they are all picked men, and have all served in British men-of-war.”

As eight bells rang out a party of sailors came along to the quarter-deck, bringing with them half a dozen mess tables, which they arranged together, according to the direction of Zaimes.

“But these are nothing like enough, Zaimes,” Horace said, going over to him.

“We are not going to sit down, Mr. Horace. We shall have two meals—one at eleven and one at six. We shall put things on the table now, and let them eat standing.”

The cloth was soon spread, and upon it were placed fruit, bread and butter, and eggs, a great tureen filled with coffee, and another with hot milk; the whole of the cabin tea and coffee cups, and a score of the men’s mugs.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Beveridge said, “you must help yourselves. I am sorry to say that our breakfast service is quite insufficient for our needs, and that the gentlemen will have to put up with the sailors’ mugs.”

Everyone seemed to enjoy the meal; the women sat about on the deck in little groups, and the men waited upon them, the three officers making themselves very busy in this work.

“It is disgusting, Horace,” Miller said, “to hear you jabbering away with these girls, while we poor beggars can’t say a word to them.”

“But you speak a little Italian, don’t you, Miller?”

“Yes, I picked up a little when I was on the Mediterranean station.”

“Oh well, a little will go a long way sometimes, Miller, and some of them are sure to know something of Italian. I will soon find out which they are, and introduce them specially to you.”

Five or six of the girls knew a little Italian, and most of the young men could speak it, Italian being the general language of commerce in the Mediterranean, and Miller was soon engaged in conversation with some of them. Martyn had broken the ice for himself with a mixture of French and Italian; but Tarleton, who knew no language but his own, kept away from the quarter-deck.

“What’s the odds,” he said, when Horace tried to induce him to go aft. “If they were going to be on board for a year, I would try to get hold of a few Greek words, and do what I could; but as it is, it is not worth while bothering one’s self. It is no use my trying to make myself agreeable to girls when I haven’t a word to say to them. On the whole I am rather glad I can’t talk, to them. I never had any practice at that sort of thing; and if I ever do fall in love, I hope it will be with an Englishwoman. Look at Miller there,” he laughed, “jawing away with five or six girls at once, and I don’t believe one of them has the least idea of what he is saying, though they all try to look interested.”

“They understand he is trying to make himself agreeable, Tarleton, and I have no doubt they are grateful and pleased. I daresay some of them don’t understand any more Italian than he does. Still they are just as much amused, if not more, as if they understood him perfectly.”

After the meal was over some chairs and benches were brought up, but the ladies all preferred sitting on the deck, and were much pleased when a number of the men’s hammocks were brought up, unrolled, and laid down for them to sit upon. Mr. Beveridge chatted with the merchants, the younger men smoked and lounged about, Martyn and Miller and Horace devoting themselves to the ladies, until eleven o’clock, when two long tables were set. Zaimes arranged them tastefully with flowers and silver, and a very excellent meal was served. After the meal was finished, and the decks cleared, the men were exercised at cutlass drill and in getting down and setting the sails, and the Chiots were astonished at their discipline and activity.

“I have seen vessels get up sail at Chios hundreds of times,” one of the young men said to Horace, “and everyone shouts and bustles about; but with all the noise they take five or six times as long to get them up as your men do, and, except when the officer gives orders, there is no more sound than there would be if they were all dumb.”

“Captain Martyn says that he will have gun drill to-morrow,” Horace said, “and you will see that they are just as quiet at their work then as now. You see the three officers have all served in our navy as well as the men, and we have just the same discipline as there would be in a king’s ship.”

“One would scarcely think,” Horace remarked to his father that evening as they were standing together looking at the groups scattered about the deck, “that these people were fugitives who have just left their native land, probably for life.”

“I don’t think they quite realize that at present, Horace. One or two of the men have been telling me what anxiety they have suffered at Chios since the revolution broke out. When the news came of some of the massacres of the Greeks, they were in constant fear of a retaliation upon them by the Mussulmans, and they made sure that sooner or later, if the war went on, Chios would become involved in it. Of course they did not suppose that such a mad-brained expedition as that of Lykourgos would be undertaken, but supposed that a sufficient force would be sent to ensure the capture of the island, accompanied by a fleet that would protect it from that of the Turks; but even that was greatly dreaded by them.

“They knew that the Turkish provinces governed by Greek officials were much more heavily taxed and oppressed than those in which the Turks collected the taxation, and knew that the change would be, for them, very much for the worse. Except that they have the same religion, they have little in common with the Greeks in the mainland, and dreaded the thought of the Albanians, who would be sure to send over armed bands, who would harass and oppress them. Of course they have been for centuries under Turkish rule, and the island has certainly flourished exceedingly under it. Their trade has been almost entirely with Constantinople, and all their connections are Turkish. I can quite understand, therefore, their repugnance to a change which would ruin their trade and vastly increase their burdens; while, as to masters, I should imagine that no one in their senses could prefer Albanians to Turks.

“Seeing the storm coming, most of the wealthy Chiots have prepared in some way for it by sending much of their available capital, for safety, to correspondents abroad, or by investing in foreign securities. I believe that all these merchants have done so; and as the greater part of their money and valuables that remained are at present down in the hold, they will be able to live, if not in as great luxury as before, at any rate in comfort at Corfu, or wherever they may settle themselves; while several of them have told me that they intend again to embark in trade, and, if possible, under our flag. They have been asking me a good many questions about ourselves, and don’t seem at all able to comprehend the interest that the Greek revolution has created in Europe; still less that an Englishman like myself, who could live comfortably at home, should come out here to take part in a struggle that in no way concerns him.”

“What did you answer, father?” Horace asked with a slight smile.

“I told them that I was but half an Englishman, and that my mother was Greek, and that I was devoted to the study of the language and customs of the ancients.”

“I suppose they knew nothing about the ancients, father?”

“No,” Mr. Beveridge admitted reluctantly. “They had heard of the name of Homer, and had a vague sort of knowledge of the early history of Greece—about as vague as the ordinary Englishman has of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. An English school-boy of twelve knows more about ancient Greece than do nineteen Greeks out of twenty; though, seeing the interest felt by civilized Europe in the matter, it is the fashion among them now to pretend to feel great enthusiasm on the subject. No; I am not surprised at these poor people being cheerful, Horace. They have escaped the risk of a terrible fate; and as to patriotism, it is a feeling of which people who have been under foreign masters hundreds of years know absolutely nothing. They may regret their easy, quiet life in Chios; but beyond that, I think they have little feeling in the matter.”

The next morning, after breakfast, the sailors were exercised at the guns, three rounds being fired from each piece. Scarcely were the men dismissed from their quarters, and the guns secured, before the boatswain went up to Martyn.

“I beg your pardon, captain, but look over there. Do you see that white cloud?—how quick it rises. I know these seas, sir; and that is a white squall, or I am a Dutchman. We sha’n’t have more than three or four minutes before it is on us.”

“By Jove, you are right, Tom! All hands get off sail. Look smart, my lads; there is a bit of a squall coming down on us. Down topsails; in jibs. Miller, take six hands and get this awning off. Horace, get the ladies below at once.”

As Martyn began to give his orders, Tarleton had run forward to see them carried out; but Miller and Horace had continued their conversation without paying much attention to them, believing that he was only giving the orders as an exercise to the crew, and to show the passengers how quickly they could get off sail. His sharp, decided tone, however, soon showed them that he was in earnest. Horace looked round almost bewildered, for there was scarcely a breath of wind; the sky was a deep blue overhead. Miller’s experience in the Mediterranean, however, told him which way to look.

“White squall, by Jove!” he muttered, as his eye fell on the cloud that had attracted the boatswain’s attention. Springing forward he called six of the men, and ran aft with them again. Horace, still in ignorance of the reason for the order given him, at once proceeded to carry it out.

Calling out in Greek, “Please go below at once, ladies;” and then to the men, “Escort the ladies below as quickly as you can, please.” Then, running forward, he shouted to the Greek servants, “All below, all below! Take the children with you; you are in the way here. Hurry down.”

His orders on the quarter-deck were more quickly obeyed than he had expected, for the Chiots, accustomed to these sudden and tremendous squalls of the Ægean, glancing round when they heard the order, perceived the reason for it at once, and hurried the ladies below with all speed.

With so strong a crew it took but a minute to lower the gaff topsail from the mainmast and to get the foretop gallant sail and topsail down on the caps, and almost before the halliards had been let go a dozen men were aloft furling the sails. The foresail came down with a run, and the jibs flew in from the bowsprit. Martyn himself saw to the lowering of the mainsail.

“Belay there!” he called when it was half-way down. “Reef it down fully, Mr. Tarleton,” as the young officer, with twenty men, sprang to the reef-points. “Now haul on the reef-earing. That is it. Well together, lads. Harden it down; that will do. Now a pull on the main halliards; that is enough. Belay. Lower the peak a bit more; that will do. Now we are ready for it. Boatswain!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” came from forward.

“Lower that fore-staysail down, and reef it fully.”

He looked to windward. A white bank of clouds extended half-way up the sky, in front of which were white streamers blown out ahead of it. The schooner had already been brought round with her head in the direction of the wind, and an extra hand had been placed at the wheel.

“Starboard a little,” Martyn cried to the men at the wheel. “Slack off the mainsheet a bit, Mr. Miller. I don’t want to be taken aback.”

A minute later a white line was seen approaching them on the water with the speed of a race-horse, and then with a shriek the squall was upon them. Stripped as the vessel was of all her canvas, save the diminished fore-staysail, the mainsail being too far over to draw, she lay down until the water poured in over the lee gunwale from the pressure of wind on her masts and rigging. Her head payed off.

“Now haul on the mainsheet,” Martyn shouted to a dozen sailors who had hold of it, and dragged it in hand over hand. As the sail fluttered in her head again came up into the wind. “That will do. Belay there! keep her at that, lads,” Martyn said, taking his place by the side of the men at the helm. “Keep the staysail full, but nothing more.”

The schooner had now begun to move fast through the water as close-hauled to the wind as her sails would stand. Though still heeling over, her deck was now free of water, as that which she had taken on board had rushed out through the port-holes.

“She will do nicely now,” Martyn said to his first lieutenant. “You can get the peak up again, Mr. Miller; she will stand it now.”

The schooner was now retracing the course she had before been sailing on.

“It is lucky it came when it did, Miller. Another couple of hours and we should have been in the thick of the islands. As it is now, we have clear water, and at any rate, if we are obliged to change our course, we can run down south comparatively clear of everything. It is lucky we saw it coming in time. It was the boatswain warned me. If we had not got the sail off her we should have lost our spars, and perhaps been dismasted, and with all these islands down to leeward we should have been in an awkward fix.”

“Yes, indeed;” Miller agreed. “We are all right now. Of course we shall get some sea soon, but these squalls don’t last many hours. It is only the first blow that is to be feared.”

“Do you think, Miller, you could get that pivot-gun sent down below? It is a big weight on deck, and when the sea gets up she will feel it.”

“I think so, sir. There is no sea on yet to speak of.”

The gun was amidships, half-way between the fore and mainmasts, and there was a hatchway just beyond the framework on which it travelled. Calling the crew together, Miller got tackles on the mainmast, and these with the blocks of the throat halliards of the foresail were hooked on to strops round the gun. Ropes were attached to it and manned to prevent it from swinging away to leeward when hoisted from the carriage.

“Now all ready,” Miller said. “Hoist on the falls handsomely, inch by inch. Stand fast to those stay-ropes; that is right. Now haul her aft. Lower away a little forward and let her swing gradually aft; that does it. Now she is over the hatchway. Lower away a little aft. Let her go down, breech foremost; that will do. Now a dozen of you go down to the main deck. You go down with them, Mr. Tarleton, and steer her clear through the lower hatchway.”

Gradually the muzzle of the heavy gun sank below the deck, and in five minutes it was safely stowed in the bottom of the hold. Then the hatches were put on again and battened down securely, and Miller went aft.

“That is a good job, Miller,” Martyn said. “The sea is getting up fast, and in another five minutes it would not have been safe to do it. It will make all the difference to us in such a short choppy sea as we shall be having.”

For six hours the wind blew with unabated force. A heavy sea got up, and, buoyant as she was, the schooner shipped water heavily over the bow, the seas being too short to give her time to rise and fall regularly over them. At the end of that time the wind fell almost as suddenly as it had risen, and half an hour later the schooner was on her course again, with all her lower sails set. It was not until evening that the sea had gone down sufficiently for the passengers to begin to make their appearance again on deck, looking worn out and exhausted by sea-sickness.

By this time the schooner was among the islands, and was passing through the Mykonos Channel, between the island of that name and Tenos. Syra rose above the water almost ahead, while Rhenea and Delos lay on her beam to the south. Her topsails were set now, and she was running fast through the water, her course being laid to pass between Seriphos and Siphnos, beyond which it was a straight course to Cape Malea, at the southern point of the Morea. A sharp look-out was kept at night for Anti-Melos on the one hand, and Falconera on the other. The former was made out, the land being high; but Falconera, a mere rock, was passed unobserved. In the morning the schooner was running through the Cervi Channel, between Cythera and Cervi, which island almost touches the mainland. A quiet night’s rest had completely restored the passengers, who came on deck early, and watched with interest the rocky shore of the Morea as they coasted along it.

Three days later the Misericordia dropped her anchor in the harbour of Corfu.

Mr. Beveridge was again overwhelmed with thanks by the grateful Chiots. Upon the way they had inquired of him if he had a wife or daughters, and were quite disappointed at hearing that he had no near female relatives, as they had intended to send a consignment of choice stuffs and embroideries to them in token of their gratitude. Before landing they handed to Martyn a hundred pounds to be divided among the crew, and on the day after landing sent off a very handsome case of pistols to each of the officers. As their goods were being got up from the hold they pointed out four barrels which were to remain behind.

“We brought them off specially for you, Mr. Beveridge,” they said. “They are the very choicest vintage of Chios, and we do hope that though you have refused to accept any substantial proof of our gratitude, you will not refuse to take these.”

The decks of the Misericordia seemed curiously still and deserted after the departure of their guests. It had been a very pleasant week while the Chiots had been on board, and Martyn and Miller both looked out of spirits, having temporarily lost their hearts to two of the Greek girls.

“We have the best of it now,” Tarleton laughed to the doctor. “What is the use of a week’s flirtation? Look at the parting at the end of it. The girls were pretty enough, no doubt; but what good would it be to take home a wife who did not speak your language, who was ignorant of English ways, and would be miserable in our climate, besides being of a different religion. I think it is just as well that the voyage was not longer; as it is, they will soon get over it.”

The captain and first officer had indeed but little time to think over it, for on the evening of the day after their arrival sail was again set on the schooner, and she started on her return to Chios, where, as Mr. Beveridge said, they were likely to find plenty more opportunities for doing good. The wind held steady, and they made a quick passage. Scarcely had they dropped anchor when a boat came off to them bearing an angry message from Lykourgos.

“You have assisted deserters to escape from the island,” he said, “and if any of you set foot on shore you will at once be arrested.”

They learned shortly afterwards from a boat that came alongside to sell fish that many of the richer inhabitants had been arrested and very heavily fined upon the accusation that they also intended to desert, and that all who had property had been compelled to pay considerable sums for protection against the excesses of the troops who had come, as they pretended, to deliver them. The officers were furious at the message from Lykourgos, and proposed going ashore with a strong party of armed sailors. Mr. Beveridge, however, decided that no steps should be taken for a day or two.

“We don’t want to become actually embroiled with these people unless it is necessary,” he said. “The Turkish fleet is expected here every day now, and Lykourgos and his crew will, we may be sure, take flight as soon as they appear, and we shall then have plenty of scope for our work. At any rate we will wait two or three days and see how matters turn up. If necessary we can then do as you propose, seize half a dozen of the ships, and tell the rest we will sink them if they don’t put to sea; that will bring the fellow to his senses at once. I don’t want to do it if I can help it, because we should afterwards be liable to attack at any of the islands we might happen to put into.”

A few hours later a fast Greek felucca came up and anchored between the schooner and the other vessels. A boat was lowered and rowed at once towards the transports.

“I fancy that fellow must have brought some news,” Martyn said. “Horace, will you go on board of him and find out where he comes from, and whether he has heard anything of the Turkish fleet?”

In ten minutes Horace reported:

“The Turks are only a few miles from the north of the island. The felucca has been watching them for the last week. They have been taking troops on board at all the ports on the mainland as they came down.”

Already the fleet had diminished by at least two-thirds since Lykourgos landed; but a small proportion of the plunder had fallen to the sailors, and as it was for this alone that the craft had taken part in the expedition, the greater portion soon became discontented and sailed away. As the Turkish fleet approached the island, a Turkish sloop, which had gone on ahead to ascertain the position of the Greeks, ran ashore and fell into the hands of the Greeks, who at once put to death every soul on board—the fate that had befallen every prisoner they had taken. Having thus done their utmost to exasperate the Turks, and to imperil the safety of the Christian inhabitants of the island, the Greeks made no effort to oppose the landing of the Mussulmans, but retired precipitately on their approach, and the Turks entered Chios, plundering the town of everything that had escaped the bands of Lykourgos, the irregulars who formed part of the army murdering every Christian they met.

Lykourgos had retreated to the village of St. George, whence, after a feeble attempt at defence, he escaped with his followers on board some Psarian ships that had, fortunately for him, arrived. These islanders had strongly opposed the expedition to Chios, and had taken no part in it, fearing to bring down the Turkish fleet upon themselves, as Psara lay but a short distance north of Chios. They maintained their fleet in port to aid in its defence should the Turks attack them. As soon, however, as they saw the Turkish fleet sail past Psara on its way to Chios they at once put to sea with the intention of harassing the Turks and rendering some assistance to the Christians.

The vengeance of the Turks now fell upon the unfortunate Chiots, who had been perfectly innocent of all share in the proceedings of Lykourgos, and who had already suffered so heavily at the hands of him and his robber bands. In the city the wealthier class generally succeeded in purchasing the protection of Turks in authority by paying large sums of money, but the rest were either slaughtered or seized to be sold into slavery. Three thousand Chiots, mostly the peasantry that had come down from the hills, retired to the monastery of Aghios Minas, five miles south of the city. The Turks surrounded them and summoned them to surrender. They refused to surrender, and the building was carried by storm, and all within it put to death. Two thousand persons were similarly slain at the capture of the monastery of Nea Mone; most of them were put to death by the sword, and the rest perished in the conflagration of the monastery.

Kara Ali, the capitan-pasha, did all in his power to save the island from being laid waste, knowing that the loss of the revenue derived from the island would greatly vex the sultan and his seraglio, to whom this revenue was specially appropriated. The regular troops were kept fairly in order, but the Bashi-Bazouks, that is the volunteers who had flocked to his standard, scattered over the island, plundering and slaying, but more especially carrying off women and children for sale in the slave-markets. The sultan, determined to strike terror into the hearts of the Greeks of the island, executed at Constantinople some Chiot hostages that had been sent there, and ordered the archbishop and seventy-five other Chiots to be executed by the capitan-pasha. During the whole time Lykourgos had been there the vessels from Psara they had been carrying off the Chiots from small ports and quiet bays round the island, and it was estimated that some fifteen thousand had been taken off in this way either before the arrival of the Turks or during the continuance of the massacres by them. The work was carried on with great vigour by the Psarians who reaped a rich harvest from their operations, demanding and receiving all the valuables of the unfortunate fugitives as the price for their passage to another island. Thus large numbers of wealthy Chiots were reduced to the most abject poverty by the avarice and extortion of those who professed to save them.

The Misericordia was very busy during the three weeks that followed the Turkish re-occupation of the island. Cruising round and round she carried off large numbers of fugitives, conveying them across to the nearest Greek islands. After making three such trips, and carrying over some twelve hundred fugitives, she left the work of rescue to the Psarians, and took up her station between the island and the mainland to cut off the craft that were, as they learned, conveying the women and children to the slave-markets of Smyrna. As speed was here of the greatest utility, vessel after vessel was overhauled and compelled to bring to by her guns. Then the boats went alongside, forced the Turkish sailors and Bashi-Bazouks to take to their boats, and then after transporting the rescued women and children to the schooner, set fire to the ships.

No less than eighteen were overhauled and destroyed in the course of a week—fourteen hundred women and children being rescued, the first two batches being landed at Psara as the nearest Greek island, while the last batch was taken to Athens. On returning from that trip they found that the destruction they caused had so alarmed the ship-owners of Smyrna that the traffic by sea had almost entirely ceased, and that the slaves were now carried across in boats or small vessels to the mainland opposite the island, which was but six or seven miles away. Here it was difficult to interrupt it, for the Turkish fleet lay off the town of Chios, and the smaller ships cruised about in the channel.

Trusting to her superior sailing power, the Misericordia entered by the southern, which was the broader end of the straits, and kept hovering about between the island and the mainland. She was frequently chased by the Turks, and several times engaged their cruisers at a distance, the superior rapidity of her fire, and the ease with which she manœuvred, giving her a great advantage over her clumsy opponents. Two of the Turkish corvettes were so severely handled that they had to retire under the shelter of the guns of the fleet. Over a score of small craft were intercepted and destroyed, and two hundred and fifty more slaves rescued. At night she generally ran across and anchored in some indentation on the Turkish side, going in after nightfall, knowing that the Turkish cruisers always retired before dark to their anchorage off Chios.

One night they were at anchor in a deep bay near the narrow and northern mouth of the straits. At about three in the morning Horace was on the watch with Miller, and was walking up and down the quarter-deck with him, when one of the quarter-masters came aft.

“It seems to me, sir,” he said to the first lieutenant, “that I can hear some sort of noise out seaward.”

Miller stopped in his walk and listened intently. “There is some sort of noise, sure enough, quarter-master.”

It was a quiet night, not a breath of wind was stirring, but a confused sound was audible like that of small waves breaking on a stony beach. “What do you make it out to be?” he asked the quarter-master. “It is too irregular and confused for oars.”

“I don’t know, sir; it ain’t the sound of the oars of one boat or of two, but I should say that it might be the sound of a dozen.”

“I think you are right,” Miller said after listening for a while. “I don’t see what else it can be. Go down and call Captain Martyn.”

In two or three minutes Martyn was on deck. “You make out oars, I hear, Miller?”

“I am not sure that it is the sound of oars, but it may be.”

Martyn listened attentively.

“I have very little doubt it is that,” he said. “It is possible some boat may have gone over from this side with the news that we are here, or they may have arranged some fire signal and given notice in that way, and they have sent the boats of the fleet across to cut us out. Well, if so, we have got to fight; there is not a breath of wind. Call the other watch on deck, quarter-master.”

The men soon tumbled up.

“Will you see to getting the boarding nettings up, Mr. Miller. Mr. Tarleton, get a boat put in the water, ship a light anchor, and drop it a cable length of her quarter. Get springs into both cables, so that we can work her round and keep her broadside on to an attack. Horace, will you call up your father in the first place, and go down with the two Greeks to the lower deck and get all that mob of women and children down into the hold. Call the men to quarters, boatswain; open the magazine, get up canister and grape; let the men muster with muskets and boarding-pikes.”

The guns were run in and loaded, and when everything was in readiness a dead silence reigned fore and aft. The noise was now much louder, and there could be no doubt any longer that it was caused by the approach of a large number of boats; then Martyn spoke in a clear voice that could be heard from end to end of the schooner.

“As you can hear for yourselves, men, it is evident that we are about to be attacked by a flotilla of boats. Well, we have got to beat them off. You know, without my telling you, that there is no mercy to be expected at the hands of the Turks if they become the masters of this ship, so we have got to beat them off; and as it is a choice between doing so and of being murdered afterwards, I am sure I need not tell you that we must fight to the last, and I for one have very little fear of what the result will be. We have done good work as British sailors in saving life up to this point, and now we have got to show them what British sailors can do when they are fighting for their own lives. Don’t cheer, lads, they might hear it across the water, and they may as well think they are going to take us by surprise; we will cheer when we have beaten them off.”

A hum of approval ran round the ship, and then the men stood to their guns with their pistols in their belts, and their muskets and boarding-pikes ready at hand. Mr. Beveridge with the two Greeks had taken their positions, armed with rifles, near the wheel.

“They must be coming very slowly, Tarleton,” Miller muttered impatiently. “They must be a mile away still.”

“I expect the boats are crowded with troops, Miller, and I daresay they are rowing easily so as to keep well in a body.”

“I suppose that is it; but I wish the beggars would make haste. I hate this waiting.”

“So do I,” Tarleton agreed. “Well, we shall give them a hot reception when they do come. If it were anyone but Turks, I should say we were going to have very hot work of it. The Turks are good fellows to fight on shore, but they are no good on the water, and I expect they will attack us pell-mell without the least plan or order. Well, we shall soon know; another ten minutes, and they will be near enough to begin.”

CHAPTER XVI

FIRE-SHIPS

THE time passed slowly as they were waiting for the attack by the Turkish boats. The men muttered and growled to each other at the delay. In order to give them something to do, Miller sent all those who were not stationed at the guns down below to fetch up a number of 32-pound shot and place them in the racks, and some of the men were told off to jump up on to the rail as soon as the boats came alongside, and to throw the shot over the top of the boarding-netting down into the boats.

“I wish it was not so confoundedly dark, Miller, and that we could make the fellows out,” Martyn said.

“I have got rockets and blue lights, sir. Shall I send a rocket up? They are sure to find us, so we lose nothing by showing them where we are.”

“Yes, they are sure to find us. I don’t like their being such a long time in getting to us.”

“They do come wonderfully slow,” Miller agreed.

“Do you know, Miller, I have been thinking for some time that there must be some cause for it, and the only reason I can see is that they may be towing.”

“By Jove, so they may! I did not think of that. It will be awkward if we have got a ship to fight as well as the boats.”

“Very awkward. Send up a rocket, we may as well settle the question. Pass the word round for the men to train their guns as nearly as they can in the direction in which we can hear the oars, and to fire when they get light.”

A minute later a rocket shot up in the air. As it burst a number of boats were seen crowded together, towing behind them two large brigs. There was a moment’s pause while the men at the guns adjusted their aim, then the pivot-gun roared out, and the four on the broadside followed in quick succession. The distance was about six hundred yards, and the crashing of wood, followed by a chorus of shouts and cries, arose as the storm of grape swept down upon the boats.

“Load again, lads, as quick as you can,” Martyn shouted. “Show a couple of blue lights, quarter-master. Boatswain, load the pivot with ball, and fire as fast as you can at the brigs; never mind the boats, we will attend to them.”

The blue lights were lit and a rocket sent up, so as to burst over the enemy, and again a broadside of grape was poured in, while a shot from the pivot-gun crashed into the bows of one of the brigs; these had apparently been lashed together, so that the boats could tow them on a broad front. A confused din came across the water; shouts, cries, and orders mingled together. As far as could be seen everything was in confusion. Some of the boats had sunk, and the occupants were being pulled on board of the others. Some had thrown off their tow-ropes and were heading for the schooner, others lay helpless in the water.

REPELLING THE TURKISH BOARDERS

“Keep the rockets going, quarter-master,” Martyn said; “the more light we have the better. Horace, tell the men at the aft and forward guns to aim at the boats rowing towards us; let the two midship guns keep on at the crowd in front of the brigs. They have sent a pretty strong force against us. There must have been fully twenty of these boats at first; there are about sixteen of them now, and they are all large ones. Depress the guns on the other broadside as far as they will go, Mr. Tarleton, we shall have some of them round on that side presently. Cant them down as much as you can.”

Two more of the boats towing were disabled by the next broadside, and the rest, throwing off the ropes, rowed straight for the schooner.

“Aim steadily, men!” Martyn shouted. “Pick out your boats before you fire.”

Two of the boats were sunk as they approached, three others fell behind crippled; but the others, with loud shouts, made straight at the vessel. As they approached her they opened a fire of musketry, which was answered by the rifles and muskets of the sailors. As they swept up alongside shots were heaved down into them, and the crashing of planks told that they had done their work. The guns on the starboard side were silent at first, as the first boats came up so close alongside that they could not reach them; but those that followed were further out, and two were instantly sunk.

As the Turks strove to climb up the side and cut their way through the boarding-netting, they were shot down by pistols or run through by boarding-pikes. A few managed to climb over or force their way through the netting, but these were cut down before they could obtain a footing on deck. For ten minutes the fight went on by the flare of the blue lights, and then eight Turkish boats, which alone floated, rowed away, crowded with the survivors from the others. A loud cheer broke from the schooner.

“Never mind them, my men,” Martyn shouted; “load with ball now and aim at the brigs.”

These had taken no part whatever in the fight. Left by the boats head on to the schooner, and almost without steerage-way, they had in vain endeavoured to get broadside on so as to bring their guns to bear. The lashings had been cut, and the rudders been put in opposite directions; they had drifted a little apart with their heads outwards, and as the boats rowed away from the schooner they opened fire with their bow-guns. The boatswain, with the men working the pivot-gun, had from the first continued steadily at their work regardless of the din around them, Horace taking his place beside them, in order to call them off to aid in repelling the Turks should they gain a footing anywhere on the deck. When the boarding-netting had been triced up, a gap had been left opposite the gun, and the fire at the brigs had been kept up without intermission, every shot raking one or other of them fore and aft.

As soon as the boats were fairly away, the guns from the starboard side were run across, the spare ports being thrown open, and the eight guns all brought into play to aid the pivot-gun. As soon as the boats reached the brigs they took shelter behind them, and in a short time both craft began to swing round, their guns firing as they were brought to bear.

“Eight guns a side,” Miller said; “but it would not matter if there were twenty, if they did not aim better than that;” for not a single shot had struck the schooner. One or two passed overhead, but the rest went wide.

Instead of the brigs being left broadside on as they had expected, their heads swept round until they were stern on to the schooner, then they began slowly to glide away.

“They have had enough of it,” Miller exclaimed, and another cheer broke from the schooner.

“Cease firing!” Martyn said. “If they leave us alone we are content to leave them alone; they must have suffered tremendously as it is.”

An examination was now made as to the casualties. Four men had been killed, all were shot through the head, as they had fired over the bulwark at the boats as they came alongside; six others were wounded more or less seriously, by pistol shots that had been fired by the Turks as they tried to climb on board—a small total indeed, considering the nature of the attack. When morning dawned the brigs could be made out near the opposite shore, they were still being towed by the boats; but as they were looking at them, sail was made as a light breeze sprang up. When the wind reached them, the mainmast of one was seen to go over the side, having doubtless been wounded by the raking fire, and carrying in its fall the fore top-gallant mast and topmast. A quarter of an hour later the breeze reached the schooner. The decks had been already washed down, and everything had resumed its ordinary aspect, and before getting up the anchor the four men who had fallen, and who had already been sewn up in hammocks, were committed to the sea, Mr. Beveridge reading the funeral service over them. Mr. Macfarlane reported that the wounded were all likely to do well.

As soon as the fight was over the women and children, who had been suffering agonies of terror while it had been going on, had been brought out from the hold and allowed to sleep as usual on the lower deck, which had been entirely given up to them; and when the schooner got under weigh they were permitted to come up on deck. Although they had been assured by Zaimes and his brother that all danger was over, their first action on coming up was to look round timidly, and they were evidently greatly relieved when they saw that the sea was clear of enemies. They looked much surprised at seeing everything going on as usual, and at the absence of any signs of the terrible conflict they had heard raging round them the night before—the bullet marks in the bulwarks being the only evidences of what had passed. It had already been decided to sail for Greece in the course of a day or two, as they had as many fugitives on board as they could carry, and it was now determined to do so at once. As they sailed west they made out a large number of ships approaching, and were soon running through the Greek fleet.

“I am sorry we left now,” Miller said; “we shall miss a fight.”

“I expect we shall be back in time,” Macfarlane remarked; “the Greeks are in no great hurry to fight. It is two months since they were sent for, when the landing was made at Chios; and after taking all this time to make up their minds about it, they are likely to take a few days before they make up their minds to have a tussle with the Turks. The Greek mind, I observe, is full of contradictions; sometimes, especially if there is plunder to be got, their eagerness is just wonderful; but when it is a question of fighting, their caution is very remarkable.”

Miller laughed. “I daresay you are right, doctor, and I don’t feel at all confident that there will be a fight. So far the Greek fleet has done nothing, and their only idea of fighting a Turkish ship has been to launch a fire-ship against it.”

“Fire-ships are no good against enemies who know what they are doing,” Martyn said. “A couple of boats can always tow a fire-ship clear; but the Turks are lubberly sailors, and these fire-ships seem almost to paralyse them.”

“I can’t make it out,” Miller put in, “why the Turks should manœuvre their vessels so badly, considering that their sailors are for the most part Thessalians, drawn from the Mohammedan sea-side villages, Albanians by blood, just as the Hydriots are.”

“They want British officers,” the doctor said. “Officers are always the weak point with the Turks. There are no braver soldiers in the world when they are well led. But they never are well led now; their pashas seem to be chosen for stupidity and obstinacy. It is a great pity that we did not make up our minds to take Turkey instead of India. Eh, man! we should have made a grand country of it when we had once got it into order.”

“We shall make a grand country of India some day, doctor. I have never been out there; but there is no doubt that just what you say about the Turks is true of the natives there, and they make very good soldiers when they have British officers to lead them.”

“So they say, Captain Martyn: but you must remember that they have only fought against other natives without British officers to lead them. We must wait till we see them fighting against European troops of some other nation before we can say that they are fine soldiers.”

“If we wait till then, we are likely to wait a long time, doctor. Besides, you must remember they did fight well against the French troops under Dupleix.”

“So they did, but not till they got the idea that our soldiers were better than the French. But, as you say, it will be a long time before they get the chance again. The French are no longer a power in India; nor are the Dutch; and the distance is too long for either ever to send out an army big enough to wrest India from us; and as to marching by land—well, it could not be done.”

“The next day they reached the port of Athens, and got rid of their cargo of passengers, and then, with every sail set, hurried back to Chios, touching at Psara on the way, as, from the direction in which the Greeks were steering, they thought it probable they might have made a stay there. A small Psariot vessel had just come in from the fleet, and Horace, who had gone ashore with Marco, learned that Miaoulis, the Greek admiral, had coasted along the north of Chios, and that the Turks had at once weighed anchor and gone out to engage him. The Greeks, not caring to fight in the narrow waters, where their power of manœuvring would be thrown away, had stood out, and an engagement had taken place at the mouth of the Gulf of Smyrna.”

“We fought most valiantly,” the Greek said, “and it was a drawn battle.”

“But what was done?” Horace asked. “How many vessels were sunk on each side?”

“Oh, there were no vessels sunk. They fired at us, and we fired at them.”

“Were there many killed and wounded?”

“No; I don’t think there were any killed and wounded. You see we manœuvred round the Turks. We could not go near, because their guns were much heavier than ours. We sent down a fire-ship among them; but unfortunately they evaded it, and some of our most daring captains ventured so close that their ships were struck by the Turkish shot. Yesterday the combat was renewed again. The cannonading was like thunder, and this morning we again fought. Then we needed rest, and to get fresh meat we sailed back.”

Horace had difficulty in restraining his expressions of disgust at the conduct of the fleet that had, after two months’ delay, at last sailed to annihilate the Turks; and as they walked back to their boat Marco poured out, in an undertone, volumes of execrations in choice Greek.

As they reached the schooner the doctor looked over the side. “We are not too late, Horace; there’s the Greek fleet rounding the point. As we can’t make out with our glass a shot-hole in their sails or a splinter on their bulwarks, it is evident that I was right, and that we are in plenty of time to see the engagement.”

“You are mistaken, doctor,” Horace said as he reached the deck. “There has been a great naval battle, lasting three days. There are no killed or wounded; but one or two ships, commanded by daring captains, ventured within gun-shot of the Turks, and were struck. That is the exact history of the affair, as I learned it from one of the heroes.”

“Is that really the story you have heard, Horace?” Mr. Beveridge asked.

“It is, father; almost in the words that it was told to me.”

“I really think,” Martyn said, seeing how depressed Mr. Beveridge looked at the news, “that much more could hardly be expected from the Greeks. Their ships are for the most part small, and their metal very light. They have not the slightest idea of discipline or of working in concert. A Turkish broadside would sink half a dozen of them if they ventured to close quarters; and of course their superior seamanship is not of the slightest avail as long as they fight at a distance.”

“It would avail if they had pluck,” Horace said bitterly. “The English ships that went out to engage the great galleons of the Spanish Armada were as inferior in tonnage and in weight of metal as the Greeks are; but for all that they gave a good account of them.”

“Yes, Horace; but you must remember that the English sailors had been fighting and thrashing the Spaniards for years before, and had come almost to despise them; while the Greeks have never fought before, have no confidence in themselves, and hold the Turks in high respect.”

“You can’t expect,” the doctor put in, “that bulldogs are going to be manufactured out of mongrels in one generation, Horace. A fighting race grows up little by little. The Greeks fought just as pluckily in the old days, against big odds, as we ever did, and may do it again in time; but they have got to be built up to it.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Mr. Beveridge said. “We keep on forgetting that the Greeks have been slaves, and that slaves lose all their military virtues. It was just the same thing with the Britons. Their valour excited the admiration of Cæsar; but after being under the domination of the Romans for generations, they completely lost all their manhood, and fell easy victims to the Saxons. We must not be too hard on the Greeks, Horace, or expect them to behave as men whose fathers have been free and independent.”

In the evening Miller went ashore with Mr. Beveridge and had a talk with some Philhellenes who had joined the expedition. They all agreed that Miaoulis had manœuvred his ships well, always keeping the weather-gauge of the Turks; but there was no shadow of discipline among the ships, and their fire was as wild and inefficient as that of the Turks, the men loading and firing as quickly as they could, quite regardless of the direction or distance of their shot, the great part of which entered the sea half-way between the combatants.

“Kanaris is here,” they said, “and you will see that he at least will attempt something against the Turks before he is done.”

It was not, however, until fifteen days later that any move was made. Kanaris had paid a visit to the Misericordia, and was greatly struck by the order and discipline that prevailed.

“Our men will not submit to it, Mr. Beveridge. It is in vain to assure them that nothing can be done unless we can introduce discipline such as prevails on ships of war of other nations. Unfortunately they have been accustomed to another state of things. The sailors are always paid by a share in the profits of our voyages, and everyone has a say as to the ports to be visited and the course to be steered. Before any change is made there is always a general council of all on board, and the matter is decided by vote. Such being the habit, you can understand the difficulty of getting these men to submit to anything like discipline. Another thing is, that the ships belong to private persons, and not to the state, although they may receive pay from government. They are therefore very chary of exposing their vessels to the risk of loss, for which, more likely than not, they would never receive a penny from the central government, which has plenty of objects of much greater interest to its members to spend its money upon. Until some total change takes place in the organization and manning of our fleet, I can see no hope of any improvement.”

On the 18th of June two ships got up anchor and sailed. On board the schooner their progress was watched with interest. Kanaris had confided to Mr. Beveridge that the ships were loaded with combustibles, and that he was going to attempt to set fire to the Turkish fleet. The wind was contrary, and the two craft tacked backwards and forwards off the north of Chios as if intending to beat up the Gulf of Smyrna. Four hours after they had started the schooner also got under way, as all were anxious to see what would take place, and Mr. Beveridge had told Kanaris that he would go within a short distance of the Turkish fleet and burn a blue light, so that the boats on leaving the fire-ships could row off to him and be taken back to Psara.

It was the last day of the Ramazan, and a number of the principal officers of the Turkish fleet had been invited by the Capitan Pasha to dine with him on board his flag-ship to celebrate the feast of Bairam. The night was a dark one, but the whole of the Turkish vessels were illuminated in honour of the festival, and their outlines were clearly visible. The Misericordia had entered the northern passage an hour after nightfall; the two Greek ships being, when last seen, about three miles ahead. The schooner lay to a couple of miles distant from the anchorage. They had scarcely done so when they made out the sails of two vessels between them and the lines of light on the Turkish war-ships.

“There they go,” Martyn said, “steering straight in. One of them is making straight for the Capitan Pasha’s own ship. No doubt that is Kanaris himself. The other is making for that seventy-four that carries the flag of the Reala Bey. You can tell them by the variegated lamps along their yards. The Turks evidently have not caught sight of them yet or they would open fire. On such a dark night as this I don’t suppose they will make them out till they are close alongside.”

Kanaris, a man of the greatest calmness and courage, was himself at the helm of his craft. Running straight before the wind, he steered down upon the eighty-gun ship of the Capitan Pasha. Not until he was within a ship’s length was he observed, when a startled hail sounded from the deck of the Turkish ship. Steering straight on he ran his bowsprit through one of her port-holes. The sailors instantly threw some grapnels to retain her in her position, and then jumped into their boat lying alongside. As soon as they did so Kanaris fired his pistol into the train. The fire flashed along the deck, there were a series of sharp explosions, and then the flames ran aloft, the riggings and sails being soaked with turpentine; and Kanaris had scarcely stepped into his boat before the ship was in a mass of flames.

Lying to windward of the Turk the flames were blown on to her, and pouring in at the open port-holes at once set fire to a quantity of tents stowed on the lower deck, rushed up the hatches, and, mingling with the flames from the sails which had ignited the awning extending over the deck, ran up the rigging and spars of the man-of-war. The most terrible confusion instantly prevailed throughout the ship. The few boats alongside were sunk by the crowds who leapt into them. The crews of the ships lying round at once began to haul them farther away from the blazing vessel, and the boats that were lowered feared to approach it because of the falling spars and the flames that poured from the lower port-holes.

In addition to her crew, the soldiers on board, and the Pasha’s guests, were a great number of prisoners who had been brought off from the island to be taken to Constantinople, and the shrieks and cries as they were caught by the flames, or sprang overboard to evade them, were terrible. Kara Ali himself sprang from the ship into a boat that approached near enough for the purpose of saving him; but before it could put off a blazing spar fell on it, and the Capitan Pasha was so severely wounded that he died shortly after being carried on shore.

His loss was a severe one for the Turks, for he was their most skilful naval officer. A few of those who leapt overboard were picked up by boats, or swam to the other ships; but with these exceptions the whole of those on board the vessel perished. The other fire-ship had been less calmly and skilfully managed. In his haste and excitement the commander, after running her alongside the ship of the Reala Bey, fired the train and made off without attaching her to it, consequently the fire-ship drifted away without the flames communicating to the Turk, and burned out harmlessly.

As soon as it was seen that Kanaris had succeeded, a blue light was burned on board the schooner, and in twenty minutes the two boats rowed alongside. Not a shot had been fired at either, the Turks being too much occupied with the danger of fire to pay any attention to them. Kanaris was heartily congratulated on his success when he reached the schooner, which at once set sail and was back at Psara in the morning, where the news of the destruction of the Turkish man-of-war was received with the wildest enthusiasm.

The Turkish vessels, leaving a strong garrison on the island, sailed north a few days later. They were pursued by the Greek fleet, which, however, did not venture to interfere with them, although they stopped at two ports on the way, and finally anchored under the guns of the forts of the Dardanelles. The Misericordia took no part in harassing the Turkish fleet. Martyn had asked Mr. Beveridge’s opinion upon the subject, he himself being in favour of doing so.

“I think we could give the Greeks a lesson or two in this sort of thing, sir, and show them what can be done, even against a fleet, by a craft that means business.”

“I am sure you could do all that, Martyn, but I do not think we should be justified in running the slightest risk of loss of life among the men merely for that purpose. We could do no more than the Greeks do unless we were willing to expose ourselves more. You could not hope either to capture or sink one of the Turkish ships in the face of their whole fleet. I know you would give them a great deal of trouble, but more than that you could not do. When the Greeks show themselves willing to fight we will fight by their side, but not before.”

They were indeed glad that they so decided, for on the evening before the Greeks set sail a boat arrived at Psara with six fugitives from Chios. They reported that the destruction of the Capitan Pasha’s ship with all on board had brought fresh misfortunes upon the Christians, for that the Mussulmans, infuriated by the details of the disaster, had fallen upon the Christians all over the island, even in the villages where hitherto there had been no trouble.

The second massacre was indeed far more fatal than the first, the women and children being, as before, spared as slaves, many thousands being carried away. Small craft from Psara hovered round the island and succeeded in taking off numbers of fugitives, while the schooner returned to her cruising grounds between the island and the mainland, or up the Gulf of Smyrna, where she captured and burnt large numbers of small craft laden with slaves. They had to make four trips to the islands to clear her crowded decks of the hapless Chiots.

The news of the massacres of Chios, which, unlike those committed by themselves, the Greeks spread sedulously over Europe, excited deep and general horror and indignation. The numbers of those killed or sold into slavery were never known. The estimates varied considerably, some putting them down at twenty thousand while others maintained that those figures could be doubled without exaggeration. It is probable, however, that they really exceeded thirty thousand.

The details of the terrible massacres, which they learnt from the women they rescued, aroused among the officers and crew of the Misericordia a far deeper feeling of enthusiasm for the cause of Greece than they had hitherto felt. Since they came out their interest in the cause had been steadily waning. The tales of wholesale and brutal massacre, the constant violation of the terms of surrender, the cowardice of the Greeks in action and their eagerness for plunder, the incessant disputes between the various parties, and the absence of any general attempt to concert measures for defence, had completely damped their sympathy for them; but the sight of these hundreds of women and children widowed and orphaned, and torn away from their native land and sold into slavery, set their blood boiling with indignation. The two Greeks took care to translate the narratives of the weeping women to the sailors, and these excited among them a passionate desire to punish the authors of these outrages; and had any of the craft they overhauled made an active resistance little mercy would have been shown to the Turks. As it was they were bundled headlong into their boats with many a hearty kick and cuff from the sailors, and the destruction of their vessels was effected with the alacrity and satisfaction of men performing an act of righteous retribution.

“The poor creatures seemed terribly cast down,” Martyn said one day at dinner as they sailed with the last batch of Chiots for Corfu. They had transported the three previous cargoes to the Ionian Islands, as the former ones had been most unwillingly received in the Greek ports, the authorities saying that they had no means of affording subsistence to the fugitives who were daily arriving. In the Ionian Islands committees had been formed, and these distributed money sent out from England for their support, while rations were issued to them by the British authorities of the islands.

“One can’t wonder at that,” Miller said. “Still, I must say that the women even at first don’t seem as delighted as one would expect at getting out of the hands of the Turks.”

“I am not so very sure, Miller, that they are delighted at all,” Macfarlane said quietly. “You think you are doing them the greatest service possible, but in my opinion it is more than doubtful whether they see it in the same light.”

“What! not thankful at being rescued from being sold as slaves to the Turks?”

“That sounds very terrible, and no doubt it would not be a pleasant lot for you, seeing that they would set you to work, and your life would be worse than a dog’s. But you have got to put yourself in the position of these unfortunate women and girls, and then you would see that you might think differently about it. To begin with, till now there has been no animosity between them and the Turks. It is admitted that the Turks have been gentle masters to Chios, and the people have been happy, contented, and prosperous. Their misfortunes have been brought upon them, not by the Turks, but by the Greeks, who came to the island contrary to their entreaties, plundered and ill used them, and then left them to the vengeance of the Turks. So if they have any preference for either, it will certainly not be for the Greeks.

“As to their being sold as slaves, I do not suppose they view it at all in the same way we do. They are not going to be sold to work in the fields, or anything of that sort, and the Turks treat their domestic slaves kindly. To one of these Chiot girls there is nothing very terrible in being a slave in the household of a rich Turk. You know that the Georgian and Circassian girls look forward to being sold to the Turks. They know that the life at Constantinople is vastly easier and more luxurious than that at home. I do not say for a moment that these women would not prefer a life of ease among their own people and friends. But what is the life before them now?—to have to work for their own living in the fields, or to go as servants among Greek and Italian families. A dark and uncertain future. I tell you, man, we think we are doing them a mighty service, but I doubt whether there is one of them that thinks so. The Chiots are celebrated for their docility and intelligence, and these women and children would fetch high prices in the market, and be purchased by wealthy Turks, and their lot would be an enviable one in comparison to that which awaits most of them.

“The word slavery is hateful to us, but it is not so many years since we were sending people out in hundreds to work as slaves in the plantations of Virginia. The word slavery in the East has not the same terror as it has with us, and I doubt if the feelings of a Chiot peasant girl on her way to be sold are not a good deal like those of a girl who goes up from a Scotch or English village to Edinburgh or London, to go into service in a grand family. She thinks she is going to better herself, to have fine clothes, and to live among fine people; and, as it turns out, maybe she is better off than she was before, maybe she is worse.”

“You are a most disagreeable man, Macfarlane,” Martyn said after a pause. “Here have we been thinking that we have been doing a good action, and you put us altogether out of conceit with ourselves.”

“We have been doing a good action,” the doctor said. “We have been acting according to our lights. To us it is an abominable thing that a Greek woman or child should be sold as a slave to the heathen Turk. I am only pointing out to you that from their point of view there is nothing so terrible in their lot, and that we have no reason to expect any very lively gratitude from them; and that, looking at the matter only from a material point of view, they are not likely to be benefited by the change. I know that, if I were a Greek woman, I would rather be a slave in the family of a rich Turk than working as a drudge, say, in the family of a Maltese shopkeeper, though, if I were a Scotch girl, I should certainly choose the other way.”

They all sat silent for a minute or two. The idea was a wholly new one to them, and they could not deny that, according to the point of view of these Chiot captives, it was a reasonable one. Mr. Beveridge was the first to speak.

“What you say has certainly given me a shock, doctor, but I cannot deny that there is some truth in it. Still, you know there is something beyond mere material advantages.”

“I do not deny it, sir, and, as I say, we, as Britons and Christians, feel that we are doing a good work. Still, we can hardly be surprised that these Chiots naturally view it differently. Their Christianity is, like that of all Eastern Christians, of a very debased form; and living so long among the Turks, they have no very great horror of Mohammedanism. You know, on the mainland, tens of thousands of the Albanians have become Mohammedans. We think that we are justified in inflicting what one cannot but see is, from the material point of view, a distinct injury to these people, because, as Christians, we feel it is for their moral advantage; but then, that is just the same feeling that caused the Spaniards to exterminate the natives of the West Indian Islands who declined to become Christians.”

“Oh, I say, doctor, that is too strong altogether,” Miller exclaimed indignantly.

“Well, prove it by argument,” the doctor replied calmly. “I am not saying that from our point of view we are not more than justified. I am simply explaining why these Chiots do not feel any extraordinary gratitude to us. We are benefiting them, if they did but know it. We are saving them, body and soul; but that is not the light in which they see it.”

“You are right, doctor,” Mr. Beveridge said. “And now you put it before us, I am really not surprised that these poor creatures do not feel any very lively gratitude. They are fond of ease and comfort, and have been accustomed to it, and to them the utter uncertainty of their life among strangers is not unreasonably more terrible than the prospects of an easy life as a favoured slave in a Turkish household. It is sad that it should be so; but it is human nature. Still, the consideration must not weigh with us in carrying out what we know to be a good work. We have saved in all more than three thousand souls from Turkish slavery, and can only trust that in the long run most of them will recognize the inestimable service we have rendered them.”

CHAPTER XVII

RESCUING THE GARRISON OF ATHENS

“I TELL you what it is, Mr. Beveridge,” the governor said when the latter went up to call as usual upon his arrival at Corfu, “I quite begin to dread the appearance of that smart schooner of yours; during the last five weeks you have added a thousand mouths to my anxieties. What we are to do with all these poor creatures I have not the slightest idea. We can’t go on feeding them for ever; and what with the voluntary fugitives and those brought over to us, there are at present some forty or fifty thousand strangers in the islands, and of these something like half are absolutely dependent on us for the means of living.”

“It is a very difficult problem,” Mr. Beveridge said. “Of course, when the war is over the great proportion of them will return to their homes in Greece; but the fugitives from the Turkish islands and mainland are in a different position. Doubtless, when peace is made, there will be some arrangement by which those families which have men among them can also return to their homes without being molested; but those consisting only of women and children could not do so. Some of the women and girls can find employment in Greek families, and I suppose the rest will finally become absorbed as servants in the towns on the Adriatic.”

“I see nothing else for it, Mr. Beveridge; unless you choose to continue your good work, and transport them in batches across the Atlantic. I believe there is a great dearth of women in Canada and the United States.”

“You will have to set up schools and teach them English first, sir,” Mr. Beveridge laughed, “or they would not be welcomed there. When they can all speak our language I will think over your suggestion.”

“Do you think that Greece ever will be free, Mr. Beveridge?”

“I think so. Certainly I think so. These terrible massacres on both sides seem to render it absolutely impossible that they should return to their former relations. The Turks have not yet made their great effort, and I believe that when they do they will reconquer Greece. But I do not think they will hold it. The hatred between the races is now so bitter that they can never live together in peace; and I believe that the Greeks will continue their resistance so long that Europe at last will come to their assistance, and insist upon a frontier line being drawn. This terrible affair of Chios, dreadful as it is, will tend to that. The Christian feeling of Europe will become more and more excited until, if the governments hold back, the people will force them forward, and England and France at least will, if necessary, intervene by force. I believe that they would do so now were it not for jealousy of Russia. It is Russia who fomented this revolution for her own purposes, and it is solely the fear that she will reap the whole benefit of their action that causes England and France to look on this struggle with folded arms.”

“I fancy you are right, and that that will be the end of it,” the governor said. “I need not say how earnestly I wish the time would come. I can assure you I have a very anxious time of it. What with providing for all these people, what with preventing breaches of neutrality by the Greeks, and what with the calumnies and complaints that the Greeks scatter broadcast against us, I can assure you that my task is not an enviable one.”

“I can quite imagine that. The Greeks make it very hard for their well-wishers to assist them; indeed, if they were bent upon bringing obloquy upon their name they could hardly act otherwise than they are doing. The one man they have hitherto produced who goes his way regardless of intrigue and faction, fighting bravely for the country, is Constantine Kanaris, who has destroyed two Turkish ships with his own hand. A hundred of such men as he is, and Greece would have achieved her independence without foreign assistance; and yet, even in his own ship, he is unable to maintain even a shadow of what we should consider discipline. He himself acknowledged as much to me at Psara.”

“I hear you took him off after he had burned the Turkish war-vessel.”

“Yes; we were lying off the port and saw it. I am glad we were not nearer, for it was a terrible business. It is a barbarous war altogether.”

“Then why do you mix yourself up in it, Mr. Beveridge?”

“My mother was a Greek, and I have always lived in Greek thought rather than in English. I desire not only the independence but the regeneration of the Greeks. They have lost all the virtues of their ancestors save their intelligence; but once free they will, I hope and trust, recover their lost virtues and become, if not a great people—which they can hardly do, their numbers being comparatively so few—at least a worthy one.”

“I hope they may. They certainly have enthusiastic friends. Only a week or two since, a young fellow named Hastings, a lieutenant of our navy, came out. He has a fortune of some seven or eight thousand pounds, which he intends to devote to buying and fitting out a ship for their service. There are scores of English and French officers kicking their heels at Corinth, vainly asking for employment. And I hear they are organizing a corps, composed entirely of foreign officers, who will fight as private soldiers without pay, simply for the purpose of endeavouring to shame the Greeks into a feeling of patriotism.

“Where are you thinking of sailing now? If you have no fixed plans, I should advise you to go round to Athens. They say the Turkish garrison is at the last extremity. I have had a message from the consulate there, asking me to send a British ship of war round to insist upon the conditions of surrender being observed; but unfortunately the insane rage for retrenchment at home has so diminished the strength of our fleet that we haven’t a single ship in these waters at a time like this. I hear that the French consul has also sent urgently asking for ships of war. At any rate, your influence might do something.”

“I fear not,” Mr. Beveridge said gravely. “However, my men and guns might have some weight, and at any rate I will go round at once and do my best. If possible, I am even more anxious to save Turks from massacre by Greeks, than Greeks from massacre by Turks.”

“I can understand that,” the governor said cordially. “Well, I wish you every good fortune, Mr. Beveridge; but I say honestly that I do not wish to see your saucy schooner again unless she comes in with empty decks. Give them a turn at Malta next time, my dear sir, and I shall feel really grateful towards you.”

Four days after leaving Corfu the schooner dropped anchor in the port of Athens. Learning from the first boat that put off to them that the capitulation of the Turks was to be signed on the following morning, Mr. Beveridge determined to land at once, in order that he might see as many of the leading officials as possible, and urge upon them the necessity of preventing any repetition of the breaches of faith which had brought such disgrace to the Greek name.

“I shall take Zaimes with me,” he said to Martyn, “and should I see any signs of an intention upon the part of the populace to commence a massacre of the Turks I will send him off instantly. In that case, Captain Martyn, you will at once land the whole of the crew fully armed, with the exception, say, of five men, and march them to the British consulate in Athens. You know where it is. Take a Greek flag with you, for two reasons; in the first place, if you were to go without it the Greeks would spread the report that the crew of an English ship of war had landed; and in the second place, it may quieten and appease the mob if they see that we are in the service of Greece.”

“Very well, sir, I will carry out your instructions. I don’t think that rascally mob will venture to interfere with us.”

“I hope not, Martyn; but at any rate we must risk that. Any other message I may have to send off to you I shall send by an ordinary messenger; but if you are wanted, I shall trust no one but Zaimes.”

Late in the evening a Greek came off with a letter. All would, Mr. Beveridge hoped, be well. The Turks had agreed to surrender their arms, and the Greeks had bound themselves to convey them to Asia Minor in neutral ships. By the terms of capitulation the Turks were to be allowed to retain one-half of their money and jewels, and one-half of their movable property.

“I have every hope that the treaty will be respected,” Mr. Beveridge wrote. “I am happy to say that the Bishop of Athens, who is a man of high character, and President of the Areopagus, has insisted upon all the civil and military authorities taking a most solemn oath to observe strictly the terms of capitulation, and so far to redeem the good faith of the nation, which has been so deeply stained by the violation of so many previous treaties.”

The next morning the Mussulmans marched out from the Acropolis. Out of the 1150 remaining only 180 were men capable of bearing arms, so stoutly and obstinately had they defended the place, yielding only when the last drop of water in the cisterns was exhausted. They were housed in some extensive buildings in the town. Three days passed quietly. Two ephors, who had been ordered by the Greek government to hasten the embarkation of the Turks, took no steps whatever to do so. On the morning of the fourth day, Horace, who had been twice on shore to see his father, saw a boat rowing off to the ship. He turned a glass upon it and exclaimed:

“There is Zaimes on board that boat, Captain Martyn. I am sure my father would not send him on board unless there is trouble in the town.”

Martyn did not wait for the boat to arrive, but instantly mustered and armed the crew, and the boats were in the water by the time Zaimes arrived alongside. He handed a note to Martyn; it contained only the words:

“Land instantly, they are murdering the Turks.”

With a hearty execration upon the Greeks, Martyn ordered the men to take their places in the boats, and gave his final orders to Tarleton, who was to remain in charge.

“Get all the guns loaded with ball, Mr. Tarleton. For aught I know we may have to fight our way down to the beach. Fire the first shot over their heads. If that does not frighten them, plump the others into them.”

The three boats pushed off, the doctor taking his place by the side of Horace, who was in command of one of them.

“Have you got your instruments, doctor?” Horace asked smiling.

“I have got these instruments,” Macfarlane said, tapping the butts of a heavy pair of pistols. “Just for once I am going as a combatant. I thought there was a limit to everything, but there really doesn’t seem to be any limit to the faithlessness of the Greeks. I should like very much to help to give them a little lesson as to the sanctity of an oath.”

The sailors marched in a compact body from the port to the town. They had been told the errand upon which they had come, and from the pace at which they marched, and the expression of angry determination on their faces, it was evident that they entered thoroughly into the business. They were met at the entrance to the town by Mr. Beveridge.

“It is of no use going to the British consulate,” he said; “there are no English officials there, the place is simply in charge of a Greek, who dare not, if he would, move in the matter. The Turks are taking refuge in the French, Austrian, and Dutch consulates. It is more than doubtful whether the flags will be respected. You had better place say eight men at each, with orders to defend the places till the last if the mob attacks them; while with the rest of the men you can endeavour to escort the fugitive Turks to the consulates. Don’t let the men use their arms till the last extremity, Martyn.”

“Very well, sir. Where will you be?”

“I will go to the French consulate and aid them there in pacifying the mob. My son had better go to one of the others. Harangue them from the windows, Horace; point out to them that they are disgracing Greece in the eyes of all Europe, and implore them not to bring Austria on their backs by insulting her flag. At the same time see that all the lower shutters are barred, and be ready to sally out with your men to bring in any fugitives who may approach.”

“Mr. Miller, do you take eight men to the Dutch consulate,” Martyn said, “and follow the instructions Mr. Beveridge has given to his son.”

“Zaimes shall go with you, Mr. Miller.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beveridge; if he will do the haranguing I will look after the fighting if there is any to be done.”

The three parties, each of eight men, at once started for the consulates. Martyn waited till they had gone, and then turned to the remainder. “Boatswain, you take ten men and go one way, I will go another way with the rest. You heard Mr. Beveridge’s instructions, that the men were not to use their arms unless absolutely attacked. At the same time, if you come upon any of the Greeks engaged in murdering women and children you will remember there are no orders against your using your hands, and that there are windows as well as doors by which a Greek can be made to leave a house.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” Tom Burdett replied with a grin; “we will be as gentle with them as possible.”

Martyn had provided several small Greek flags which had been fastened to boat-hooks, and each party, taking one of these, proceeded on its way. They had gone but a little distance when shrieks and cries were heard, and, bursting into the houses from which they proceeded, the sailors came upon Greeks engaged in the diabolical work of torturing women and children. With a cheer they fell upon them, striking right and left with their fists, and levelling the astonished Greeks to the ground. Then the Turks were placed safely in their midst, and with a few hearty kicks at the prostrate ruffians they marched out. The scene was repeated again and again; the punishment inflicted upon the Greeks being more and more severe each time.

When some twenty fugitives had been collected they were marched through a yelling rabble to one or other of the consulates, to which a large number of fugitives had made their way when the massacre began. Several times the leaders of both bands had to call upon their men to present arms, the mob falling back and flying the moment they did so. After a time the two bands joined, Martyn considering it imprudent to venture out among the enraged populace in smaller force. The aspect of the crowd became more and more threatening, but it still confined itself to execrations and curses, being overawed by the determined attitude of the men with their muskets, cutlasses, and pistols, and with the apparent fact that the sailors were only prevented from using their arms by the exertions of the two officers, for the doctor kept close by Martyn’s side. At two o’clock the boom of a cannon was heard from the port; again and again it sounded at regular intervals.

“That is a ship of war saluting,” Martyn said.

The crowd fell away rapidly, many of them hurrying down to the port, and Martyn, taking advantage of it, was able to bring in a good many more fugitives to the consulates, the sailors from within rushing out when they approached, and clearing the way through the crowd with the vigorous use of their elbows and sometimes of their fists.

“We shall have help up soon,” Mr. Beveridge said, the first time Martyn brought in a party of fugitives after the guns fired.

An hour later a strong party of French sailors and marines with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets marched up to the French consulate from two French vessels, a corvette and a schooner, which had come from Syra in response to the consul’s earnest appeals for assistance. They placed in their midst three hundred and twenty-five Turkish fugitives who had found refuge there, escorted them down to the port, and placed them on board their ships. On the way they were surrounded by a menacing crowd of Greek soldiers and by a great mob, yelling, shouting, and brandishing their arms; but their valour went no further, and the fugitives were taken off in safety. The sailors of the Misericordia were now divided between the Austrian and Dutch consulates, and their appearance at the windows with loaded muskets intimidated the mob from making an attack. During the night the bishop and some of the better class exerted themselves to the utmost in calming the passions of the mob; and they themselves in the morning accompanied the crew of the Misericordia, who, guarding the fugitives, were allowed to proceed down to the port and embark on board the schooner without molestation from the people. Some seven hundred and fifty persons were saved by the French and the crew of the schooner. Four hundred were massacred in cold blood by the Greeks.

The French vessels had sailed away during the night, and the question arose what was to be done with the rescued Turks. Of these there were some forty soldiers, ten or twelve Turks of superior rank, military and civil officials; the rest were women and children. Two or three of the Turks spoke Italian, and four or five of them Greek. Mr. Beveridge held a consultation with these, and it was finally agreed that they should be landed at the Isle of Tenedos close to the mouth of the Dardanelles, as from thence they would have no difficulty in making their way to Constantinople.

“If there are no ships of war in the port we will hoist the white flag and sail straight in; but if there are, we must land you in the boats somewhere on the island. We have been in action with your ships of war and would at once be recognized, and the white flag would not be respected.”

“We owe you our lives, sir, and the lives of all these women and children,” a bimbashi or major of the Turkish garrison, a fine soldierly-looking man, said earnestly; “for had it not been for you and your brave crew even the flags of the consulates would not have sufficed to protect us. Assuredly my countrymen would never fire at you when engaged in such a work of mercy.”

“They might not in cold blood,” Mr. Beveridge said; “but we have just been saving Chiot prisoners as cruelly treated, and for every Turk who has been massacred in Athens, well-nigh a hundred Chiots have been murdered. I do not defend them for breaking their pledged faith to you, but one cannot be surprised at their savage thirst for vengeance.”

Martyn had got up the anchor and set sail on the schooner directly the fugitives were on board, and as soon as he learned that Tenedos was their destination her course was laid north. Then came the work, to which they were now becoming accustomed, of stowing away the unfortunate passengers. The screened partition was allotted to the women and children of the officers and officials, most of whose husbands had fallen during the siege, and the rest of the women and children were stowed down on the main-deck, while the male passengers stayed on deck, where the women remained for the most part during the day. Those who had been rescued from the hands of the Greeks had been plundered of everything; but those who had at the first alarm fled to the consulates had carried with them jewels and money. The women of the upper class were all closely veiled, but the rest made but little attempt to conceal their faces, and all evinced the deepest gratitude to the crew of the schooner; murmuring their thanks whenever an officer or sailor passed near them, and trying to seize their hands and press them to their foreheads.

The fugitives of the upper class, both men and women, were more restrained, but there was no mistaking the expression with which their eyes followed their protectors. Many of the women and children were worn out with the sufferings they had sustained during the last days of the siege, and some of the soldiers were so weak as to be scarce able to stand. The doctor attended to many of the children, while the Greeks and the ship’s cook were kept busy all day in preparing nourishing soups. The next day they were off Tenedos. No Turkish ship of war was lying near the town. A boat was lowered, and Miller, accompanied by Horace as interpreter, took his place in her with one of the Turkish officers. A white flag was hoisted in her stern, and six men rowed her ashore.

Their movements had been watched, and a body of Turkish soldiers were drawn up at the landing-place with several officials. The Turkish officer mounted the steps and explained to the governor of the island, who was among those at the landing-stage, the purpose for which the Misericordia had arrived at the port. There was a rapid conversation as the officer, frequently interrupted by exclamations of indignation, and questions from the Turks, narrated what had taken place. Then the governor and his officers ran forward, seized Miller and Horace by the hand, patted them on the shoulder with the liveliest demonstrations of gratitude and friendship. The Turk who had come ashore with them translated to Horace, in Greek, the governor’s earnest request that the owner of the ship and his officers would come ashore to visit him.

“The governor says that he himself would at once come off to visit the ship and return his thanks, but that, as she is flying the Greek flag, he cannot do so, much as he desires it; but that if the flag were lowered, and a white flag substituted, he would come off instantly. He has heard of the fight between the Greek ship with an English crew and the boats of the Turkish fleet, and of the many craft she has taken and destroyed, always sparing the crews and sending them ashore, and he has great esteem for so brave an enemy; now he cannot view them but as friends after their noble rescue of so many of his countrymen and women and children.”

Horace in reply said that he would give the governor’s message to his father, and that the fugitives should at once be landed.

“Do you think that he really meant that he would come on board if we hoisted the white flag, Horace?”

“I think so, father. He and the officers with him certainly seemed thoroughly in earnest. What do you think, Martyn? There can be no objection to our lowering the Greek flag, I should think, while acting as a neutral.”

“I should think not,” Martyn said, “and I should not care a snap of the fingers if there was. The Greek flag is all well enough, Mr. Beveridge, when we see an armed Turk of superior size in sight, but at other times I don’t feel proud of it.”

“We will lower it down then, Martyn.”

The Greek flag was lowered from the peak and a white one run up. Then the work of debarkation commenced, the Turks insisting upon shaking hands with Mr. Beveridge and the officers, thanking them in the most fervent way, and calling down the blessing of Allah upon them; while the women, many of them weeping, threw themselves on their knees and poured out their thanks, some of them holding up their infants to gaze on the faces of those to whom they owed their lives. The sailors came in for their share of thanks, and were quite embarrassed by the warmth with which they were greeted. Just as the first batch left the ship, a large boat flying the Turkish flag was seen putting out from the shore, and in a few minutes the governor with seven or eight civil and military officials came on board.

They brought with them a merchant who spoke English to act as interpreter. Martyn drew up the whole of the crew who were not engaged in boat service as a guard of honour to receive them, while he, with Mr. Beveridge, met the governor as he mounted the gangway. The governor, who was a tall and dignified Turk, expressed to them his warmest thanks in the name of the Sultan for the rescue of so many of his subjects from the fury of the populace of Athens. Mr. Beveridge, through the interpreter, explained to the pasha that, although an Englishman he had Greek blood in his veins, and had therefore joined them in their attempt to achieve independence, and was prepared to fight on their side but that, as an Englishman, he revolted against the barbarity with which the war was carried on by both combatants; that his vessel was named the Misericordia, and that while he had saved a great number of Christian fugitives on the one side, he was equally ready and pleased at being able to render the same service to Mussulman fugitives on the other side.

THE GOVERNOR COMES ON BOARD

“Your errand is a noble and merciful one,” the Turk said, “and must have the approval of Allah as well as of the God of the Christians. We have heard of your terrible vessel, how she destroyed a frigate off Cyprus, beat off the boats of our fleet at Chios, and played havoc among the shipping from Smyrna. We knew her when we saw her, for we had heard of her white sails and tall masts; but we had heard too that no prisoner was injured by you. I never thought to set foot on the deck of the ship that had become the dread of the traders of Smyrna and other ports, but I am glad to do so since those who sail her, although our enemies in battle, have proved themselves indeed our friends in the time of distress.”

When this had been translated, Mr. Beveridge invited the governor and his companions into the cabin, where coffee and chibouks were served; then they were conducted round the ship. The governor conversed for some little time with two or three of the principal Turks from Athens, and learned the full details of the surrender and the subsequent events as he watched the debarkation of the fugitives; and then, after obtaining a promise from Mr. Beveridge that he and his officers would come on shore at sunset to dine with him, he entered his boat and was rowed back.

At sunset Mr. Beveridge and all the officers, with the exception of Tarleton, who remained in charge of the ship, went ashore. They were received at the landing-place by a guard of honour of Turkish soldiers in charge of one of the principal officers of the governor, and were conducted to his house through a crowd of people cheering and shouting.

The governor received them at his door. The dinner was served in Turkish fashion, all sitting on cushions round a table raised about a foot from the floor. A band of music played without, and a great number of dishes, of most of which Horace could only guess at the ingredients, were served; and after the meal, which was of great length, was concluded, slaves brought round ewers of water, in which all dipped their fingers, wiping them on embroidered towels. A variety of sweetmeats were then handed round, followed by coffee. Three or four interpreters had stood behind the guests, who were all placed between Turks, and thus conversation was rendered possible. At ten o’clock they took their leave with many cordial expressions on both sides, and were again escorted by a party of soldiers to their boats.

“There is no gainsaying,” Macfarlane said as they rowed off, “that there seems to be a good deal livelier feeling of gratitude among the Turks than there is among the Greeks. We have come all the way out from England to fight for the Greeks; we have sunk a Turkish ship, beaten off their boats with very heavy loss, and rescued nearly three thousand women and children from their hands, and yet there isn’t a Greek official who has said as much as thank you. They seem to consider that it is quite sufficient reward for us to have been of service to so great a people as they are. Upon the other hand, here are these Turks, though we have done them a great deal of damage, putting aside all enmity and treating us like gentlemen because we have saved a ship-load of their people. He was a very fine old heathen that governor.”

“The Turks, too, were a deal more grateful than any of the Greeks have been, except that batch from Cyprus,” Horace said.

“They were in better heart for being thankful, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge replied. “We have taken them back to their native land, and they will soon rejoin their friends and families; whereas the Chiots were going into exile and had lost everything that was dear to them, and the lot before them was, as the doctor pointed out, little if anything better than that we had saved them from. Still, I will do them the justice to say that the Turks were really grateful to us; and though we are not working for the purpose of obtaining gratitude, it is pleasant to see that people do feel that one has done something for them.”

“I suppose you won’t get up sail until morning, Martyn?” Mr. Beveridge said as they went down into the cabin.

“Yes, sir, if you have no objections I shall get up the anchor as soon as we are on board. You see we are not many miles from the mouth of the Dardanelles, and with a good glass they could make out our colours from the mainland; and if word were sent to their admiral that a Greek craft is at anchor here, he might send two or three ships out to capture us. I don’t give the Turks credit for such enterprise, but it is just as well not to run any risk. What is to be our course next, Mr. Beveridge?”

“There is likely to be a regular battle in a short time between the Greek army and the Turks. Indeed the Greeks will have to fight if they really mean to gain their independence. Dramali Pasha has some twenty thousand men collected on the banks of the Spercheus. Of these they say eight thousand are cavalry drawn from the Mussulman clans of Macedonia and Thrace, and he may move forward any day to reconquer the Morea and relieve Nauplia. If he is suffered to do this there is virtually an end of the war. I have not a shadow of faith in any of the Greek leaders, or in the Areopagus, but I still do believe in the vast bulk of the people. The Morea consists almost wholly of hilly and broken country, just the ground where an armed peasantry, knowing every pass and place of advantage, ought to be able to render the passage of a regular army with their wagons and baggage well-nigh impossible.

“In such a country the Turkish cavalry would be of little use, and there are only the infantry to cope with. The artillery would probably have to be left behind altogether. If ever an effort is to be made by the Greeks it must be made now. I propose therefore, Martyn, to sail down to Nauplia and to land there. The Turks, of course, still command the harbour with their guns, but the Greek vessels land supplies and ammunition for the besiegers, so there can be no difficulty about that. We have still a good many thousand muskets in the hold, and ammunition for them. I shall see what spirit prevails among the peasantry, shall issue arms to all who need them, and help with money if required. The peasantry will not want it, but the patriotism of their primates and captains may be a good deal strengthened by a little judicious expenditure of money. The Morea is the key of the whole position, and the present will be the critical moment of the revolution. If the Turks succeed, Greece is at their feet; if the Turkish army is defeated, Greece may conquer. Now, therefore, is the time for me to do my utmost to aid them.”

“Very well, sir; then I will lay her course to-morrow morning for the south-eastern point of Eubœa.”

On the voyage down Mr. Beveridge discussed with the others the course that he intended to take. He had quite determined himself to leave the coast and go into the interior, where, if the Turkish army was to be checked, the decisive battle must be fought. It was decided that Horace and the two Greeks should accompany him. The question most at issue was whether he should take with him any portion of the crew of the schooner; he himself was somewhat averse to this.

“I need hardly say, Martyn, that I have no intention whatever of mixing myself up in any fighting that may take place. I go simply to rouse the enthusiasm as much as possible of the peasantry, and to get the small local leaders to stir. If I can do nothing I shall simply come back to the schooner again. If the Greeks dispute the passage of the Turks I shall, if I can, take up my position where I can see what takes place, and if the Greeks are beaten, retire across the hills. What good then would it be for me to take any of the sailors with me? You may want them all on board, for it is possible, indeed it is probable, that the Turkish fleet will come round to Nauplia with supplies for the Turkish army when it arrives there.”

“Well, sir, I shouldn’t require the whole crew to get up sail and make off if I see them coming, and I do think that it would be very much better for you to have some men with you. In the first place, your having a guard of that sort would add to your importance in the eyes of the Greeks, and give more weight to your counsels. In the second place, if you are going to take arms and money on shore you will certainly require a guard for them, or run the risk of getting your throat cut. And lastly, if there should be a fight, and the Greeks get beaten, if you have fifteen or twenty men with you your chance of getting off safely would be very largely increased, for they could beat off any small party of horsemen that happened to overtake you. What do you think, Horace?”

“I certainly think so too. After what we have seen of the Greeks, father, I do think it would be better in every way to have a party of sailors with us. If it were known that you were going about the hills with a considerable sum of money you might be safe enough among the peasants, but I should say there were any number of these miserable primates and captains who would think nothing of cutting our throats to get it.”

Mr. Beveridge gave way at once, and it was arranged that a party of fifteen men, under the command of Miller, should land from the schooner and accompany him.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Beveridge,” Macfarlane said, “that it would be as well for you to take your medical attendant with you?”

Mr. Beveridge smiled. “I have scarcely regarded you hitherto, doctor, in the light of my medical attendant, but as the attendant of the ship’s company, and I don’t think that Horace or I, or any of the landing party, are likely to take any fever among the hills of the Morea.”

“I hope not, sir, but you see there may be some preliminary skirmishes before the regular battle you expect will take place, and I don’t suppose the Greeks will have any surgeons accustomed to gunshot wounds or capable of amputations among them, and therefore, you see, I might be of some service.”

“In addition to which, doctor,” Martyn laughed, “you think you would like a ramble on shore a bit.”

“Well, what do you think, Martyn?” Mr. Beveridge said; “it is for you to decide. The doctor may be, as he says, useful on shore; but then again his services may be required on board.”

“We are not likely to do any fighting, sir, and if he will mix up a gallon or two of jalap, and such other medicines as he thinks might be useful for ordinary ailments on board, I daresay Tarleton will see to their being administered as required.”

“Oh, yes, I will see to that,” Tarleton said. “Make them as nasty as you can, doctor, so that I sha’n’t have any unnecessary applications for them.”

And so it was settled that Dr. Macfarlane should form one of the landing party.

CHAPTER XVIII

A TURKISH DEFEAT

THE town of Nauplia stood on a projecting point at the head of the gulf which was in old times known as the Gulf of Argos, but was now more generally known as the Gulf of Nauplia, that town being the most important port in Greece, carrying on a large trade in sponges, silk, oil, wax, wines, and acorns. It was the seat of government of the Venetians at the time they were masters of the Morea, and had been very strongly fortified by them. The Acropolis, or citadel, stood on a craggy hill where the point on which the town stood joined the mainland. The Venetians had taken the greatest pain in fortifying this rock, which was well-nigh impregnable, and was considered the strongest position in the Morea.

The Turks had long been besieged here. Negotiations had at one time been carried on with a view to its surrender, and had the Greeks acted in good faith they could have gained possession of the place before Dramali advanced to its relief. Six weeks before, the Turks, having entirely consumed their provisions, signed the capitulation. The Turks had little faith in the Greeks observing its conditions, but were of opinion that it would be better to be massacred at once than to slowly die of hunger. By the terms of capitulation the Turks were to deliver up their arms and two-thirds of their movable property, while the Greeks were to allow them to hire neutral vessels to transport them to Asia Minor; and bound themselves to supply them with provisions until the vessels arrived to take them away.

The Greek government at once sent some of its members to Nauplia to register the property of the Turks. These immediately pursued the usual course of endeavouring to enrich themselves by secretly purchasing the property of the Turks, and by selling them provisions. The Greek ministers took no steps to charter neutral vessels, professing that they were unable to raise money for the purpose, but really delaying to enable their secretaries at Nauplia to make larger gains by bargaining with the wealthy Turks there. The Turks having now got provisions enough to enable them to hold on, were in no great hurry to conclude the surrender, as they knew that Dramali was advancing. Such was the state of things when the schooner arrived in the Gulf of Argos, and landed the party on the opposite side of the gulf.

They at once proceeded into the interior, stopping at every village. At each place they came to messengers were sent out to summon the peasantry of the neighbourhood to come in. When they had assembled Mr. Beveridge harangued them, pointing out that now or never was the time to win their independence; that if the Turkish invasion were rolled back now they might hope that the enemy would see that such a country could not be conquered when the inhabitants were determined to be free, for that if they thoroughly established their hold of it, and occupied all the fortresses, there would be no chance of their ever again shaking off the yoke. He said that he himself, an Englishman and a stranger, had come to aid them as far as possible, and that all unprovided with arms, or lacking ammunition, would receive them on going down to the ship anchored in the bay.

At each place, previous to addressing the assembly, he had distributed money among the local leaders and priests. These seconded his harangues, and numbers of the men went down to the coast and obtained guns and ammunition.

While Mr. Beveridge was travelling over the country the army of Dramali was advancing unopposed. The troops which the central government had placed to defend the passes fled without firing a shot, and Dramali occupied Corinth without resistance. The Acropolis there was impregnable, but the commander, a priest named Achilles Theodorides, in spite of his Christian name and the fact that the citadel was amply supplied with provisions, murdered the Turkish prisoners in his hands, and fled with the garrison as soon as Dramali approached the place.

The ease with which the Turkish general had marched through Eastern Greece and possessed himself of Corinth, raised his confidence to the highest point. It had been arranged that the Turkish fleet should meet him at Nauplia, and he therefore determined to march with his whole army there, obtain possession of the stores brought by the fleet, relieve the town, and then proceed to the conquest of the Morea. Two of his officers alone disagreed with him. Yussuf Pasha and Ali Pasha, the latter of whom was a large land-owner of Argos, and both of whom knew the country well, proposed that Corinth should be made the head-quarters of the army, and great magazines be formed there; that the army should be divided into two divisions, one of which, under Dramali, should march to Nauplia and then recover Tripolitza, while the other should march along the Gulf of Corinth to Patras, recovering possession of the fertile province of Achaia. Dramali, however, confident in his power to overcome any opposition that might be made, determined to carry out his own plan, and started with his own army for Nauplia.

Owing to the fact that Dramali had met with no opposition, and had advanced with much greater rapidity than was expected, the preparations for resistance were altogether incomplete at the time he moved forward from Corinth, though the people were firmly determined to resist his advance from Nauplia. Accordingly, to the great disappointment of Mr. Beveridge, he moved without opposition through the narrow defile of Dervenaki, where a few hundred men could have successfully opposed the advance of an army, and arrived without firing a shot at Argos, almost within sight of Nauplia, sending forward Ali Pasha with five hundred cavalry to take the command at Nauplia.

Had the Turkish fleet now arrived with supplies, as had been arranged, it is probable that Dramali would have overrun the Morea, and that the revolution in Greece would have been stamped out; but instead of doing this it passed round the Morea to Patras in order to take on board Mehemet, who had just been appointed Capitan Pasha. Dramali therefore found himself at Argos without provisions, as, relying upon obtaining supplies from the fleet, he had not encumbered himself with a baggage train.

The members of the Greek government whose head-quarters had been at Argos, had fled precipitately at the approach of Dramali. Argos had been crowded with political leaders and military adventurers who had gathered there in hopes of sharing in the plunder of Nauplia. All these fled in such haste that the national archives and a large quantity of plate that had just been collected from the churches and monasteries for the public service, were abandoned. A wild panic had seized the inhabitants, whose numbers had been vastly increased by refugees from Smyrna, Chios, and other places, and thousands deserted their houses and property, and fled in frantic terror. As soon as they had left, the town was plundered by bands of Greek klephts, who seized the horses, mules, working oxen, and carts of the peasantry round and loaded them with the plunder collected in the city, and the Turks, when they entered Argos, found that it had already been sacked.

While, however, the ministers, senators, and generals of Greece were flying in panic, the spirit of the people was rising, and a body of volunteers took possession of the ruined castle where the ancient Acropolis of Argos had stood, and defended the position successfully against the first attack of the Turks. Of all the Greek leaders, Prince Demetrius Hypsilantes alone showed courage and presence of mind. Hastening through the country he addressed energetic harangues to the people, who responded enthusiastically to his impassioned words, and took up arms without waiting for the call of their nominal leaders. The work of the little English party now bore fruit, and the peasants, with arms in their hands, some without leaders, some commanded by their captains and primates, flocked from all parts of the Morea towards the scene of action.

Having seen the work well begun, Hypsilantes hastened back to Argos, and, accompanied by several young chiefs, threw himself with some eight hundred men into the ruined castle, raising the force there to a thousand men. The place was, however, badly supplied with provisions and water, and the Turks closely invested it. The object with which the first volunteers had occupied the place had been gained: the advance of the Turks had been arrested, and time had been given to the people of the Morea to rise. Hypsilantes and the greater portion of the garrison accordingly withdrew during the night; but a small band held it for three days longer, cutting their way out when their last loaf was finished on the 1st of August, having occupied it on the 24th of July.

By this time the Greeks had five thousand men assembled at Lerna, the port of Argos, where the cowardly leaders had embarked, and they held a very strong position where the ground rendered it impossible for the Turkish cavalry to act. Other large bodies of Greeks occupied all the mountains surrounding the plain of Argos. Had Dramali, when he first found that the fleet had gone past with the supplies, returned to Corinth, he could have done so without a shot being fired; but it was not until the 6th of August, after wasting a fortnight, that he prepared to move. He had brought with him from Corinth ten thousand men, of whom half were cavalry, and already much greater numbers of Greeks were gathered round him. Kolokotronis was nominally in command, but the villagers obeyed their local leaders, and there was no order or system among them. Had there been, they could have occupied strong positions on the various roads leading up to the hills, and compelled the surrender of the whole Turkish army. Instead of doing this, each of the local chiefs took up the position that seemed to him to be best.

The advance guard of the Turkish army consisted of a thousand Albanians, trained and seasoned troops. These were allowed to go through without even a skirmish. A body of cavalry were then sent forward along the road by which they had come, and ordered to occupy the Dervenaki defile, which Dramali had left unguarded behind him. They found the Greeks intrenched there. The first Turkish division therefore moved by another pass. Niketos, one of the bravest of the Greek commanders, with two thousand men barred the valley and fell on their left flank, while another body of Greeks, under Hypsilantes and Dikaios, attacked them on the right. The Turkish cavalry charged forward and tried to clear the valley, but a picked body of marksmen, on a low hill overlooking a ravine, shot them down and blocked the ravine with the bodies of the horses and their riders.

The pressure from behind increased, and a body of well-mounted horsemen managed to dash through and reach Corinth in safety. Behind them the slaughter was terrible. The Turks were shot down in numbers, and fled in every direction. Many were killed, but more succeeded in escaping, for the Greeks directed their whole attention to plundering the great baggage-trains, consisting of mules and camels laden with the valuables of the pashas and the rich spoil that had been gathered in their advance. The news of the destruction of the first division of his army astounded Dramali; but it was impossible for him to remain at Argos, and the following day he moved forward by another road up the steep hill known as Kleisura. Dikaios opposed them in front; Niketos and Hypsilantes fell on their left flank.

As on the previous day, the baggage-train proved the salvation of the Turkish soldiers. The Greeks directed their entire attention to it; and while they were occupied in cutting it off, a brilliant charge by a chosen band of Turkish horsemen cleared the road in front, and Dramali, with the main body of his cavalry, was enabled to escape to Corinth. His military chest, and the whole of the Turkish baggage, fell into the hands of the Greeks. The troops under the immediate command of Kolokotronis took no part whatever in either day’s fighting, the whole of which was done by the two thousand men under the command of Niketos, under whom Dikaios and Hypsilantes acted. As Kolokotronis, however, was the nominal commander, the credit of the defeat of Dramali was generally ascribed to him.

The Moriots returned to their native villages, enriched by the spoil they had gathered. The party from the schooner had been spectators of the fight. They had scarcely expected so good a result, for the disorder, the want of plan, the neglect of any attempt to seize and occupy the roads, and, above all, the utter incapacity of Kolokotronis, seemed to render success almost hopeless; and, indeed, out of the fourteen thousand Greeks assembled but two thousand fired a shot.

Fortunately the brunt of the Turkish attack fell upon the one little division that was ably commanded. Had the main body aided them, not a soldier of Dramali’s army would have escaped. As it was, their loss in men was comparatively small; but the total destruction of their baggage-train, and, still more, the disorganization and depression which followed the disaster, inflicted upon them by an enemy they despised, completely paralyzed them, and no forward move was again attempted. Dramali himself was utterly broken down by the humiliation, and died at Corinth two months later.

Mr. Beveridge was well contented with the success, which was due partly to his efforts. He had expended upwards of five thousand pounds, and eight thousand muskets and a large quantity of ammunition had been distributed from the schooner to the peasants. The victory ought, he felt, to have been much more conclusive; but the spirit awakened among the Moriots, and the confidence that would be engendered throughout Greece at this victory over an army that had expected to overrun the whole country without difficulty, immensely improved the chances that Greek independence would be finally established.

There was, however, one unfortunate consequence of the affair. The success of these armed peasants at Argos confirmed the Greeks in their idea that discipline was wholly unnecessary, that regular troops were a mistake, and that all that was needed to conquer the Turks was for the people to muster under their local leaders whenever danger threatened. This absurd idea was the cause of many heavy disasters which subsequently occurred. When the second day’s fighting was over the English party made their way back to the schooner.

“I congratulate you heartily, sir, on the success the Greeks have gained,” Martyn said; for the news of the victory had already reached him.

“Thank you, Martyn. It might and ought to have been a great deal better. Still, I am very thankful that it is as good as it is. I can feel now that, come what may, my mission out here has not been altogether a failure. We have done much good work in the cause of humanity. My work during the last three weeks has been exactly what I pictured it would be before I left home. By my personal efforts I did a good deal to arouse the enthusiasm of the peasants. My money increased my influence, and the arms we brought out contributed largely to the success of the fight. I am pleased and gratified.”

“What sort of time have you had, Miller?” Martyn asked his comrade as they walked up and down the quarter-deck together, as Mr. Beveridge descended to his cabin.

“It has been good enough, for we have done a lot of tramping up hill and down. The chief bought a horse the day he landed, or I am sure he never could have stood it; it was pretty hard work even for us. You should have seen him, day after day, haranguing crowds of villagers. Of course I could not understand a word he said; but I can tell you he worked them up into a regular frenzy; and the way they shouted and waved their hands, and, as I imagine, swore terrible oaths that they would kill and eat every Turk they saw, was something tremendous. It quite electrified our fellows, who have been accustomed, I suppose, to consider the chief as a quiet, easy-going gentleman, and they cheered and shouted as loudly as the Greeks. Zaimes and his brother went off on expeditions, on their own account, to villages we could not spare time to go to. We were all right as to quarters and grub. The primates and captains, or whatever the leaders call themselves, naturally made a lot of us—and no wonder, considering how the chief scattered his money among them all. The mule that carried the money was pretty heavily laden when he went up, but the boxes were emptied before we returned. The food, of course, was pretty rough, though it was the best they had; but one has been spoiled for roughing it by our living here.”

“I found a difference, I can tell you, Miller, since you went, and I am heartily glad that Marco is back again. How has the doctor got on?”

“I think he has found it harder than he expected,” Miller laughed. “He confided to me to-day that he shall not volunteer for another expedition. But I was very glad he was with us; for Horace, of course, was always in the thick of it, with his father, jawing away with the village notables, and I should have had a dull time of it if it had not been for the doctor, whose remarks upon the real enthusiasm of the peasantry and the bought enthusiasm of their leaders were very amusing. The doctor does not say much when we are all together; but he is not at all a bad companion, and there is a lot of dry humour about him. And now I sha’n’t be sorry when supper is ready, for we have been on our legs since daybreak, and I have had nothing to eat but some bread we carried with us and some wine with which we had all filled our water-bottles.”

After this, for a time, the Misericordia had a quiet time of it cruising idly about among the Ionian Islands, and then crossing to Venice, where they stayed for three weeks. Then they crossed the Adriatic again, and put in at the port of Missolonghi. Mr. Beveridge was very anxious to hear the result of the battle that was expected between the Greek army, under Mavrocordatos, and the Turks advancing south. He had himself strongly wished to go with the Greek army, but had been dissuaded by Horace.

“My dear father, if we do any fighting at sea, we assuredly do our share without taking part in fighting on shore. When we have once seen the Greeks make a successful stand it will surely be time enough for us to take any share in the matter. The Philhellenes will fight, that is quite certain; but I think the odds are all against the Greeks doing so. Besides, as you have often said, Mavrocordatos is no more fit to command an army than any old woman in the streets of Athens would be. He knows nothing whatever of military matters, and will take no advice from those who do. I think there would be a tremendous risk in joining the Greek army, and no advantage to be gained from it. Of course, if you wish to go I will go with you, and we can take some of the men if you like; but I certainly think we had better keep away from it altogether.”

And so, instead of joining the Greek army, they had sailed to Venice. As soon as they dropped anchor off Missolonghi Horace was rowed ashore to get the news. He returned in an hour.

“It is lucky indeed, father, that we went to Venice instead of with Mavrocordatos.”

“What, have the Greeks been beaten?”

“Completely smashed up, father. I have been talking to two or three of the Philhellenes who were lucky enough to escape. Mavrocordatos sent the army on to Petta, and established himself some twenty miles in the rear. His chief of the staff, General Normann, felt the position was a very bad one, but could not fall back when the Turks advanced, as he had no orders. The regular troops, that is, the one regular regiment, the hundred Philhellenes, and a body of Ionian volunteers, were stationed in a position in front. The Greek irregulars, two thousand strong, were placed some distance in the rear, and were to cover the regulars from any attack from that direction. Two leaders of the irregulars were in communication with the Turks; when these advanced, the eight hundred men in front, who had two guns with them, repulsed them; but Reshid Pasha sent round six hundred Albanians, who advanced against a strong position in the rear. The whole body of the Greek irregulars bolted like rabbits, and then the Turks in front and the Albanians from the rear attacked the front division on all sides. They fought gallantly. Of the hundred Philhellenes, seventy-five were killed, the other twenty-five broke their way through the Turkish ranks. The Greek regiment and the Ionians were cut up by the Turkish infantry fire, followed by charges of their cavalry. Half of them were killed, the others broke their way through the Turks. So out of the eight hundred men over four hundred were killed. They say that not one surrendered. So I think, father, it is very well that we did not go up to see the fight, for you would naturally have been somewhere near the Philhellenes.”

“This is bad news indeed, Horace.”

“It is, father; but how the Greeks could suppose that it was any use getting up a regular army, consisting of one regiment of six hundred men, to fight the Turks, is more than I can imagine. As to their irregulars, except for fighting among the mountains, I do not see that they are of the slightest good.

“I am awfully sorry for the foreign officers. After coming here, as they did, to fight for Greece, and then forming themselves into a corps to encourage the natives to fight, to be deserted and left to fight a whole army is shameful. Those I spoke to are terribly cut up at the loss of three-quarters of their comrades. The Turks are advancing against Missolonghi. The Suliots have made terms, and are to be transported to the Ionian Islands. The British consul at Prevesa guarantees that the terms shall be honourably kept on both sides.”

Mr. Beveridge went ashore later, and returned completely disheartened by his conversation with the leading inhabitants. He learned that, so far from the defeat at Petta convincing the Greeks that it was only by submitting to discipline and forming regular regiments that they could hope to oppose the Turks, they had determined, on the contrary, that there was no hope of fighting in that way, and that henceforward they must depend entirely upon the irregulars.

“Their blindness is extraordinary,” he said. “They saw that, few as the disciplined men were, they repulsed the attack of the Turkish troops in front, and were only crushed when totally surrounded; while, on the other hand, two thousand five hundred irregulars were unable even to attempt to make a stand against six hundred Albanians, but deserted their comrades and fled after scarcely firing a shot; and yet in the future they intend to trust solely to these useless bands.

“At present everyone is quarrelling with everyone else. While Reshid Pasha is preparing to invade Greece the captains and primates, instead of uniting to oppose them, are quarrelling and fighting among themselves for their share of the national revenues. The district of Agrapha is being laid waste by civil broils; the province of Vlochos is being devastated by the bands of two rival leaders; Kravari is pillaged alternately by the bands of two other scoundrels; Gogos and half a dozen other captains have openly gone over to the Turks. There is only one hope I can see,” he added bitterly.

“What is that, Mr. Beveridge?” Martyn asked.

“It is, that the Greeks will continue their civil broils until they make their country a complete desert; and that the Turks, finding that they can obtain no food whatever, will be obliged by starvation to quit the country. One thing I am resolved upon, and that is, that until the Greeks fight for themselves I will do nothing further whatever in the matter. I will still try to save women and children, but I will do nothing else. I will neither interfere with Turkish commerce nor fire a gun at a Turkish ship of war. We will lower our long gun and four of the others down into the hold, Captain Martyn, and we will cruise about and enjoy ourselves for a bit.”

“Very well, sir. It is just a year since we arrived out here, and a little peace and quiet and amusement will do us no harm. I don’t know how it would be with our flag, and whether we can sail into Malta or into the Italian ports with it, or whether we can hoist our own again.”

“The papers are all right, I believe,” Mr. Beveridge said. “You see, she was nominally sold to the agent here of a Greek firm in London, and is therefore registered as the property of a Greek subject. I have papers signed by them selling the vessel again to me, with blanks for the dates, which can be filled in at any time; but these, of course, I could only fill in and use in the event of my deciding to leave Greece altogether and return to England. So that, at present, we are simply a Greek ship, owned by natives of that country, and holding letters of marque from the Greek government to act as a privateer. I do not think that the transaction would be recognized by any European power in the case of two European belligerents; but this is an exceptional case, as the sympathies of all the Christian powers are with the Greeks. As far as the Turks are concerned, it makes no difference; whether Greek or English, they would hang us if they caught us. But I don’t think any very close inquiries are likely to be made in any European port. Our Greek papers are all correct, and as we know that the account of our having saved large numbers of fugitives from Chios has been in the English papers, and doubtless our interference to save the Turks at Athens has also been published, I think that we should be received well by the sympathizers of either party.”

The next morning they sailed to Corinth, where they remained a few days. John Iskos, Mr. Beveridge’s agent at Athens, came across to see him. He informed him that he had sold but a very small portion of the goods consigned to him in the prizes, but had shipped the great bulk in neutral vessels and consigned them to the firm in London; the vessels themselves he had disposed of to Hydriot merchants. He recommended Mr. Beveridge to hand over to him the store of silks and other valuables that had been retained on board the schooner, and he would put them at once on board an Italian ship at present in the port, and consign them to a Greek house in Genoa, as he certainly would not obtain anything like fair prices for them in Greece.

The operation occupied two days, but all the most valuable goods were retained, as the prizes might have been recaptured by Turks on their way to Athens. The prizes had been brought in by Miller and Tarleton alternately, Marco or Zaimes accompanying them to interpret, the crews being taken back in native boats to Naxos, to which island the schooner had made several trips to pick them up.

For the next two months the schooner cruised in Italian waters, from Venice round to Genoa, putting in to many ports, making a circuit of Sicily, and paying a short visit to Malta; then learning that the Turks were about to besiege Missolonghi, and that the town was going to resist until the last, they crossed over there in the second week in November. They found that the port was blockaded by some Turkish ships from Patras, but that some Hydriot vessels were expected to arrive shortly. Mavrocordatos was himself in the town organizing the defence, and taking really vigorous measures for holding out to the last.

A week later seven Hydriot brigs arrived; the Misericordia, which had again mounted all her guns, joined them; but as they approached the port the Turkish vessels got up all sail and made for Patras, and the Greeks entered the port. Missolonghi was protected by a low mud wall, with a ditch six feet deep by sixteen feet wide. It contained but a foot of water, but at the bottom was a deep clay, rendering it quite impassable. There were eight guns mounted on the ramparts, and Mr. Beveridge landed at once six more of those still lying in the hold, with a supply of ammunition for the whole.

As soon as the port was open a thousand men crossed over from the Morea under the command of partisan chiefs, and from time to time others came in, until the garrison, originally but six hundred strong, was increased to two thousand five hundred. For some weeks nothing was done; but on the eve of the 6th of January, which was the Greek Christmas-day, a Greek fisherman brought in news that the Turks were preparing to assault the next morning at daylight, when they believed the Christians would generally be in their churches. Forty men were landed from the schooner to take part in the defence. At daybreak the defenders were all in their places, hidden behind the rampart or concealed in the houses near.

The storming party was led by eight hundred Albanian volunteers. One division was intended to scale the wall on its eastern flank, while another was to endeavour to penetrate the town by wading through a shallow lagoon at its eastern extremity. The whole Turkish army turned out, and suddenly opened a tremendous fire of musketry against the ramparts, while the storming parties moved forward. The defenders remained in their concealment until the Albanians were close at hand, and then, leaping up, poured their fire into them. Expecting to take the defenders by surprise, the Albanians were astounded at the sudden and heavy fire poured into them, and at once broke and fled in confusion. For some hours the Turks kept up a heavy fire, but did not renew their attack in earnest. Tons of ammunition were fired away on both sides, and then the Turks fell back to their camps, and on the following day raised the siege.

The wildness of the fire was evidenced by the fact that only four Greeks were killed. The blue-jackets from the schooner joined in the fire upon the storming parties, but when it was evident that the Turks had no idea of renewing the attack they returned on board ship. Their remarks upon the combatants were the reverse of complimentary.

“It is well-nigh enough to make a man sick, Tom,” one man said to another in Horace’s hearing. “To see them both blazing away good powder and lead like that, I reckon to be downright sinful.”

“You are right there, mate. It is a downright waste of the gifts of Providence. Why, there was powder and ball enough to have killed a good five thousand Englishmen and Frenchmen thrown away in accounting for four or five of them yelling fellows. It is more like play-acting than fighting. Why, if you was to arm a couple of gals’ schools and put ’em to fire at each other they would do ever so much better than that. And to think them Greeks calls themselves Christians and don’t know how to aim a musket no better than that; they might just as well be heathen.”

While Missolonghi had been resisting successfully, the Turkish garrison of Nauplia had at last surrendered. After Dramali’s army had abandoned it the only hope that remained to them was that the fleet might return. The Greeks retained possession of a small fort that had been given up to them at the time that the first negotiations for surrender were going on. From this fort combustible missiles were fired into the town, and a brisk cannonade kept up with its defences, but without much damage being done on either side. On the 20th of September the Turkish fleet appeared off the entrance to the gulf, and the Greek fleet from the islands of Hydra and Spetzas stood out to meet them.

Unfortunately Admiral Kanaris was not present. For four days the two fleets remained in sight of each other, firing at such distances that no harm was done on either side. There was nothing to have prevented the Turkish admiral relieving Nauplia and landing the troops and provisions in his transports; but he feared to enter the gulf, while the Greeks shrank equally from an attack upon him. After thus exhibiting for four days his cowardice and incapacity, the Turkish capitan-pasha abandoned Nauplia to its fate. The resistance only continued because the Turks could put no reliance upon the oaths of the Greeks. Women and children dropped dead from hunger in the streets; the soldiers were so weak from starvation that but few were able to carry their arms. The citadel was at last abandoned simply because the soldiers who went down into the town to fetch the scanty rations for its defenders were too weak to climb the hill again; and the Greeks, as soon as they learned that it was abandoned, occupied the position. Kolokotronis and a number of other leaders, attracted by the prospect of booty, hurried to the spot like vultures round a carcass.

Negotiations were again opened, and the Turks surrendered on the terms of the Greeks engaging to transport them to Asia Minor, allowing each to retain a single suit of clothes, a quilt for bedding, and a carpet for prayer. As soon as the terms were signed, Kolokotronis and the captains entered the town with their personal followers and prevented all others from entering. The soldiers assembled before the gates, declaring that they would not allow the chiefs to appropriate to themselves everything valuable, threatening to storm the place, murder the Turks, and sack the town. Greece was saved from fresh dishonour by the timely arrival of the English frigate Cambrian, commanded by Captain Hamilton. He was a strong friend of Greece, and was known to many of the Greek leaders.

He at once held a conference with them, and in the strongest language urged upon them the necessity of taking measures for the execution of the capitulation, for that another breach of faith, another foul massacre, would render the name of Greece despicable in civilized Europe and ruin the cause of the country. Hamilton’s character was greatly respected, and his words had their effect. He insisted upon their chartering ships to embark the Turks. He himself took five hundred of them on board the Cambrian, and nine hundred were embarked in the Greek transports. This interference of Captain Hamilton excited great anger in Greece.

The Turkish fleet did not escape absolutely scathless after its inglorious departure from Nauplia. Although unmolested by the Greeks, it sailed north, and anchored inside the island of Tenedos.

Kanaris persuaded the people of Psara to fit out two fire-ships. He took the command of one, and both sailed for the Turkish fleet, which they approached at daybreak. Two line-of-battle ships were anchored to windward of the rest of the fleet. Kanaris undertook the destruction of the ship to leeward, that being the most difficult operation. He succeeded as well as he had done on two previous occasions. He ran the enemy aboard to windward, lashed the fire-ship there, and fired the train. The Turk was at once enveloped in flames, and the whole of the crew, eight hundred in number, perished.

But Kanaris seemed to be the only Greek naval officer who had the necessary courage and coolness to manœuvre successfully with fire-ships. The other captain ran his fire-ship alongside the man-of-war which carried the flag of the capitan-pasha. The position of the fire-ship was, however, ill chosen, and after being set on fire it drifted away without doing injury to the Turk. The rest of the Turkish fleet cut their cables and made for the Dardanelles, while one corvette ran ashore on Tenedos. Another was abandoned by her crew. Kanaris and the crews of the two fire-ships returned safely to Psara in their boats.

CHAPTER XIX

PRISONERS

ONE day, after cruising along the coast inside the island of Eubœa or Negropont, the Misericordia entered the Gulf of Zeitouni, the Sinus Maliacus of the ancients. When they were nearly at the head of the gulf Horace asked Captain Martyn to let him go ashore to a little village at the water’s edge to get some vegetables and fruit, of which the supply had run out.

“Just as you like, Horace. A boat-load of green stuff of some sort or other would be very welcome, and if you can pick up half a dozen kids so much the better.”

“I am thinking I will go with you, Horace,” Macfarlane said; “it does a man good to stretch his legs ashore once in a way.”

The gig was at once lowered, and on Horace and the doctor taking their seats in the stern, four sailors rowed them ashore.

“I sha’n’t take the trouble to anchor,” Martyn said as they left the ship. “I expect you will be back in an hour, and I shall keep her standing off and on till I see you put out.”

Leaving two of the men in charge of the boat, Horace told the other two to take some of the baskets they had brought ashore and follow him. Some women looked out timidly at the doors of the houses, but no men were to be seen about.

“We are friends,” Horace said; “do you not see we are flying the Greek flag? Where are all the men?”

“They have gone away with Vriones. He came with an armed band and said that every man must go with him to fight.”

“Who have they gone to fight?”

“Ah! that we don’t know. He talked about fighting the Turks, but we think it more likely that he is going to fight Rhangos. They are at war with each other. Oh, these are bad times! What with the war with the Turks, and the war of one captain with another, and what with bands of klephts who plunder everyone, there is no peace nor quiet. They say Rhangos is going to join the Turks, as many other klepht leaders have done. To us it makes little difference who are masters, so that we know who they are. In the time of the Turks we had peace; we had to pay taxes, but we knew what they were. Now everybody wants taxes. These are evil days.”

“We want some vegetables and some fruit,” Horace said. “We do not wish to rob you, and are ready to pay a fair price for everything.”

“Those we can sell you,” the woman said, “it is nearly all we have left. There are vegetables everywhere, and they are not worth stealing.”

The news soon spread, and the women and children of the village were soon engaged in gathering and tying up vegetables. The sailors made several trips backwards and forwards to the boats with laden baskets, while the doctor and Horace, seated upon a low wall, watched the women at work in the gardens, and paid the sum agreed upon for each basketful that was carried off. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, there was a rush of men behind them, and before they could draw their pistols they were seized, thrown down, and bound.

“What is the meaning of this?” Horace asked indignantly. “We are officers of that ship there, which is in the service of Greece. As you are Greeks, what do you mean by molesting us?”

No reply was given. There was a sudden outburst of firing down by the boat, and the screams of women rose in the air. The men who had bound them moved away at the order of an officer, leaving two with muskets standing over the prisoners.

“This is a nice business, doctor; I expect we have fallen into the hands of Rhangos, the fellow the women were speaking about, and the men of this village have gone out with some other scoundrel to fight. I suppose he had spies about, and came down to plunder the place in their absence. She said she heard Rhangos was going to join the Turks; his capturing us certainly looks as if at present he was hostile to the Greeks. If he takes us away and hands us over to the Turks it is a bad look-out.”

“He will have to be quick about it,” the doctor said, “they are still firing occasional shots down by the water. That looks as if the boat has got away, and you may be sure Martyn won’t be long before he sends as many men as he can spare ashore to find us. There, do you hear?” and as he spoke there was the deep boom of a gun, followed by the rush of a shot overhead.

Orders were shouted angrily directly afterwards. Some men ran up, cut the cords that bound the prisoners’ legs, and then, seizing them by the arms, hurried them away, threatening them with instant death if they did not keep up with them. As they mounted the high ground behind the village Horace glanced round. Three boats were just leaving the schooner. A blow from one of the Greeks that, bound as he was, nearly threw him down, compelled him to turn his head and hurry forward again. For hours they hastened along. When about a mile from the village a sharp fire was heard to break out in that direction. As they had only eight men with them, they doubted not that Rhangos was with the main body opposing the landing.

“Our fellows will soon clear them out of the village,” Horace said to the doctor. “I only hope that, as they retire, the Greeks will follow us, for you may be sure that Martyn and Miller will press hard on them, and may perhaps overtake us.”

Up to nightfall, however, none of the band came up. The country had been getting more and more hilly, and at sunset they halted far up on the side of a mountain. Here a fire was lit, and some portions of a kid that had evidently been part of the plunder of the village were put over it to roast. The fire was kept blazing, and the doctor and Horace agreed that it was probably intended as a signal to their comrades. A lump of meat was thrown to each of the captives, their cords being loosed sufficiently to enable them to use their hands, their legs being tightly bound again as soon as they had halted. At eight o’clock a sound of voices was heard, and presently a party of Greeks, fully a hundred strong, came up. They were evidently in an ill temper, and replied sulkily to the questions of the guard of the prisoners. Horace gathered from their answers that they had fired a volley upon the boats as they approached; then, seeing they came on without a pause, had at once run from the village and scattered, reuniting some miles on.

“We lost everything we had taken,” one of the men said. “We had it all packed and ready to carry away, when those confounded sailors came. Some of us did start with our bundles, but they came so fast up to us that we had to throw everything away, and even then we had a lot of difficulty in keeping away from them. I expect they caught some. It was lucky we started off when we did; if we had waited till they landed very few would have got away.”

“Didn’t they shoot?” one of the guards asked.

“No, they never fired a shot. I don’t know whether they came ashore without powder, but from first to last they never fired.”

“They knew we had these two in our hands,” the guards said, “and they were afraid if they killed any of us we should take it out of our prisoners, and I think they were about right. Ah! here comes Rhangos. He had to take to a farmhouse before he had gone half a mile, and I suppose if any of them looked in they would have seen him feeding pigs or something of that sort, with his finery and arms hidden away.”

The klepht had now come up to the fire. He was a spare man, some fifty years old, with a keen hungry face.

“Are all here?” he asked briefly.

“We are six short of our number,” a man, who by his dress had evidently the rank of an officer among them, replied.

“Killed?”

“No, there was no firing; I expect those sailors ran them down.”

“Then we must march in half-an-hour, they will make them lead them here. Now, then, who are you?” he asked the doctor as the elder of the prisoners.

“My friend does not speak Greek,” Horace replied. “As you must be well aware we are officers of that schooner that was lying off the village. This is the doctor, I am third lieutenant. We are friends of Greece, we have been in action against the Turkish ships of war, we have saved great numbers of Greek fugitives from the Turks, now this is the treatment that we receive at the hands of the Greeks.”

Horace’s reticence as to the fact that he was the son of the owner of the schooner was the result of a conversation with the doctor.

“These scoundrels have no doubt carried us off either for the purpose of getting a ransom for us or of handing us over to the Turks as an acceptable present. I expect the idea of ransom is at the bottom of it. We have heard of this fellow Rhangos before. He is a noted klepht, and more Albanian than Greek. Whatever you do, Horace, don’t you let out you are the owner’s son. If you do there is no saying how much ransom they might ask for you. They think that an Englishman who fits out a ship at his own expense to come out here must be rolling in money. As long as they think that they have only got hold of a doctor and a third lieutenant they cannot ask a high price for them, but for an owner’s son there is no saying what figure they might put him at. Have you got a second name?”

“Yes, I am Horace Hendon Beveridge. Hendon was my mother’s name.”

“That is lucky; you can give them Horace Hendon. It is likely they may know your father’s name, for the Misericordia and her doings have been a good deal talked about. I am not in favour of anyone telling a lie, Horace, but as it is no lie to give your two first names without giving your third, I cannot see that there is harm in it.”

“The ship belongs to the Lord Beveridge?” Rhangos asked next.

“Yes, that is his name,” Horace replied.

“What is your name and that of your companion?”

Horace gave his two Christian names and the name of his companion.

“Have you paper?” the klepht said.

“I have a note-book in my pocket.”

“That will do. Now write in Greek: My Lord Beveridge, This is to give you notice that—now write the two names—‘Donald Macfarlane and Horace Hendon,’” Horace repeated as he wrote them, “surgeon and third lieutenant of your ship, are captives in my hands, and that unless three hundred pounds in gold are paid to me as ransom for them they will be put to death. If there is any attempt to rescue the prisoners they will at once be shot. The messenger will arrange with you how and where the ransom is to be paid.”

The klepht added his own name in scrawling characters at the bottom of the note, then called one of the men and gave him instructions as to where and how the ransom was to be paid, and then sent him off. As soon as the band had satisfied their hunger the march among the mountains was continued for another two hours. Then they threw themselves down by the side of a stream in a valley surrounded on all sides with craggy hills, and two men with muskets were placed as sentries over the prisoners.

“Well, this is not so bad,” Horace said. “It is certainly very lucky you gave me that hint about my name. Three hundred is not very much to pay to get out of such a scrape as this. I suppose there is no fear about their giving us up when they get the money.”

“I think not,” the doctor replied. “They would never get ransoms if they did not keep their word. I only hope that no one may let out before the messenger who you are. If they do, there will be a very serious rise in prices.”

“Fortunately none of them speak Greek but my father, and probably he would read the note before he would ask any questions.”

“Maybe yes, and maybe no,” the doctor said. “He is as like as not to say when he sees a messenger, ’Is my son alive and well?’ and then the cat would be out of the bag. Still, your father is a prudent man, and may keep a still tongue in his head, especially when he sees that the note is in your own handwriting. However, we will hope for the best.”

Morning had dawned some time before there was any movement among the band. Then their fires were lighted and breakfast cooked.

“Will the English lord pay the ransom for you, do you think?” Rhangos asked, sauntering up to Horace.

Horace shrugged his shoulders.

“It is a large sum to pay for two officers,” he said.

“He is rich, it is nothing to him.”

“He is well off, no doubt,” Horace said; “but it is not everyone who is well off who is disposed to part with money for other people.”

“Well, it will be bad for you if he doesn’t pay,” the klepht said significantly.

Three hours later the messenger was seen coming up the valley. Horace looked at him anxiously as he approached, and was pleased to see that, as he spoke to Rhangos, there was no expression of surprise or exultation in the latter’s face. He nodded when the other had finished, and then went to the fire where two or three of his lieutenants were sitting, saying briefly to Horace as he passed him, “He will pay.” Horace could hear what he said to the others.

“Demetri says the Englishman did not like paying the money. There was a good deal of talk between him and his officers before he came back to him and said, that though the demand was extortionate he would pay it. He said he should complain to the central government, and should expect them to refund it and settle with you.” There was a general laugh among his hearers.

“I ought to have asked more,” the klepht went on; “but I don’t know these English. Of course if any of you were taken, my dear friends, I would give all I have to ransom you.” The assertion was received with mocking laughter, as he went on calmly: “But you see other people are not animated by the same generous feeling as we Greeks, and I don’t suppose this milord sets any particular value on the lad, or on that long-shanked doctor. He can hire more of them, and I expect he only agreed to pay the money because his other officers insisted on it. They are rolling in wealth these English, but they are mean; if not, how is it that our pockets are not filled with English gold when we are fighting for a sacred cause?”

His hearers were highly tickled by this sentiment.

“When are they to be delivered up, Rhangos?”

“At mid-day to-morrow at Pales, the village halfway between the foot of the hills and the sea. Four men are to take them down to within a quarter of a mile of the village; then Demetri will go in and get the gold; then when he returns with it to the others the prisoners will be freed.”

“I should have thought the matter might have been arranged to-day,” one of the men said.

“So it might have been,” the klepht replied; “but I could not tell that. I thought that Demetri would not be able to go off to the ship this morning. He had six hours’ walking, and would not be there until two hours past midnight; then he would have to rest for an hour or two after he had seen them, and then six hours to walk back. It would have been too late to deliver them up before dark, and I should never think of sending them in the dark—their guards might fall into an ambush. As it was, Demetri found them in the village. They had not returned, as I thought they would do, on board their ship. He walked in, thinking the place was empty, when two of those sailors jumped out on him with cutlasses. Thinking that they were going to cut his throat he showed them the letter. They led him to the principal house in the village, and one went in while another held him fast outside. He heard a great talking and excitement in the house, and presently he was taken in. Then, as I told you, there was a great talk, and at last they agreed to pay the ransom. As soon as he got his answer he started on his way back, lay down for an hour or two in an empty cottage, and then came on here. We will stay where we are until to-morrow morning; then, Kornalis, you shall start with four men, and Demetri and the captives, and we will go on our way. We will deal another blow to Vriones, and then we will be off. We will fix on some place where you can join us after you have got the ransom.”

“It could not have happened better for us,” Horace said to his companion after he had translated the klepht’s story. “As it turned out, you see, my father got the note before he could say a word to the messenger. That was a capital move their pretending to hesitate about paying the ransom. If they had jumped at it this scoundrel is perfectly capable of raising his terms. As it is, he thinks he was clever enough to hit upon just the maximum sum that could be got for us. Well, it is all right now.”

“It will be all right when we are among the others, Horace; there is never any saying what may happen in this country. Some of the peasants these fellows have been robbing may fall on us, seeing we are but a small party. This Vriones with his bandits, who I daresay are just as bad as these fellows, may happen to meet us. No, we won’t calculate too confidently. Things have gone on very well so far. We will just hope they will go on to the end.”

Now that the affair was considered to be settled, but little attention was paid to the prisoners. Their cords were taken off, and they were permitted to move about, two men keeping an eye upon them, but not following them closely. They congratulated themselves that the sailors had withheld their fire, for undoubtedly their position would have been very different had some of the brigands been killed. So far from bearing any animosity now, the men chatted with them in a friendly manner, asked questions about their ship, and their encounters with the Turks.

“We would rather fight for the Greeks than the Turks,” one said: “but we follow our captains. There is neither pay nor plunder to be obtained with the Greeks; and as Odysseus and all the other chiefs play their own game, and think only of making money, why should poor devils like us be particular? All Albanian tribes have had their wars against each other as long as we or our fathers can remember. We know nothing about the Greece that they talk so much of now. There were the Morea and other provinces, and so there have always been so far as we know, and it is nothing to us whether they are ruled by Turks or by their own captains. As to religion, many of our tribes are Mussulmans, many are Christians. We do not see that it makes any difference.

“Everyone plunders when he gets a chance. Why should I want to cut a man’s throat because he is a Mussulman? His father was a Christian before him; my son may be a Mussulman after me. What does it matter? Since the fight at Petta many chiefs have gone over to the Turks, and if the Greeks win a battle most of them will go back again. The affair is nothing to us. On the mountains we hunt where we are most likely to get game. You like to hunt for amusement, and so you have come out here on a matter which does not at all concern you. We hunt to live, and don’t much care whether we take a sheep out of one flock or another.”

Horace smiled at the man’s avowal of the want of any principle whatever.

“I was a schoolmaster,” one of the lieutenants of the band, who was stretched at full length smoking and listening to the conversation, remarked. “I know about the old time, but I don’t know anything of this Greece you speak of. Where was it? What did it do? It was just then as it is now. There were a number of little tribes under their own captains. Athens, and Corinth, and Sparta, and Argos, and Thebes, and the rest of them always fighting against each other just as our Albanian clans do; not even ready to put aside their own quarrels to fight against an invader. Pooh! There never was a Greece, and I neither know nor care whether there ever will be. Why should we throw away our lives for a dream?”

“Yes; but at any rate the Greeks have a common language, which shows they are one people.”

“Families fall out more than strangers,” the man replied with a laugh. “You English and the Americans have a common language, and yet you have been fighting against each other, and they refuse to remain one nation with you. These things signify no more than the smoke of my pipe. A Christian’s money, and a Christian’s goods and cattle, are worth just as much to me as a Turk’s; and my captain, who pays me, is more to me than either Mavrocordatos or the Sultan. I daresay that English milord is a worthy man, though he must be a fool, and yet the wine I shall buy out of my share of his money will be just as good as if it had grown in my father’s vineyard.”

Horace laughed. He was not skilled in argument, even had he any inclination to indulge in it at the present time; and he sauntered off and sat down by the doctor, who, not being able to talk with the Greeks, found the time hang heavy on hand. Horace repeated to him his conversation with the two brigands.

“I own I did not know how to answer the last fellow, doctor.”

“There is no answer to be made, Horace. To argue, men must have a common ground to start from. There is no common ground between you and him. His argument is the argument of the materialist everywhere, whether he is Briton, Frenchman, or Greek. To a man who has neither religion nor principles there remains only self-interest, and from that point of view there is no gainsaying the arguments of that Albanian scamp any more than it would have been of use for a lowland merchant carried off by Highland caterans to urge upon them that their conduct was contrary to the laws both of morality and political economy. They would have said that they knew nothing about either, and cared less, and that unless his goodwife or fellow citizens put their hands in their pockets and sent the ransom they demanded, his head would be despatched to them in a hamper with small delay. He certainly had you on the hip with what he said about ancient Greece, for a more quarrelsome, cantankerous, waspish set of little communities the world never saw, unless it were the cities of Italy in the middle ages, which at any rate were of a respectable size, which was, by the way, the only respectable thing about them. Religion and principle and patriotism are the three things that keep men and nations straight, and neither the Greek nor Italian communities had the least glimmering of an idea of either of them, except a love for their own petty states may be called patriotism.”

“A good deal like your Highland clansmen, I should say, doctor,” Horace laughed. “The head of the clan was a much greater man in the eyes of his followers than the King of Scotland.”

“That is so, Horace; and the consequence was, that while there was peace and order and prosperity in the lowlands, the Highlands scarcely made a step forward until the clans were pretty well broken up after Culloden. It was a sore business at the time, but no one can doubt that it did good in the long run. And now, lad, I think that I will just take a sleep. It was not many hours we got of it last night, and you see most of these fellows have set us an example.”

The next morning they started at daybreak. The main body of the band had moved off hours before, leaving the Lieutenant Kornalis, Demetri, and four of the men. Three hours’ walking took them out of the mountains. There was little talking. The Greeks would have preferred going with their leader to plunder another village, for although the booty taken was supposed to be all handed over to the chief for fair distribution, there were few who did not conceal some trinket or money as their own special share of the plunder. They were but a mile or two beyond the hills, when, from a wood skirting the road, four or five shots rang out.

Two of the Greeks fell; the rest, throwing away their guns, fled at the top of their speed. Before the prisoners had time to recover from their surprise a number of men rushed out, and with the butts of their muskets and pistols struck them to the ground. When they recovered their senses a group of men were standing round them, while at some little distance they could hear the sound of firing, showing that the pursuit of their late captors was being closely maintained. By this time they had become sufficiently accustomed to the various costumes to know that they had now fallen into the hands of men of one of the Albanian tribes, probably Mussulmans acting as irregulars with the Turkish army, engaged upon a raiding expedition. One of them asked Horace a question, but the dialect was so different to that of the Greeks of Athens and the Morea that he was unable to understand it. Presently the men who had gone in pursuit returned, and the whole party set off to the north, placing their prisoners in their midst, and warning them by pointing significantly to their knives and pistols that they had better keep up with them.

“Eh! man,” the doctor said; “but it is dreadful. Just as we thought that everything was settled, and that in another couple of hours we should be with our own people, here we are in the hands of a pack of villains even worse than the others.”

“You said that we should not shout until we were out of the wood, doctor, and you have turned out a true prophet; but at present I am thinking more of my head than of anything else, I am sure I have got a couple of lumps on it as big as eggs.”

“It shows the folly of man,” the doctor said philosophically. “What good could they expect to get from knocking us down? We were neither fighting nor running away. We had not our wits about us, lad, or we should have just taken to our heels.”

“I expect they would have caught us if we had. We have neither of us had much walking lately, and those fellows are always climbing among their mountains. Do you think it is of any use trying to make them understand that if they will take us a few miles farther they will find three hundred pounds waiting for them?”

“You might try, Horace; but I don’t think that it will be of any use. I expect they are just skirting along at the foot of the hills to see what they can pick up. There are not above thirty of them, and they would not like to go far out upon the plains; besides, I don’t know that it would turn out well. If they were to go on in a body, Martyn would as likely as not fire at them, and then they would think that we had led them into an ambush, and shoot us without waiting to ask any question. Still, you can try if you like; we might be sorry afterwards if we didn’t.”

But when Horace tried to speak to the men he was threatened roughly, and he lapsed into silence. For three hours they ascended a great range of hills running east and west. When they gained the crest they could see stretched away far in front of them a flat and fertile country.

“The plains of Thessaly,” the doctor said; “the fairest and richest portion of the Greece of old. There is little chance of its forming part of the Greece of the future, at least not until a complete overthrow of the Turkish Empire. If Greece attains her independence the frontier line will be somewhere along the crest of these hills, for Thessaly, although there was some slight trouble there at first, has not joined the movement. There are no mountains and fortresses where they can take refuge, and a troop of Turkish cavalry could scour the whole country. There is where we are bound for, I expect;” and he pointed to a large clump of white tents far out on the plain. “I expect that is the camp of the Pasha of the province. I suppose he is going to operate on this side when the main force advances to the west.”

It took them another four hours’ walking before they approached the camp. When within a short distance of it their captors turned off and entered a village where numbers of their countrymen were sitting in the shade smoking or dozing. The band went on until they reached the principal house in the village, and four of them entering took their prisoners into a room where a tall old chief was sitting on a divan. They talked for some minutes, evidently explaining the circumstances of their capture. When they had done, the chief asked the prisoners in Greek who they were.

“We are Englishmen,” Horace replied; “we belong to a ship lying off a village whose name I don’t know. We had landed to buy fruit and vegetables, and then we were suddenly seized and carried away to the mountains by some Greek brigands led by a fellow named Rhangos. We had arranged for a ransom and were on our way under a guard to the village where the money was to be paid when your band put the Greeks to flight and made us prisoners.”

“How much ransom was to be paid?” the Albanian asked.

“Three hundred pounds, and if you will send us there now our friends will be glad to pay it to your people. I tried to explain that to them on the way, but they would not listen to me.”

“They are fools,” the chief said decidedly; “and besides, they don’t speak Greek. It is too late now. I must take you to the Pasha, who will deal with you as he chooses.” Then rising, and followed by a group of his officers and the prisoners in charge of four men, he walked across to the Turkish camp.

“They are a picturesque-looking set of cut-throats,” Macfarlane said.

“That they are. People at home would stare to see them with their white kilted petticoats and gaudy sashes, with their pistols inlaid with silver, and their embroidered jackets and white shirt sleeves. Well, what are we to say if we are asked about the ship?”

“We must tell the truth, lad; I doubt not they have had news before now that the schooner is cruising about on the coast; and even if we were disposed to tell a lie, which we are not, they would guess where we had come from. No English merchantman would be likely to be anchored off the coast here to buy vegetables; and, indeed, there are very few British vessels of any sort in these waters now. You need not just tell them that the schooner is the craft that has been playing the mischief over on the other coast and robbed them of their Chiot slaves; nor is it precisely necessary to enter into that affair near Cyprus. We need simply say, if we are asked, that we are Englishmen in the naval service of Greece; I don’t expect they will ask many questions after that, or that we shall have any occasion to do much more talking.”

“You think they will hang us, doctor.”

“It may be hanging, Horace, or it may be shooting, and for my part I am not very particular which it is. Shooting is the quickest, but then hanging is more what I may call my family way of dying. I should say that as many as a score of my ancestors were one way or another strung up by the Stuarts on one miserable pretence or other, such as cattle-lifting, settling a grudge without bothering the law-courts, and trifles of that sort.”

Horace burst into a fit of laughter, which caused the Albanian chief to look round sharply and inquiringly.

“It is all right, old chap,” Macfarlane muttered in English; “we are just laughing while we can, and there is no contempt of court intended.”

The Pasha was in a tent considerably larger than those that surrounded it. The Albanian went in, leaving the prisoners in charge of their guard. In five minutes he came out and signed to them to follow him in. The Pasha was an elderly man with a snow-white beard. He looked at the prisoners with some interest.

“I hear that you are Englishmen,” he said in Greek.

“That is so, sir.”

“And that you are in the Greek service.”

“We were in the Greek service, but after being carried off by Greek brigands I do not know that we shall have any inclination to remain in it.”

“If you had been taken fighting against us I should have ordered you to be shot,” the Pasha said; “but as it is I do not know. Do you belong to that schooner with white sails that has been cruising off the coast some days?”

“We do,” Horace admitted.

“I am told,” the Pasha went on, “that she is the ship that did us much harm at Chios.”

“We were attacked, and we beat off the boats,” Horace said. “That is fair warfare. Our principal object has been to rescue people in danger or distress, whether Christian or Turk. We rescued numbers of Chiot slaves. And on the other hand we saved numbers of Turks at the surrender of the Acropolis at Athens, and conveyed them safely to Tenedos, where we landed them; and the governor there recognized our service to his countrymen, and came off to the ship and invited us on shore to dine with him.”

“Yes, I have heard about that,” the Pasha said. “We have all heard of the white schooner. She has been a dangerous enemy to us, and has done us more harm than the whole of the Greeks together; but after your humanity at Athens I cannot feel animosity against you. It was a noble deed and worthy of brave men. Thus it is that nations should fight, but the Greeks began by massacre, and have been false to the oaths they swore twenty times. How can you fight for men who have neither courage nor faith, and who are as cruel as they are cowardly?”

“There have been cruelties on both sides,” Horace said, “though I own that the Greeks began it; but in England we love freedom, and it is not long since we drove the French out of Egypt and preserved it for you. Our sympathies are with the Greeks, because they were oppressed. We have never killed a Turk save in fair fight, and the crews of every ship we have taken we have permitted to return to shore in their boats without injuring one of them.”

“This also I have heard,” the Pasha said, “and therefore I will do you no harm. I will send you to Constantinople, where the Sultan will decide upon your fate. He has given orders that all foreigners taken in arms against us shall at once be put to death for interfering in a matter in which they have no concern; but as you were not taken in arms I do not feel that the order applies to you, and will therefore take upon myself to send you to him.”

“I thank you, sir,” Horace said, “though I fear it will only be a reprieve.”

“I cannot say,” the pasha replied gravely. “The Sultan strikes hard when he wishes to give a lesson. You see, his people were massacred wholesale by the Greeks, and at Chios he taught them that he could retaliate; but he is not cruel by choice. He is unswerving when his mind is made up. Whether he will make an exception in your case or not is more than I can say. I can only send you to him, and hope that he will be as merciful in your case as I would be had I the power.”

Then he ordered one of his officers to take charge of the prisoners, to see that they had a comfortable tent and were well cared for, and that none molested them. Four soldiers were to be always on guard at the tent, and to answer for the safety of the prisoners with their lives. In a short time they were placed in a tent among those allotted to the officers, and four sentries were placed round it. After sunset two soldiers brought large trays with meat, vegetables, and sweets from the pasha’s own table, and also a bottle of raki.

“The Turk is a gentleman, Horace,” the doctor said as, after having finished dinner, he mixed himself some spirits and water. “I am not saying, mind you, that I would not have mightily preferred a bottle of good whisky; but I am bound to say that when one has once got accustomed to it, raki has its virtues. It is an insinuating spirit, cool and mild to the taste, and dangerous to one who is not accustomed to it. What do you think of it, Horace?”

“I don’t care for it, but then I don’t care for any spirits,” Horace said; “but I thoroughly agree with you that the pasha is a good fellow, only I wish he could have seen his way to have let us go. The Sultan is a terrible personage, and the way he has hung up hostages at Constantinople has been awful. If he has made up his mind that he will deter foreigners from entering the Greek service by showing no mercy to those who fall into his hands, I have no very great hope that he will make any exception in our case.”

CHAPTER XX

AT CONSTANTINOPLE

UPON the following morning horses were brought round and they were ordered to mount. An officer with twelve Turkish troopers took charge of them. The pasha came out from his tent.

“I am sending a letter to the Porte saying what I know of the doings of your ship, and of the service you rendered by saving our countrymen at Athens. I have also given directions that the vessel conveying you shall touch at Tenedos, and have written to the governor there asking him also to send on a letter in your favour.”

After an hour’s riding they reached the town of Larissa, and then followed the river on which it stands down to the sea.

“What a lovely country!” Horace exclaimed as he looked at the mountains to the right and left.

“We are travelling on classical ground,” the doctor replied. “This is the vale of Tempe, that hill to the right is Mount Ossa, that to the left is Mount Olympus.”

“They are grand,” Horace said, “though I should certainly enjoy them more under other circumstances. Fancy that being the hill that Jove used to sit on. It would be a grand place to climb, wouldn’t it?”

“I should be quite content to look at it comfortably from the deck of the schooner, Horace, and should have no desire whatever to scale it.”

“Where is the schooner now, do you think, doctor?”

“Where we left her. They would wait at the village where they expected us to be handed over to them till late in the afternoon, and then most likely march back to the shore. This morning they will be trying to get news of us. It is possible that one of the Greeks has taken down the news of our capture by the Turks, in hopes of getting a reward. He would not know whether we were killed or captured—they bolted too fast for that; but if a fellow does take news of the fight he will probably offer to show the spot. Martyn will take out a strong party, and when he finds the bodies of the two Greeks and no signs of us, he will arrive at the conclusion that we have been carried off. The Greeks probably recognized the men who attacked them as being a band of Albanians. The white petticoats alone would tell them that; and as the Christian Albanians would certainly not be likely to be plundering on this side at the present time, they will be sure they are Mohammedans either raiding on their own account or acting with the Turkish forces in Thessaly.

“No doubt they will offer a reward for news of us, and will probably learn from some peasant or other that a party of Albanians crossed the range into Thessaly about mid-day. Then when they hear that the pasha’s force was lying in the plain, not far from the foot of the hills, they will arrive at the truth that we were taken there. What their next step will be I cannot say, but I should fancy they will sail round the promontory and try and open communication with some small village, and get someone to visit the camp and try and pick up news of what has become of us. It must be days before they can do all this, and by the time they find we have been put on board ship we shall be at Constantinople.

“At any rate, Horace, I regard the idea of there being a chance of their rescuing us as out of the question. What they will do is, of course, beyond guessing. It is vexing to think that if they did but know at the present moment we were being put on board ship, they might cut us off at the mouth of the Dardanelles. It is little farther from the Gulf of Zeitouni than it is from the mouth of this river, and the schooner would probably sail twice as fast as any craft we are likely to be put on board. It is annoying, but it is of no use being annoyed. They don’t know we are going to be embarked, and they can’t learn it for four or five days at the very earliest, so don’t let us worry about that. We have reasonable cause for worry in knowing that we are going to be taken to Constantinople, for not improbably we will be executed when we get there.”

“You think that it is probable, doctor?”

“I do, indeed. The Sultan is not the man to stand on niceties. He has decided not to give quarter to foreigners who fight against him, and as a matter of policy he is perfectly right. We knew all along what our fate would be if we fell into the hands of the Turks. We have done them an immense amount of mischief: we have destroyed a frigate and beaten off their boats; we have taken a lot of prizes, and delivered some two or three thousand valuable slaves from their hands. The only set-off to this is that we assisted to save some three hundred Turkish women and children, as to whose fate the Sultan was probably perfectly indifferent. The balance is very heavy against us.”

Horace could not but admit that this was so, but in this beautiful valley, and with Constantinople still in the distance, the idea that ere long a violent death might befall him there was not sufficiently vivid to depress his spirits greatly.

After four hours’ riding they came down upon the little port at the mouth of the river. Two or three craft were lying there under the guns of the battery.

“That is our vessel, you will see, Horace. It is a man-of-war brig. I expect she is placed here on purpose to enable the pasha to communicate direct with Constantinople, instead of having to send up through the passes to Salonika.”

Leaving the prisoners under charge of the guard, the officer took a boat and rowed off to the brig. In a few minutes a large boat lying beside her was manned by a dozen sailors and rowed ashore. The officer was on board of her. Two of the men who had brought their valises strapped behind their saddles had already removed them, and stepped into the boat forward, while their comrades took charge of their horses. The officer then signed to Horace and the doctor to step on board, and they were rowed out to the brig. Half an hour later the anchor was got up, the sail set, and the vessel left the port.

There was no attempt at restraint of the prisoners. A young lieutenant who spoke Greek informed them, in the name of the captain, that the orders of the pasha were that they were to be treated as ordinary passengers, and he requested them to take their meals with him in the cabin. They would be entirely at liberty, except that they would not be allowed to land at Tenedos, or at any other port at which the vessel might touch.

The brig proved a fairly fast sailer; the wind was favourable, and late on the afternoon of the day after they had sailed they dropped anchor off Tenedos, and the officer in charge of the captives at once went ashore with the pasha’s letter to the governor. He returned late at night, after the prisoners had turned in in one of the officers’ cabins that had been vacated for their use. There was not a breath of wind in the morning, and the captain accordingly did not attempt to weigh anchor.

“It would be a fine thing if this calm would last for a fortnight,” the doctor said as they came on deck in the morning.

“Yes, but there is no chance of that, doctor. We have never had a dead calm for more than three days since we came out.”

“Well, we might do equally well with a light breeze from the north. That would help the schooner across the gulf, and at the same time would not enable the brig to work up the Dardanelles; there is a strongish current there. Still, I am not at all saying it is likely; I only say that I wish it could be so.”

When the officer came on deck he informed them, through the lieutenant, that the governor had given him a strong letter to the Porte speaking in the highest terms of the humanity they had shown towards the Turks they had rescued from Athens. An hour later two or three boats came off. Among those on board them were several women. When these saw the doctor and Horace leaning over the bulwark, they broke into loud cries of greeting.

“I expect they are some of those poor creatures we brought over,” Horace said. “I don’t remember their faces, we have had too many on board for that, and I don’t understand what they are saying, but it is evidently that.”

Some of the boatmen understood both Greek and Turkish, and these translated the expressions of the women’s gratitude, and their regret at seeing him a prisoner. They were not allowed to set foot on the brig, but they handed up baskets of fruit and sweetmeats. One of the women stood up in the boat and in Greek said in low tones to Horace, as he leant over the rail:

“There are but few of us here, and we are poor. Our hearts melted this morning when the news spread that you were prisoners on board a ship on her way to Constantinople. We can do nothing but pray to Allah for your safety. My husband was one of the soldiers you brought over, the one who had lost his arm, and who was tended by the hakim. As he was of no more use they have discharged him, and he has remained here, as I am a native of the island and have many friends. He will start in an hour with some fishermen, relations of mine. They will land him above Gallipoli, and he will walk to Constantinople. Then he will see the bimbashi and his former comrades, and find out Osman and Fazli Beys, who were with us, and tell them of your being prisoners, so that they may use their influence at the Porte, and tell how you risked your lives for them, and all—May Allah protect you both, effendis!”

Her story terminated abruptly, for the captain at this moment came up and ordered the boat away from the side.

“What is all that about, Horace?” Macfarlane asked as Horace returned the woman’s last salutation with two or three words of earnest thanks. “Why, what is the matter, lad? there are tears in your eyes.”

“I am touched at that poor woman’s gratitude, doctor. As you can see by her dress she is poor. She is the wife of a discharged soldier, that man who lost his arm. You dressed the stump, you may remember. I know you said that it had been horribly neglected, and remarked what a splendid constitution the Turk had; you thought that had he been an Englishman the wound would probably have mortified long before.”

“Of course I remember, Horace. And has he got over it?”

“He has.” And Horace then told him what the woman had said.

“It does one good to hear that,” Macfarlane said when he had finished. “Human nature is much the same whether it is in the wife of a Turkish soldier or of a Scottish fisherman. The poor creature and her husband are doing all they can. The bimbashi and the beys were great men in their eyes, and they doubtless think that they are quite important persons at Constantinople. Still, it is pleasant to think that the poor fellow, whose arm must still be very far from healed, is undertaking this journey to do what he can for us. It minds me of that grand story of Effie Deans tramping all the way from Scotland to London to ask for her sister’s pardon.

“I don’t say that anything is like to come of it, but there is no saying. If these Turks are as grateful as this soldier and his wife they might possibly do something for us, if it were not that the Sultan himself will settle the matter. An ordinary Turkish official will do almost anything for money or favour, but the Sultan is not to be got round; and they say he is a strong man, and goes his own way without asking the advice of anyone. Still it is, as I said, pleasant to know that there are people who have an interest in us, and who are doing all in their power to help us.”

An hour later a small boat was seen to put out from the port and to row away in the direction of the mainland.

For three days the brig lay at her anchorage. Then a gentle breeze sprang up from the south. Making all sail, the brig was headed to the entrance of the Dardanelles.

“Unless there is more wind than this,” Horace said, “I should hardly think she will be able to make her way up, doctor. She is not going through the water more than two knots an hour.”

“No, she will have to anchor again as soon as she is inside the straits unless the wind freshens, and I don’t think it is likely to do that. To my mind it looks as if it would die out again at sunset.”

This proved to be the case, and before it became dark the brig was anchored in a bay on the Asiatic side a short distance from the entrance.

The next morning the breeze again blew, and somewhat fresher than before. All day the captain strove to pass up the straits. Sometimes by keeping over out of the force of the current he made two or three miles, then when they came to some projecting point the current would catch the vessel and drift her rapidly down, so that when the breeze again sank at sunset they had gained only some four miles. Next day they were more fortunate and passed the castle of Abydos, and the third evening came to anchor off Gallipoli. On the following morning the wind blew briskly from the east, and in the afternoon they dropped anchor off Constantinople.

“Eh, man, but it is a wonderful sight!” Macfarlane said, as they looked at the city with the crenellated wall running along by the water’s edge, the dark groves of trees rising behind it, and the mosques with their graceful minarets on the sky-line. Ahead of them was Pera with its houses clustering thickly one above the other, and the background of tall cypress. Across the water lay Scutari, with its great barracks, its mosques, and the kiosks scattered along the shore. Caiques were passing backwards and forwards across the water; heavy boats with sailors or troops rowing between the ships of war and the shore; native craft with broad sails coming up astern from Broussa and other places on the Sea of Marmora; pleasure boats, with parties of veiled women rowing idly here and there; and occasionally a long caique, impelled by six sturdy rowers, would flash past with some official of rank.

“I have seen many places,” the doctor went on, “but none like this. Nature has done more for Rio, and as much perhaps for Bombay, but man has done little for either. We may boast of our western civilization, and no doubt we can rear stately buildings; but in point of beauty the orientals are as far ahead of us as we are ahead of the South Sea Islanders. Who would think that the Turks, with their sober ways, could ever have even dreamed of designing a thing so beautiful as that mosque with its graceful outlines. See how well those dark cypresses grow with it; it would lose half its beauty were it to rise from the round heads of an English wood.

“Just compare the boats of light-coloured wood all carved and ornamented with their graceful lines, and the boatmen in their snow-white shirts, with their loose sleeves and bare arms, and their scarlet sashes and fezzes with the black tub of an English or Scottish river. Look at the dresses of the peasants in that heavy boat there, and compare them with those of our own people. Why, man, we may be a great nation, intelligent, and civilized, and all that; but when it comes to an appreciation of the beautiful we are poor bodies, indeed, by the side of the Turk, whom we in our mightiness are accustomed to consider a barbarian. I know what you are going to say,” he went on, as Horace was going to speak. “There is tyranny and oppression, and evil rule, and corruption, and other bad things in that beautiful city. I grant you all that, but that has nothing to do with my argument. He may be a heathen, he may be ignorant, he may be what we call uncivilized; but the Turk has a grand soul or he never would have imagined a dream of beauty like this.”

As the sun set half an hour after the anchor was dropped the officer sent with them by the pasha did not think it necessary to land until the following morning, as the offices would all be shut. At eight o’clock he was rowed ashore and did not return until late in the evening. Business was not conducted at a rapid rate in the offices of the Porte. The lieutenant interpreted to the prisoners that the letter of the governor of Tenedos had been laid before the grand vizier, who would deliver it with that of the pasha to the Sultan at his audience in the evening.

“Did he see the grand vizier himself?” Horace asked.

The answer was in the affirmative.

“Did he gather from him whether it was likely that the Sultan would regard the matter favourably?”

The two Turks spoke together for some time. “I am sorry to say,” the lieutenant replied when they had done, “that the vizier was of opinion that the Sultan would be immovable. He has sworn to spare none of those who have stirred up his subjects to rebellion, and who, without having any concern in the matter, have aided them against him. He regards them as pirates, and has resolved by severity to deter others from following their example. The vizier said that he would do his best, but that when the Sultan’s mind was once made up nothing could move him; and that having himself received the reports of the destruction of one of his war-ships, and the very heavy loss inflicted on the boats of the fleet at Chios, and having, moreover, received memorials from the merchants at Smyrna as to the damage inflicted on their commerce by what was called the white schooner, he felt that he would be deaf to any appeal for mercy to two of her officers.”

At eight o’clock next morning a boat with twelve soldiers and an officer came off to the brig. The officer, mounting on the deck, handed to the captain an order for the delivery to him of the two prisoners sent from Thessaly.

“Things look bad, I am afraid,” Horace said as they stepped into the boat. “I saw the officer exchange a word or two with the cavalry man who brought us here and the captain, and I am sure, by the expression of their faces, that the news was bad. I am sure, too, from the way they shook hands with us at parting.”

“Some of these men’s faces seem familiar to me,” the doctor said as they were being rowed towards a landing to the east of the palace gardens. “I can’t say that they were among the men we brought from Athens, but I have a strong idea that two or three of them were. Do you recognize them?”

“I can’t say that I do. You see they were only on board one day, and I thought more of the women and children than of the soldiers and sailors.”

“I am almost sure of them, Horace; yet it is curious, that if they are the men we saved they did not make some sign of recognition when we came down the ladder. Turkish discipline is not very strict. They did not seem to look up much. They were all sitting forward of the six oarsmen, and I noticed, that till we pushed off they seemed to be talking about something together, and were so intent on it that they did not look up until after we had pushed off. I did notice that the oarsmen looked a little surprised when the officer, as we pushed off, gave an order to the man steering, and they saw which way the boat’s head was turned.

“I don’t suppose they knew that we were prisoners, Horace, and were expecting to go back to the place they came from. I suppose the landing they are taking us to is the nearest one to the prison.”

There were no boats lying at the broad steps alongside which the boat drew up. Six of the soldiers took their places in front of them, the officer marched between them, and the other six soldiers followed behind. The road, which was a narrow one, ran between two very high walls, and rose steeply upward.

“Evidently this landing-place is not much used,” the doctor said. “I suppose it leads to some quiet quarter.”

A hundred yards from the landing-place the officer gave the word to halt, and then another order, upon which one of the men, who carried a bag, began to open it.

“Quick, gentlemen!” the officer said in Greek; “you must change here. Quick! there is not a moment to lose.”

Astonished at the order, the doctor and Horace obeyed it.

“I suppose,” the former muttered, “they don’t want it known they have got two European prisoners. I don’t see what else they can be up to.”

The change was quickly made. Two long baggy Turkish trousers were pulled over their own, their jackets were thrown into the bag, and they were enveloped in Turkish robes. Their caps were thrown beside their jackets, and turbans placed on their heads, while their shoes were pulled off and their feet thrust into Turkish slippers. The officer and two of the soldiers aided in the work, and in a couple of minutes the metamorphosis was complete.

“Allah be praised!” the officer exclaimed fervently; and the words were echoed by the soldiers. These for a moment, regardless of discipline, gathered round the prisoners. One after another seized their hands, and bending over them pressed them to their forehead; then the officer gave an order, and one or two at a time—the soldiers carried only their side-arms—left the group and hurried on ahead, until the officer remained alone with the astonished Englishmen.

“What does this all mean?” Horace asked the officer in Greek.

“It means that you are free, my friends,” he said, shaking each of them cordially by the hand; “at least, so far free. Now let us follow the others.”

Still, almost thinking they were dreaming, the doctor and Horace accompanied their companion up the narrow lane, and emerged into a quiet street behind a great mosque; skirting the wall of this, they entered a wider street.

“Be careful,” the officer said in Greek; “walk along carelessly, and seem to be conversing with me.”

Horace translated the remark to the doctor.

There were not a great many people about, but as they went along the number increased. They crossed a busy street, turned down a lane on the other side, and then walked for upwards of half an hour, turning frequently, and as far as Horace could guess, making a wide detour, and again approaching the busy part of the town. Presently the officer stopped near the corner of a lane in a quiet street, and began to talk in an animated tone about the size of the town and other matters, until he saw that the street was for a moment empty; then he turned sharply down the lane, which ran between the backs of two sets of houses, went for a hundred yards, and then stopped at a door in the wall; opened it with the key, hurried them in, and locked the door behind him.

“Allah be praised!” he again said; “you are safe thus far. Now come in, they are anxiously expecting us.”

He entered the house, which stood in a small inclosure, and led the way into a room. They were received at the door by a Turk, whom both recognized at once as Osman Bey, one of the principal Turks they had carried from Athens. He repeated the officer’s pious exclamation:

“Allah be praised for his mercies!” and then in Greek he said, “Truly I am rejoiced, my friends, that Allah has granted me an opportunity of showing that I am not ungrateful, and that as you saved me and mine from death, so have I been able to save you; and I am doubly glad in seeing, what I knew not before, that one of you is the son of the Englishman to whom principally we owed our escape.”

“We are grateful, indeed,” Horace said; “but at present we understand nothing. This officer has told us nothing whatever.”

“This officer is my son, and is only an officer for the occasion,” Osman Bey said. “But come into the next room; my wife and daughters are eagerly expecting you.”

Three ladies rose from a divan on which they were sitting when the bey entered the room. They were lightly veiled, but the bey said:

“Lay aside your veils. These are as my sons, and you can unveil as if they were members of the family.”

The ladies unveiled. Horace had not seen their faces before on board ship, for the women of the upper class had remained closely veiled. The mother was a stout, elderly woman, with a kindly face. Her daughters were girls of fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair, somewhat colourless faces, and lovely eyes. The bey’s wife expressed her pleasure at the arrival of the Englishmen. The girls shrank rather timidly behind her, embarrassed at being thus unveiled before strangers.

“Now sit down,” the bey said. “Zuleika, do you bring in coffee and sweetmeats yourself. I do not wish your attendant to enter while these gentlemen are here.”

“I have sent her down the town on a message,” the bey’s wife said, while the younger girl rose and left the room. “She is faithful, but girls will chatter. Mourad, we know, we can trust.”

The girl soon returned with a tray with coffee, cakes, and sweetmeats. Then the bey said:

“Now I will tell you all about this. Ahmed, the sooner you get rid of that uniform the better. Give it to Mourad at once, and let him take it back to its owner, he may want it.”

The young man left the room.

“Now this is how it happened,” the bey began. “Three days ago came the messenger from Tenedos. Did you know of his being sent hither?”

“Yes; his wife told us he was leaving—a soldier who had lost his arm.”

“That was the man. He went to Hassan Bimbashi, who brought him first to Fazli Bey, and then to me. We had a consultation. It was clear to us all that it would be intolerable that men who had behaved with such humanity to us should be put to death, if we could possibly save them. It took us a long time to arrange the matter, and we three sat in the next room there debating the matter all night. We took Ahmed into our council at once, for he was, of course, as anxious to aid the men who had saved his parents and sisters from massacre as we were. Naturally, we at first thought of getting you out of prison by bribing the guards; but though this would have been comparatively easy, it was doubtful whether there would be time to carry it out. There are several prisons here, and there was no saying which you might be sent to, or who would be the men in charge of you; therefore, time would be needed after you arrived here, and we saw that it was probable that no time would be given us. The Sultan might, of course, view your case favourably; but, on the other hand, if he ordered you to execution, there would be no delay.

“When a thing has to be done, especially when foreigners are in the case, it is better to do it at once; otherwise, the Porte would be pestered by the foreign representatives. It was agreed, therefore, that if you were to be rescued, it must be done between the time of your arrival and your being put in prison. We divided the work into four parts. Fazli, who has most interest at the Porte, was to try all in his power to influence the ministers, and to get the grand vizier to represent the matter favourably to the Sultan. He was to give us the earliest news of whatever decision might be arrived at, and above all, he was to get some minor official there to follow the officer to whom the order for bringing you ashore should be given.

“The soldier who had brought the message from Tenedos was to find out a dozen of those who had been rescued with us, and to enlist them in the business. The bimbashi undertook the work of seizing the officer bearing the order. He could not very well take the command of the soldiers. Their faces would not be noticed by the sailors in the dockyard boat, nor by those on board the ship; but Hassan’s would be fully seen by both. My son, therefore, volunteered to undertake this part of the affair, dressed in Hassan’s uniform. He was to meet the twelve men at some spot agreed upon, near the dockyard gate; to march in with them, produce the order, and go out in one of the dockyard boats to the vessel; bring you ashore, and lead you here. My part of the business was to conceal you as long as necessary, and to arrange for your escape from Constantinople. Thus, you see, the risk was slight in each case. Fazli would be suspected, because he had urged your case at the Porte; but nothing could be proved against him. His servants might be examined, and his house searched. He would be able to prove that he spent the evening with several of his friends, to whom he gave an entertainment; and this morning, at the time the boat came for you, he was to be at the ministry again, trying what could be done on your behalf.

“None of the soldiers would know that the bimbashi was mixed up in the affair at all. Their one-armed comrade was to be furnished with money in case their gratitude required stimulating. My son ran no risk, because it is among the officers of the garrison that the search will be made for the man who commanded the party. As for myself, there is nothing to connect me in any way with it. Ahmed will take you off this evening to a small kiosk of mine ten miles away on the coast. The bimbashi’s share was the most dangerous. He was to take three men of his regiment on whom he could thoroughly rely. They would be three of those he had commanded at Athens and who had wives and children who had been rescued by you. He was much loved by his soldiers, for he lived and starved as they did, and did all in his power for their comfort.

“It is always dangerous to trust anyone, but in this case there was the men’s loyalty to him and their gratitude to you to bind them. He would learn from Fazli the hour when the Sultan’s decision would be given, and he and the three soldiers were to be upon the spot and to watch for the coming out of an officer followed by the man Fazli was to appoint. The officer was sure to go to one or other of the barracks for some soldiers to accompany him to the vessel. It would depend upon the hour and the orders he received whether to go direct on board or to do it in the morning. It was certain the hour would be late, for the conferences with the Sultan are invariably in the evening. Whether he went to one of the barracks or to his own lodging, he was to be followed until he got to some quiet spot, then seized, bound, and gagged, put into a large basket two of the soldiers were to carry, and taken to some quiet spot outside the walls. To-night, after it is dark, Hassan will go up and loose his bonds sufficiently to enable him to work himself free after a time.

“That was the arrangement at which we arrived after talking it over for hours. It was the work of the bimbashi and Ahmed. I am sure that Fazli and I would never have thought of it at all by ourselves. Ever since then we have kept a sharp look-out for the vessel. Everything had been got ready. The one-armed soldier had got the twelve men ready to go off. Hassan said he had made his arrangements, and had found a ruined hut half a mile out of the town beyond the walls, where there was little chance of anyone looking in in the course of the day, and, indeed, if anyone did so after eight o’clock, it would make little matter, as you would be ashore by that hour. After the brig arrived I had messages from Fazli every hour. He told us of the strong letters that had been sent by Ali Pasha and the governor of Tenedos, and he brought all his influence to bear to aid the representations made by them and by the officer who brought you down.

“The ministers and the grand vizier were all agreed that the kindness shown by those on board the English ship should suffice to save your lives, but the Sultan decides for himself, and he was known to be so enraged at foreigners joining the Greeks in their rebellion against him that they feared nothing would move him. Everything, therefore, was prepared for the attempt. The twelve soldiers were directed to be at a spot near the dockyard at seven in the morning; and the bimbashi, with his three men, took up his post near the entrance to the ministry. I had nothing to do. At twelve o’clock last night Hassan came here, bringing the official letter and a suit of his uniform. Everything had gone well. The messenger had been seized in a lonely street leading to one of the barracks, and was overpowered and silenced before he had time to utter a sound. Hassan accompanied the men carrying the basket in case by any accident they should be questioned, and saw the officer placed, securely bound, in the hut. As he had been blindfolded the instant he had been seized he could not have seen that his assailants were soldiers. Ahmed can tell you the rest.”

“There is nothing to tell,” the young man said. “I found the soldiers waiting at the spot agreed upon, and gave them the arranged sign. We went into the dockyard. I showed the order, and demanded a large boat, which was at once given me. Then I went off to the vessel, where our friends were handed over to me without a question; rowed to the wharf; the clothes were changed in the lane; and here we are.”

“I cannot thank you sufficiently for your kindness, Osman Bey, on behalf of myself and my friend here, and express our gratitude also to your son, to Hassan Bimbashi, and to Fazli Bey. You have indeed nobly repaid the service that my father and all of us were glad to have been able to render you.”

“Do not talk about gratitude,” the bey said. “You saved not only us, but our wives and families, and that at the risk of your lives, for I expected that the Greeks would fall upon you for interfering in their butchery. What you did for us was done for strangers against whom you were in arms. What we have done for you has been done for our benefactors. Therefore let no more be said. My wife and daughters would have despised me had I not done all in my power to rescue their preservers. Now let us return to the next room, where we will have a meal. I think it would be as well, Ahmed, to send Mourad at once down to the bridge to hire a caique there, and tell him to take it to the next landing to that at which you disembarked, and there wait for you. What do you say?”

“I think, father, it would be better to go boldly down to the bridge and take the boat there. I am sure to see some of the men we generally employ, and it will seem natural to them that I should be going with two friends up to our kiosk; whereas the other way would be unusual, and when inquiries are made, as there are sure to be, they might speak of it. But I agree with you that it will be as well not to wait until the evening. Directly the officer gets free there is sure to be a great stir, and there may be janissaries placed at the various landings, as it might be supposed the escaped prisoners would try to get on board a neutral ship.”

“Perhaps that would be better, Ahmed. I think they might boldly go through the crowd with a little more attention to their dress.”

CHAPTER XXI

THE “MISERICORDIA” AGAIN

BEFORE starting, the disguises of Horace and the doctor were perfected. They were so bronzed by the sun and air that their skin was no fairer than that of many Turks of the better class; but it was thought as well to apply a slight tinge of dye to them, and to darken the doctor’s eyelashes and eyebrows with henna. The hair was cut closely off the nape of the neck, below the line to which the turban, properly adjusted, came down, and the skin was stained to match that of their faces. The garments they wore formed part of Ahmed’s wardrobe, and only needed somewhat more careful adjustment than they had at first received. The ladies came up to bid them farewell; but, as it had been arranged that in the course of a few days, when inquiry should have ceased, the bey, with his wife and daughters, should also proceed to their country residence, they would meet again ere long. Mourad was to accompany them, and putting a large box on his shoulders, filled with changes of clothes and other necessaries, he followed them down the street.

In a short time they were in a busy thoroughfare, the number of people becoming larger and larger as they went down towards the water. Janissaries in their showy uniform swaggered along, soldiers of the line, merchants, and peasants, while hamals staggering along under enormous burdens swung from bamboo poles, made their way, keeping up a constant shout to the crowd to clear the road. State functionaries moved gravely along on their way to the offices of the Porte. Veiled women, with children in their arms or clinging to them, stopped to talk to each other in the streets or bargained with the traders at the little shops. Military officers and Turks of the upper class rode along on showy horses, prancing and curvetting and scattering the foot passengers right and left.

Ahmed and his companions kept straight on, paying apparently no attention to what was going on around them, Ahmed occasionally making a remark in Turkish, the others keeping silent.

When they reached the water-side a number of boatmen surrounded Ahmed, who soon found two men whom he had frequently employed. The caique was brought alongside. Ahmed had already told Horace to step in without hesitation with his companion, and to take their seats at the bottom of the boat in the stern, while he and Mourad would sit between them and the boatmen. The latter took their places, and each seized a pair of the sculls. These, which were much lighter than the sculls of an English boat, were round with a long broad blade. They were not in rollocks, but in a strap of leather fastened to a single thole-pin; inside this they thickened to a bulk of three or four inches in diameter, narrowing at the extremity for the grip of the hand. This thick bulge gave an excellent balance to the sculls, and was rendered necessary by the fact that the boats were high out of water, and the length of the sculls outboard disproportionately large to that inboard.

A few vigorous strokes by the rowers sent the boat out into the open water. Then the forward oarsman let his sculls hang by their thongs alongside, took out four long pipes from the bottom of the caique, filled and lighted them, and passed them aft to the passengers, and then again betook himself to his sculls. Bearing gradually across they reached the other side below Scutari, and then kept along the shore at a distance of a hundred yards from the land. Ahmed chatted to the oarsman next to him, and to Mourad, occasionally making some remark to the others in Turkish in reference to the pretty kiosks that fringed the shore; enforcing what he said by pointing to the objects of which he was speaking. They assumed an appearance of interest at what he was saying, and occasionally Horace, who was next to him, talked to him in low tones in Greek, so that the boatman should not catch the words, Ahmed each time replying in Turkish in louder tones.

No class of boatmen in the world row with the vigour and strength with which those of the Bosphorus—who are for the most part Albanians—ply their sculls, and both Horace and the doctor were struck with surprise and admiration at the steady and unflagging way in which the men rowed, their breath seeming to come no quicker, though the perspiration stood in beads on their brown faces and muscular arms, and streamed down their swarthy chests, which were left bare by the open shirts of almost filmy material of snowy whiteness. Once only in the two hours’ journey did they cease rowing and indulge for five minutes in a smoke; after which they renewed their labours with as much vigour as when they first started.

“That is the kiosk,” Ahmed said at last, pointing to one standing by itself near the water’s edge on a projecting point of land, and in a few minutes the caique swept in to the stairs. Ahmed had quietly passed a few small silver coins into Horace’s hand, whispering in Greek:

“Give them these as you land; an extra tip is always welcome.”

Then he paid the men as he got out, saying to them:

“I expect the ladies in a few days. You had better go up each morning to the house, and then you can secure the job.”

Horace dropped the coins into the boatman’s hand, with a nod, as he stepped out, and then they walked up to the house. The boatmen again lighted their pipes for a smoke before starting back on their long row. The kiosk was shut up. Mourad opened the door with a key, and threw the shutters open.

“I wonder you leave the place entirely shut up,” Horace said.

“There is nothing to steal,” Ahmed laughed. “A few mats for the floors and cushions for the divans. The cooking pots and crockery are locked up in a big chest; there is little else. There are a few vases for flowers and other ornaments stowed away in a cupboard somewhere, but altogether there is little to tempt robbers; and, indeed, there are very few of them about. The houses are always left so, and it is an almost unknown thing for them to be disturbed. You see everything is left clean and dusted, so the place is always ready when we like to run down for a day or two. The house has not been used much lately, for my parents and sisters have been two years at Athens, and I have been frequently away at our estates, which lie some fifteen miles west of Constantinople. Now we will take a turn round, while Mourad is getting dinner ready.”

The latter had brought with him, in addition to the box, a large basket containing charcoal, provisions, and several black bottles.

“There is a village half a mile farther along the shore, where he will do his marketing to-morrow,” Ahmed had explained as he pointed to the basket.

The garden was a rough triangle, two sides being washed by the water, while a high wall running across the little promontory formed the third side. It was some sixty or seventy yards each way; the house stood nearly in the middle; the ground sloped down on either side of it to the water, and was here clear of shrubs, which covered the rest of the garden, interspersed with a few shady trees. There were seats placed under these, and a small summer-house, surrounded on three sides by high shrubs but open to the water, stood at the end of the point.

“It is a little bit of a place, as you see,” Ahmed said; “but my mother and the girls are very fond of it, and generally stay here during the hot season. It is quite secluded, and at the same time they have a good view of everything going up and down the Sea of Marmora; and if there is any breeze at all, it sweeps right through the house.”

“It is charming,” Horace said. “With a boat here, one could not want anything better.”

“We always have a boat, with two men, while we are here,” Ahmed said. “The two men who rowed us have been with us two or three seasons. My father often wants to go into Constantinople, and I generally go when he does. We usually sleep at our house there, and come back the next evening. If the ladies want to go out while we are away, they can get a caique at the village.”

After they had taken a turn round the garden they went into the house again. The principal room on the ground-floor was at the end of the house, and occupied its full width. The windows extended entirely round three sides of it, a divan, four feet wide, running below them.

“You see, on a hot day,” Ahmed said, “and with all these windows open, it is almost like being in the open air; and whichever way the wind is, we can open or close those on one side, according to its strength.”

The ceiling and the wall on the fourth side of the room were coloured pink, with arabesques in white. The windows extended from the level of the divan up to the ceiling, and were of unpainted wood varnished, as was the wood-work of the divan. The floor was very carefully and evenly laid, and the planks planed and varnished. Beyond two or three little tables of green-painted wood, there was no furniture whatever in the room. Outside the windows were jalousies or perforated shutters, which could be closed during the heat of the day to keep the room dark and cool.

Mourad had already got out the cushions and pillows and spread them on the divan; had placed a small iron bowl full of lighted charcoal in a low box full of sand in the centre of the room, and a brass casket full of tobacco on one of the tables. Half a dozen chibouks, with amber mouthpieces and cherry or jasmine-wood stems, leant in a corner.

Three of the pipes were soon filled, and a piece of glowing charcoal, taken from the fire with a pair of small tongs lying beside it, was placed on each bowl. A few puffs were taken to get the tobacco alight, then the pieces of charcoal were dropped into the fire again, and shaking off their slippers they took their seats on the cushions of the divan.

“It is very unfortunate that your friend does not speak Greek,” Ahmed began.

“Yes, it is unfortunate for him,” Horace said as he translated the remark to Macfarlane.

“If I had known that my lot was going to be cast out here,” the doctor said, “I would have insisted on learning modern Greek instead of ancient at school—that is, if I could have got a dominie who could have taught me. It is a very serious drawback, especially when you know that people are talking of things that may or may not mean that you are going to get your throat cut in an hour or so. For the last two days I seem to have been just drifting in the dark.”

“But I always translate to you as much as I can, doctor.”

“You do all that, Horace, and I will say this that you do your best; but it is unsatisfactory getting things at second hand. One likes to know precisely how things are said. However, as matters have gone there is nothing to grumble at, though where one’s life is concerned it is a natural weakness that one should like to have some sort of say in the matter, instead of feeling that one is the helpless sport of fate.”

Horace laughed, and Ahmed smiled gravely, when he translated the doctor’s complaint.

“It comes all the harder to me,” the doctor went on, “because I have always liked to know the why and the wherefore of a matter before I did it. I must confess that since I have been in the navy that wish has been very seldom gratified. Captains are not in the habit of giving their reasons to their surgeons, overlooking the fact altogether that these are scientific men, and that their opinion on most subjects is valuable. They have too much of the spirit of the centurion of old. They say ‘Do this,’ and it has to be done, ‘You will accompany the boats, Dr. Macfarlane,’ or ‘You will not accompany the boats.’ I wonder sometimes that, after an action, they don’t come down into the cockpit and say, ‘You will cut off this leg,’ or ‘This arm is not to be amputated.’ The highness-and-mightiness of a captain in His Majesty’s navy is something that borders on the omnipotent. There is a maxim that the king can do no wrong; but a king is a poor fallible body in comparison with a captain.”

“Well, I don’t think you have anything to complain of with Martyn,” Horace laughed.

“Martyn is only an acting-captain, Horace, and it is not till they get the two swabs on their shoulders that the dignity of their position makes itself felt. A first lieutenant begins, as a rule, to take the disease badly, but it is not till he gets his step that it takes entire possession of him. I have even known a first lieutenant listen to argument. It’s rare, lad, very rare, but I have known such a thing; as for a captain, argument is as bad as downright open mutiny. Well, this is a comfortable place that we have got into, at least in hot weather, but I should say that an ice-house would be preferable in winter. These windows don’t fit anyhow, and there would be a draft through them that would be calculated to establish acute rheumatism in the system in the course of half an hour.”

“The house is not used at all in winter,” Ahmed said, when he understood the nature of the doctor’s criticisms. “Almost all the kiosks along here belong to people in the town, and are closed entirely for four months of the year. We are fond of warmth, and when the snow is on the ground, and there is a cold wind blowing, there would be no living here in any comfort.”

Six days passed. Ahmed went once to Constantinople to learn what was going on. He brought back news that the escape of the two English prisoners had caused a great sensation at the Porte, that all the officers in the regiments there had been paraded in order that the boatmen and the officers of the brig might pick out the one who had brought off the order, but that naturally no one had been identified. The soldiers had also been inspected, but as none of these had been particularly noticed by the boatmen, the search for those engaged had been equally unsuccessful. Fazli Bey had been severely interrogated, his servants questioned, and his house searched, but nothing had been found to connect him in any way with the escape. A vigilant watch had been set upon every European ship in port, and directions had been sent that every vessel passing down the straits was to bring-to off the castles, and to undergo a strict search.

Ahmed said that his father had heard from Fazli Bey that while the Sultan was furious at the manner in which the prisoners had been released, it was against those who had taken part in it that his anger was principally directed, and that it was thought he was at heart not altogether sorry that the two men who had befriended the Turks at Athens had got off, although he would not have wavered in his own expressed determination to put to death without exception all foreigners who had aided the Greeks. “My father has not at present thought of any plan for getting you away,” Ahmed said. “The search is too rigorous, and no master of a vessel would dare to carry you off; but in a short time the matter will be forgotten, and the search in the port and in the Dardanelles will be slackened. It causes a great deal of trouble and inconvenience, and the officials will soon begin to relax their efforts. It is one of our national characteristics, you know, to hate trouble. My father will be here with the others in a couple of days, and then we will hold a council over it.”

The next day a boat arrived with carpets and hangings for the rooms upstairs, which were entirely devoted to the females of the household; and on the following evening Osman Bey, with his wife and daughters, arrived in the same caique that Ahmed had come in, two female servants with a quantity of luggage coming in another boat. The next few days passed very pleasantly. The ladies took their meals apart upstairs, but at other times sat in the room below, treating Horace and the doctor as if they were members of the family. There were many discussions as to the best method of effecting their escape, and Ahmed went twice to Constantinople to ascertain whether the search for them was being relaxed.

At last he and his father agreed that it would be the best plan for them to go to Izmid, and to take a passage from there if some small craft could be found sailing for Chios, or one of the southern ports or islands. Ahmed was to accompany them, and was first to go to Izmid to make the necessary arrangements. He knew many merchants in the port, and as some of these were intimate friends they would probably be disposed to assist those who had rendered so great a service to Osman Bey and his family, but at the same time Ahmed said: “You must not be impatient. The news of your being carried off by sham soldiers, as they say, after their having assaulted and robbed the officer who was bearer of the order for your delivery, has made a great talk, and I shall have to be very careful as to how I open the subject.”

“Pray run no risks,” Horace said. “You have all done so already, and we should be unhappy, indeed, were any ill-fortune to befall you or your family for what you have done for us. We are very comfortable here. I would much rather wait for some really favourable opportunity than hazard your safety, to say nothing of our own, by impatience. It is but a fortnight since we made our escape.”

“I am going up the Bosphorus to-morrow,” Ahmed said. “I have to see a bey whose property adjoins ours, and who has a kiosk some distance above Scutari. It is only a question of business, and I shall not be many minutes. I shall be glad if you will go with me; you can remain in the boat. The rowers are so accustomed to see you that they can have no curiosity about you; besides, now that they are regularly in our service, and sleep and live here, there is no one for them to gossip with, and, indeed, as we are good patrons of theirs I do not think they would say anything about you, whatever they might suspect.”

“I suppose you can take us both, Ahmed?”

“Certainly I meant that, of course. Your friend would find it dull indeed alone here.”

Accordingly the next morning they started. When they neared Scutari they saw on the other side of the water a brig making her way in from the Dardanelles.

“That is a slovenly-looking craft, doctor, with those dirty ill-fitting sails; rather a contrast that to our schooner. I wonder where she is and what she is doing. That brig is about her size too, and the hull is not unlike hers, looking at it from here.”

The doctor gazed at the craft intently. “Eh, man,” he said in low tones, grasping his companion’s arm tightly, “I believe that it is our craft, Horace.”

“What, that dirty looking brig, doctor, with her sides looking as rusty as if she had not had a coat of paint for the last year!”

“It’s the schooner disguised. It is easy enough, lad, to alter the rig, and to get hold of dirty sails and to dirty the paint, but you can’t alter the shape. No Greek, or Turk either, ever turned out the hull of that brig.”

“It is marvellously like the schooner,” Horace said. “I should almost have sworn that it was her.”

“It is the schooner, lad. How she got there, and what she is doing, I don’t know, but it is her.”

“What is it?” Ahmed asked. “What is there curious in that brig that you are so interested in her?”

“We both think it is our schooner, Ahmed; the one in which we took your father and mother from Athens in.”

“That!” Ahmed exclaimed incredulously; “why, my sisters were always saying what a beautiful vessel it was, with snow-white sails.”

“So she had, Ahmed; but if it is the schooner she is disguised altogether. They have taken down her top-masts and put those stumpy spars in instead; they have put up yards and turned her into a brig; they have got sails from somewhere and slackened all her ropes, and made her look dirty and untidy; still we both think that it is her. Please tell the boatmen to cross to the vessel and row alongside.”

Ahmed gave the order, and as the caique shot away from the shore said: “But how could it be your ship? Do you think that she has been captured? If not, she could not have ventured up here.”

“She has not been captured,” Horace said confidently, “and if she had been her captors would not have taken the trouble to spoil her appearance. If that is the schooner they have come up to make inquiries about us, and to try to rescue us if possible.”

It was fully two miles across, and as they approached the brig the doctor and Horace became more and more convinced that they were not mistaken.

“Please tell the men to pull in behind her,” Horace said, “so that we can see her better. There can be no mistake about her if we can catch a sight of her fore and aft.”

When they fell into the brig’s wake they were some three hundred yards astern of her, and the last vestige of doubt disappeared as they saw her great breadth and fine run.

“That is my father’s craft, Ahmed, I could swear to her now. Will you tell the men to row up alongside.”

There were only four or five men visible on deck in the ordinary dress of Turkish sailors. As the caique came alongside a man put his head over the rail and asked in Turkish “what they wanted?”

“We want to come on board,” Ahmed said; “we have business with the captain.”

“I am the captain,” the man said; “are you one of the port officers?”

“Drop astern to the chains,” Ahmed said to the boatmen, who were hanging on by a boat-hook. They let the caique fall aft her own length, and then, seizing the shrouds, the doctor and Horace sprang up on to the chains and then leapt on board, Ahmed following them more slowly. There was no doubt that it was the schooner, though her decks were covered with dirt and litter, and the paint of her bulwarks discoloured as if they had been daubed with mud which had been allowed to dry. The sailors looked up as if in surprise at the sudden appearance of the strangers on their deck. Horace glanced at them. He knew none of their faces.

“Well, sir,” the captain said, coming up, “may I again ask what you want with us?”

“You talk to him, Ahmed,” Horace said in Greek. “We will run below;” and at a bound he was at the top of the companion and sprang down into the cabin. “Father,” he shouted, “are you here?”

The door of the main cabin opened, and a Turk with a flowing white beard made his appearance.

“My dear father, is it you?”

“Why, Horace, Horace, my dear boy, where do you come from, what miracle is this?” And in a moment they were clasped in each other’s arms. A moment later a tall Nubian rushed out and seized Horace’s hand.

“Why, Martyn, you don’t mean to say it is you in this disguise?”

“It is indeed, Horace. I am delighted to see you, lad; and you too, doctor. I had never thought to clap eyes on you again;” and he shook hands heartily with Macfarlane, as also did Mr. Beveridge.

“I seem to be in a dream,” the latter said; “how do you come here, what has happened?”

“I may say the same, father; but first, where are Miller, Tarleton, and the crew?”

“They are all down in the hold,” Martyn said; “they are all in hiding.”

“I have a friend on deck, father; he is the son of one of the Turks we saved at Athens. He and his friends saved our lives, and have been concealing us since they got us away. I expect he is having some difficulty with the man who calls himself captain.”

“Come up with me then, Horace, and we will fetch him down; and I will tell Iskos that it is all right.”

As soon as they reached the deck Mr. Beveridge explained to the supposed captain that these were the friends he had come to find, and that all was well.

Martyn had also come up. “What had we better do now, Martyn?”

Martyn looked up at the sails, and at the water, “Fortunately the wind is dying out fast,” he said. “I don’t think we are making way against the current now, and we shall certainly not do so long. Hold on a few minutes longer, Iskos, and then anchor. It will seem as if we could not get up against the stream to the other shipping. If you see a boat coming off, let us know. They will probably be sending off to look at our papers; but perhaps they may not trouble about it till we get up to the regular anchorage. Now, Mr. Beveridge, we will go down below and gladden their hearts there.”

The main-deck was filled with casks, bales, and merchandise of all sorts, and the hatchways of the hold covered with sacks of flour. Macfarlane joined them, and aided Martyn and Horace in removing the sacks. Horace saw as he did so that what appeared a solid pile was really hollow, and that the hatchway was only partially closed so as to allow a certain amount of air to pass down below. The bags were but partly removed when there was a rush from below, Miller and Tarleton with their cutlasses in hand, followed by the sailors with boarding-pikes dashed through the opening. They paused in astonishment upon seeing only Martyn, Mr. Beveridge, and three Turkish gentlemen, but as they recognized Horace and the doctor, the officers threw down their swords and with a shout of joy seized them by the hand. The sailors close behind them broke into a cheer which swelled into a roar as the men below gathered the news that their two officers had returned.

“The men can come up between decks, Miller,” Martyn said. “Let them have a stiff ration of grog all round. Boatswain, see that the sacks are piled again as before, leaving two or three out of their place to allow the men to go down again if necessary. If the word is passed that a boat is coming off, let them hurry back again and replace the sacks carefully after them as they go down.”

The sailors continued pouring up through the hatchway, and behind them came the two Greeks, whose joy at seeing Horace was excessive.

“Now,” Mr. Beveridge said, “let us adjourn to the cabin and hear all about this wonderful story.”

On entering the main cabin Horace found that its appearance, like that of the rest of the ship, had been completely altered, all the handsome fittings had been removed, and the whole of the woodwork painted with what he thought must have been a mixture of white paint and mud, so dirty and dingy did it appear.

“Now, father, in the first place I must properly introduce my friend Ahmed to you all. He is the son of Osman Bey, who was one of the principal Turks of the party we took to Tenedos, as no doubt you remember; it is to him and his father, aided by Fazli Bey, and the bimbashi who was in command of the troops, and some of the soldiers, that we owe our lives.”

THE DOCTOR TELLS THE STORY

This was said in Greek, and while Mr. Beveridge was expressing his gratitude to Ahmed, Horace repeated the same in English to the three officers, who warmly shook hands with the young Turk. Marco and his brother placed refreshments of all kinds on the table.

Ahmed partook of them sparingly, and then said to Horace: “Of course you will not be returning with me now. I think I had better be going on, it will be dark before I have done my business and get back again; and besides, the boatmen will be wondering at my long stay here.”

“I am afraid your father will think us horribly ungrateful if we go off without thanking him and your mother for all their kindness to us,” Horace said; “but of course we must be getting out of this as soon as we can.”

“My father and mother will be delighted to hear that you have so suddenly and unexpectedly got out of your difficulties,” Ahmed said, “and that in a manner from which no suspicion can possibly arise to us. What we have done has been but a small return for the service you rendered us.”

Mr. Beveridge added his warmest thanks to those of Horace, and Ahmed then went up with the others on to the deck and took his place in the caique; Horace making a present of a small gold piece to each of the boatmen. Ahmed said good-bye to him and the doctor in Turkish, expressing the hope that when they got back to Cyprus they would write to him, a message that Iskos afterwards translated to Horace. As soon as he had rowed away the rest of them returned to the cabin.

“And now for the story,” Mr. Beveridge said as they took their places round the table.

“The doctor shall tell it,” Horace said. “He has had no chance of talking for the last fortnight, and it is only fair he should have his turn now.”

The doctor accordingly, in his slow and deliberate way, related the whole story of their adventures from the time they landed from the schooner until their return on board, a narration which lasted nearly two hours.

Then Martyn related what had happened on board since. “You know,” he said, “that directly we heard the firing on shore and saw the boat rowing off we began to get ready to send a strong party off. You can imagine how horrified we were when, on the boat coming alongside, we found you were both missing. The beggars fired away at us as we rowed ashore, but they bolted before we reached it, and when we made a rush into the village, it was empty. We could find no one to ask questions of, for, as we found afterwards, they had all made off while the brigands were firing at us. However, as there were no signs of you it was evident the only thing to do was to follow the ruffians, and off we set. We chased them four miles, but they scattered directly they left the village and we only came up with two of them. Unfortunately they showed fight, and the sailors cut them down before we could come up.

“After searching about for some time we thought the best plan was to go back to the village. There we quartered ourselves among the houses, and, as you have been telling us, the man came with a letter. We noticed how you had worded it and had underscored the names, and we saw the fellows did not know that you were the son of the owner, so your father pretended to hang back for a bit. As soon as the man had gone off with the message we thought that it was all right, and everyone was in the highest spirits. Of course there was nothing to do next day, but the following morning Mr. Beveridge and Miller went off with thirty men, as the time named for giving you up was one o’clock.

“We began to expect them back at four, and as the hours went on I was in a regular stew. I did not like to land, and as I had only twenty men I was afraid of weakening her further, as we should have been in an awkward fix if a Turkish man-of-war had come along; however, at nine o’clock I sent Tarleton ashore with five men to see if he could gather some news from the villagers, who had all come back again soon after the brigands had left. It was not till after eleven o’clock that he came off, with the news that the party had returned and had heard nothing of you.

“Next morning one of the boats came off with Mr. Beveridge. Half an hour before a Greek had come in and stated that he was one of the party bringing you down to the place agreed upon when they were suddenly fired upon from a wood. Two of the party fell dead and the rest ran and were hotly pursued for some distance. He was unable to say what had become of you, nor did he know who the men were who had attacked them, except that they were certainly Albanians. We held a council, and then I started off with Tarleton and ten men and Marco. Mr. Beveridge wanted to go, but I persuaded him not to, for it was morally certain that we should not find you, and all we could hope for was to get some sort of clue, and if the Albanians were still in the neighbourhood Marco would have opened negotiations with them for a ransom. The man who had brought the news acted as guide. We found the bodies of his comrades who had been killed, but no signs of you, which was a comfort in one way. It was pretty evident that you had both been carried off.

“We had taken with us a dozen men from the village to which you were to have been sent, and we offered what to them must have been a big reward for news as to these Albanians. So after finding the bodies we sent them off in different directions, and went back to their village. Late in the evening they straggled in. They had done their work well, spreading all over the country and getting hold of shepherds and charcoal-burners and wood-cutters; and they were able to tell us for certain that the Albanians had come over the range of hills between us and Thessaly. They had been doing a good deal of plundering and some murdering, had destroyed two small villages at the foot of the mountains, and had been seen soon after the hour at which you must have been captured making their way back. They assured us that the troops of Ali Pasha lay in the plain beyond the hills, and that, doubtless, the Albanians had taken you to him. We had a good long rest in the afternoon, and as I knew what a state of anxiety your father was in we started at once and got on board at four o’clock in the morning. We had a long talk over what was the best thing to be done, and resolved at any rate to sail out of the bay and round the Cape, and then keep along the coast until we were off Thessaly.

“As soon as it was daylight we weighed anchor. The wind was so light that it took us two days to get there, and half that time at least, I should say, the men were in the boats towing. Marco had volunteered to land and make his way to the Turkish camp to try to find out what had become of you. We landed him at night; he bought from some of the villagers a suit of their clothes, and in twenty-four hours came down again to the boat we had sent ashore for him with the news that you had been sent to Constantinople; that you had been taken by an escort of cavalry down to the little port at the mouth of the river that flows in between Ossa and Olympus; that he had seen some of the soldiers who formed your escort, who told him that they had seen you go on board a Turkish brig-of-war with their officer and two of their comrades who had accompanied you.

“This was horrible news, and as the brig had got four days’ start there was little chance of our catching her. For another three days we were almost becalmed. We had every stitch of canvas set and yet most of the time we had not even steerage-way. The men behaved splendidly, and all the time, day and night, we had two boats out ahead towing; and on the fourth day we arrived off Tenedos. Then we got a breeze again, and soon afterwards picked up a fishing-boat. From them we learned that the brig had lain becalmed two days off the town, that some of the people that we brought from Athens had gone out with little presents of fruit to you and had seen you.

“We anchored that night a short distance from the town, for there were no Turkish ships of war there. At night a boat came off with a woman whom we had brought from Athens, and she told us that her husband, a discharged soldier, had gone to Constantinople to tell some of the people whom we brought from Athens that two of our officers had been captured, and to ask them to do what they could to save your lives. We did not think anything of it, though of course it was pleasant to see that some of the people were grateful, and Mr. Beveridge made her a handsome present, which I will do her the justice to say she refused until he almost had to force it upon her. Knowing how bitter the Sultan is against foreigners in the Greek service, and that after the harm we had done he was not likely to be specially well disposed towards us, the thing seemed almost hopeless. The two Greeks volunteered if we would put them ashore to the west of the straits to make their way to Constantinople, but as it did not seem to us that they could do any good that idea was given up.

“At last Tarleton proposed that we should disguise the schooner and go up ourselves. He admitted that the betting was a hundred to one against our being able to help you in any way, especially as it was almost certain you would have been hung a few hours after you got there. Still, if that had been put off, and you should be in a prison, there was just the possibility we might land at night, make our way to the prison, blow in the gate, get you out, and make our way across the country to some place where the boats would be waiting for us, and be on board before daylight. It was certainly a desperate undertaking, but as none of us could think of any other plan, we agreed it would be well to try it, so we sailed at once to Athens.

“We had a great debate whether it would not be better to buy some Turkish brig that had been brought in as a prize; but we finally agreed to stick to the schooner, for if we were discovered on the way, or if we did get you on board, we should have to sail, and we knew that nothing the Turks have got could outsail the schooner. We worked hard at Athens. We sent down the tall spars, got those clumsy poles up in their place, got up yards, and turned her into a brig. Then we bought a lot of old sails, and, as you see, turned her into as lubberly-looking a craft as you will meet even in these seas. Then we filled her up between decks with goods we bought out of some prizes brought in by the Hydriots, dirtied her decks, threw acid down her sides to take off the paint, took down the cabin fittings, as you see, and daubed over the woodwork with dirty paint. It was enough to make one cry to see the Misericordia spoilt. It was like disguising a girl of fashion as a dirty gipsy.

“While we had been at this work the two Greeks had been on shore, and had gathered up eight men who spoke Turkish as well as Greek. The most intelligent we made captain, with two officers under him. We got the papers from a Turkish prize, a brig about the same size which had been captured by the Hydriots on her way from Rhodes to Constantinople. Then it was agreed that your father should disguise himself as a Turk, a respectable land-owner of Rhodes, going as a passenger to Constantinople, with myself as his Nubian servant. That way we could stay on deck. When all was ready we started. The crew kept on deck till we got near the Dardanelles, and then stowed themselves away in the hold as you saw. We were stopped at the castle, but as the papers were all right there was no suspicion excited, and nothing happened till Iskos came down and told us a caique was coming alongside, and then a minute or two later we heard your voice.”

CHAPTER XXII

ALL ENDS WELL

THE hours passed on. It was still a dead calm, and, as Martyn had thought likely, no visit was paid by the Turkish port officials, as the brig was lying a good mile below the usual anchorage, and would no doubt move up to the wharves as soon as she got the wind. Horace went to the main deck and gave a sketch of his adventures to Tom Burdett, who he knew would retail them to the crew.

“Well, Mr. Horace,” the boatswain said, “you are certainly a good one at getting out of scrapes.”

“I had nothing to do with getting out of it, Tom; it was all done without any effort on my part.”

“It was mighty well done, sir, and I would not have given them Turks credit for putting such a plan together. I always liked the chaps myself when I served with them as a young fellow in that Egyptian business under Abercrombie. Good-natured sort of coves they was, and wonderful good-tempered considering what shocking bad grub they had; but I never looked upon them as sharp. Still, there you are; you see, one never knows what a chap can do till he is pushed. Well, there is one thing, Mr. Horace, I don’t care how many Turkish fugitives we may take on board this ship in future, they will be heartily welcome by every man Jack on board for the sake of what these fellows did for you. I wish I had known it when you first came on board. I should have liked to have given that young Turk a hearty shake of the hand, and the men would have given him as good a cheer as ever you heard come from fifty British sailors.”

“It is just as well you didn’t know, Tom, for if they had given a cheer together on deck it would have been heard from shore to shore, and everyone who heard it would have known that it never came from Turkish throats.”

As soon as it was dark the anchor was weighed, and the vessel drifted down with the current, a boat towing ahead so as to give her steerage-way, while the rest of the crew set to work to unbend her sails.

“You are not going to put up her own sails, are you, Captain Martyn?” Horace asked, for as soon as it got dusk Martyn had removed the stain from his skin, and exchanged the Nubian attire for his uniform.

“No, Horace, the white sails would tell their tale at once. We got two suits at Athens, one that miserable lot you saw on us to-day, the other we had cut up to fit us as we are sparred now. They are not very clean, but that won’t affect her sailing, and though I don’t mean to say she will walk along as she would under her proper canvas, I fancy she is likely to sail as fast as anything we shall meet. I shall only get her foresail, a jib, and that square top-sail on her, as we want to go along as slowly as possible. I want to manage to anchor below Gallipoli after sunset; or if I can’t manage that I shall anchor a mile or two this side of the town, so as not to be visited by any of the port officers. Then when it gets quite dark we will get up all sail and run down the straits. It is against the rules to pass through at night, and if the forts catch sight of us no doubt they will send a few shots after us, but we must risk that. It is not easy to hit a moving mark when it is so dark that you can scarcely see her outline. There are half a dozen of their ships-of-war lying abreast of the forts. We must keep as far as we dare over on the other shore. I am not afraid of the ships. We shall be a mile away before the crews wake up and load, but I expect they keep a pretty sharp look-out in the forts, though most likely their attention is chiefly directed below them.”

It took a couple of hours’ work to unbend all the sails and bend on fresh ones. Horace spent the evening in the cabin chatting with his father, and when the others came down at ten o’clock for a glass of grog he heard that the boat had been run up and housed, and that the brig was now under easy sail.

“There is very little wind,” Martyn said, “but there is enough to give steerage-way. I shall not count you in for duty until to-morrow.”

“Oh, I am ready to take my watch as usual. I have been living a very lazy life for the last three weeks, and shall be very glad to be on duty again.”

“I shall get the guns up the first thing in the morning, Miller. We will throw a tarpaulin over them when we get into the narrow part of the straits.”

“Will you have the pivot-gun up too?”

“Yes, I think so; if we have to fight, we may as well fight as hard as we can. When we get it mounted we can put a few barrels along each side of it, cover the whole over with a sailcloth, and stow one of the gigs at the top of all. No one would have a suspicion that there was a gun there then, and if we wanted to use it we could clear it in a minute.”

“The Turkish custom-house officers will stare in the morning when they see the brig gone,” Miller said, “and will wonder what has become of her.”

“If they think of her at all, Miller, they will think she has got up sail at daylight and gone up the Bosphorus on her way to Varna or one of the Black Sea ports.”

“It would require a good deal more breeze than there is now.”

“Yes, I did not think of that. Well, then, perhaps they will suppose that we made a try to go up to the anchorage as soon as the day began to break, but simply drifted back. You see another half a mile astern would take us round that point there and out of sight of them. However, we don’t care much what they think. They are not likely to be interested enough in the matter to bother themselves about it one way or the other, and certainly not likely to do the only thing that would be of any consequence to us, I mean send down a messenger to Gallipoli telling them to overhaul us if we came down the straits. Now, then, the watch on deck; the others turn in. I am sure, Mr. Beveridge, you will be all the better for a quiet night’s rest. You have certainly not slept much for the last month, and you have been getting thinner and thinner daily, while you have also long arrears in the way of food to make up. It has been quite pitiful to see the faces of the Greeks as you sent away plate after plate untouched.”

“I shall soon be myself again, Martyn, and even one good night’s rest will, I am sure, do wonders for me.”

“We have been getting quite uneasy about your father,” Miller said as he and Horace went up on deck for the middle watch.

“Yes, he looks sadly broken down, Miller. Directly he had taken off that beard I was quite shocked; he looks years older.”

“We have been really anxious about him. He would turn up three or four times during the night watches and walk the deck for an hour or two talking to one or other of us as if he could not stop alone in his cabin. Neither Martyn nor I ever had the slightest idea of finding you were alive when we got here, and still less of getting you out. But when Tarleton proposed disguising the schooner and coming up, he caught at the idea so eagerly that we fell in with it at once. It seemed to us both rather a mad sort of business, but we should not have cared what it was so that it would but rouse him up; for from the time when we first got word that you had been taken to the Turks, till Tarleton made that proposal at Tenedos, he had scarcely spoken a word. He cheered up for an hour or two when Marco brought news that at any rate you had not been killed at Ali Pasha’s camp, but had been sent on to Constantinople; but that lasted for a very short time, for he soon saw that so far from improving your chances, it had lessened them. Ali might have taken a handsome sum for your ransom, or your guards might have been bribed; anyhow, there would have been a much better chance of getting you away from his camp than from a prison in Constantinople.

“Of course we did all we could to cheer him, and, I am afraid, told some awful crammers as to the easy job it would be to get you out. Still, the plan did do him good. It gave him something to think about, as at Athens we were constantly thinking of something or other that he could go ashore and see about. Since we sailed from there he has been in a sort of fever, walking restlessly about the deck, going down to the cabin and coming up again twenty times every hour, worrying about the wind, and complaining at the boat’s loss of speed. He took to Tarleton most, because he was nearest your age, I think. He talked to him several times about you as a child, and seemed specially unhappy because he had seen so little of you up to the time when he bought you that first craft you had. The two Greeks were terribly concerned about him. They are two fine fellows those. They were as gentle as women. Well, it has been an anxious time for us all. Even the men have felt for him, and it was quite curious to see how silent the ship became when he was on deck. They seemed to speak almost in whispers, and I have not heard a laugh forward from the hour that you and the doctor were missed. I was glad he was taken with you, for he is a good fellow, and it was a comfort to know that you were together.”

“It was a great pull,” Horace agreed. “He was just the same all the time as he is on board, quiet and slow in his talk, but with an occasional gleam of humour. It has been rather hard on him, too, because, from the day we first landed, there has always been someone with us who could speak Greek, and it is very slow for a man sitting listening to talk that he can’t understand, waiting for bits to be translated to him. Still, he never showed that he minded.”

“Yes, that must have been very annoying,” Miller agreed, “especially when the talk was about matters that concerned his life. It makes you feel so helpless and baby-like to have everything managed for you and to be able to do nothing yourself. I don’t think he took kindly to that Turkish dress. He slipped away and changed it before he had been on board five minutes, while you kept yours on till you turned in for a nap two hours ago.”

“I was comfortable enough, and never gave the clothes a thought after I had worn them an hour or two,” Horace laughed. “Of course one felt very baggy about the legs, and I certainly should not like to go aloft in the things. No wonder the Turks are such clumsy sailors with their legs in bags like that; but I did notice that the doctor never seemed to move about naturally. I expect if he could have talked away as I did he would not have thought of them so much. The wind is heading us a bit.”

“Yes, it is;” and Miller gave the orders for the sheets and braces to be hauled aft.

“I should not be surprised if it is in the south by morning.”

“That would be all the better, for then we could choose our own time for getting off Gallipoli. We must get up all our sail when it is daylight and make a show of doing our best; but when one is tacking backwards and forwards one can always manage either to keep a little off the wind or so close into it as pretty well to deaden one’s way through the water.”

Horace turned in at four o’clock, and an hour and a half later heard a trampling of feet on deck, and knew that the watch was making sail. When he went up at eight o’clock the wind was blowing briskly from the south-east, and the schooner was making a long leg out from the land. He was now able to see the set of the sails that had been bent on the evening before. The lower sails were of the same size as the schooner’s original suit, and fitted her well. The upper sails contained less than half the canvas of her old ones, but her spread was sufficient to lay her over well and to send her through the water at an encouraging rate of speed.

“She is not going along so badly, is she, Horace?” Martyn asked.

“No, indeed. Of course in a light wind the loss of all that upper canvas will tell, but at present she is doing well enough for anything, quite well enough for anything we are likely to meet.”

“We have been holding our own for the last two hours with that felucca on the other tack, and we have been purposely sailing her a good bit off the wind. We could overhaul her soon enough if we liked, and most of those boats are fast; but we don’t want to get along too quickly. If the wind freshens any more I shall tow a sail alongside to deaden her way a bit. I want to arrive off Gallipoli about half an hour after sunset.”

Two of the broadside guns had just been brought up and put in position, and by midday the other six and the pivot-gun were in place, and the latter hidden by a screen of barrels and one of the gigs, bottom upwards, laid over it. The decks had been scrubbed, but, as Martyn said mournfully, it would take weeks to get them back to their former colour. The ropes still hung slackly, and although the schooner looked a good deal more ship-shape than when Horace had first seen her on the previous day, she was still as untidy as the average of vessels in Eastern waters. Her course was timed well, and the sun had already sunk some time, when she dropped anchor a short distance outside the craft lying off Gallipoli.

“I see some of their ships of war have come up from below since we passed three days ago. However, there is no fear of their sending a boat off to-night,” Martyn said as they gathered in the cabin for dinner, “and they will naturally suppose that we anchored so far out because we were going on down the straits the first thing in the morning.”

Mr. Beveridge had remained in his berth all day. The reaction after the long excitement and anxiety told severely upon him. Although he had got up the first thing, he had been obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand. The doctor, however, told Horace that this was only to be expected.

“He will want a week’s quiet and plenty of nourishment to set him on his legs again. He has been fairly worn out. But there is no fever about him, and we can trust the Greeks to feed him up. It is just as well that he should keep perfectly quiet to-day and sleep as much as he can. To-morrow I hope I shall be able to get him up on deck. Then chatting with you and taking an interest in things will rouse him.”

At nine o’clock sail was again made and the anchor weighed. The wind had gone down very much, and had veered round to the south, which enabled them to lay their course through the greater part of the straits. Two men were placed in the chains with lead-lines. The lights were all extinguished, with the exception of the binnacle. The tarpaulins were removed from the guns and the barrels and gig from around the pivot-gun. The watch off duty was sent below, and two of the keenest-eyed men on board placed as look-outs at the bow. The European shore, which was comparatively high, could be made out as a dark bank, but the Asiatic shore, which was low, could scarcely be seen. The chart was laid on the cabin table, the port-holes having all been carefully covered with curtains, and a tarpaulin laid over the skylight.

The men in the chains kept on taking soundings, Horace going backwards and forwards between them and the quarterdeck with the news as to the depth of water. Miller was in charge of the deck, while Martyn paid frequent visits to the cabin to determine their position on the chart according to the depth of the soundings. There was no fear of their meeting with any craft until they approached the forts; but in the darkness it was necessary to be very careful, as the water was shallow on the eastern side, and were they to run on to a shoal, going as they were with the force of the current, there would be little chance of getting off again, unless by lightening the ship. There was just wind enough to give her steerage-way. Men were stationed in readiness to let go the anchor instantly, should it be necessary; while ten men, in the longboat, paddled gently ahead of her, just keeping a tow-rope taut in readiness to tow her instantly in any direction that might be required. None of them were acquainted with the set of the current, and Martyn had only the depth of water and the dim outline of the banks to direct his course by. Several times, when the water shoaled, the crew of the boat were directed to row vigorously in the direction of the right bank; and once or twice there were but a few feet under the keel, and a keen feeling of anxiety was experienced on board until the leads-man announced that the water was deepening. At last, according to Martyn’s calculations they could not be far away from the formidable forts.

The boat was directed to fall astern and hang on to the rope, in readiness either to come on board or to carry out any orders that might be given. The crew on deck were told to take axes and capstan-bars, so that should they drive down against one of the Turkish ships they could fend the schooner off as much as possible, or cut away any rope that might catch. They were directed to stand perfectly still, and not a word was to be spoken whatever happened. The greatest danger lay in the fact that most of the ships of war were lying above the forts, and that, consequently, should an alarm be given by them, the gunners at the batteries would be in readiness to pour in their fire upon her as she passed.

“The ground to our right looks much higher than it did, Miller. I think we must have been drifting a good deal over towards that side.”

“I think so too,” Miller agreed. “I have been fancying that we were getting over that way ever since we stopped sounding.”

“At any rate we must take our chance,” Martyn said. “I daren’t sound again; the splash would attract attention half a mile away on a quiet night like this. Besides, we could not tow her the other way now; we must take our chance. It is not likely they are keeping much of a look-out on board. We might pass within twenty yards of a vessel without being noticed on such a night as this. I will stay at the helm, Miller. Her sails are still full, and we have got steerage-way. Do you go up into the bow. Let two of the men take their boots off, and if they make out anything ahead, let one of them run to me like lightning with orders whether to port or starboard the helm.”

The conversation was carried on in the lowest tone. Miller stole lightly forward; Tarleton and Horace were already there, one on each bow, straining their eyes into the darkness.

“We are a long way over on this side, Miller, I don’t believe that high ground over there is more than two or three hundred yards away.”

“That is just what I have been saying, Tarleton. The current must have set us across tremendously. Martyn is at the helm, and you see we are heading off that shore, but I don’t think we are going more than a couple of knots through the water.”

In five minutes Tarleton whispered:

“I think there is something dark just over the cathead.”

At the same moment Horace stepped from the other side.

“There is a ship a short way ahead, Miller, unless I am mistaken.”

“By Jove, so there is!” Miller said, looking out. “We shall never be able to clear her with the current taking us down.”

He had kicked off his own shoes when he reached the bow, thinking it better himself to carry any message.

“Port your helm, Martyn,” he said as he ran up. “There are two craft ahead, and we can never clear the outside one in this current. Our only chance is to run between them.”

Martyn had jammed the helm down as Miller spoke.

“Keep it there,” Martyn said to the helmsman, and sprang to the bulwark to look out himself. “That is enough,” he said; “straighten her now, just as she is. You con her from the other side, Miller.”

All on board saw the two vessels now. By their height and bulk they were evidently large frigates or men-of-war. They were not fifty yards away, and were about the same distance apart. Martyn pulled off his jacket and threw it over the binnacle, as its light would have been at once noticed by anyone looking down from the lofty hulls. Noiselessly the schooner passed into the gap between the ships; not the slightest sound was heard from her decks. The two officers looked anxiously up at the sails, for had one of these flapped, or a block rattled, the sleepiest look-out must have noticed it. The silence on the decks of the Turkish ships was as profound as that on the schooner. Rapidly the latter slid between them, the current taking her along faster than the wind. A minute more and she was beyond them; still no hail was heard. Another minute and they loomed dark and indistinct behind her.

“Thank God for that!” Miller said in a whisper as he crossed the deck to Martyn.

“Yes, indeed; it was touch and go. I expect they have only an anchor watch. Most likely they are asleep; they would know that nothing could come up the straits with this light breeze. I think, Miller, those are the two eighty-gun ships we noticed as we came up. They were moored a good bit outside the others; in which case we have a clear course before us.”

“Yes; I have no doubt those are the two,” Miller agreed.

“Now we have only the forts; they are about a quarter of a mile further down. Go forward, please, and tell the men not to move till they get orders.”

Another quarter of an hour passed, and Martyn felt sure that they were now well beyond the forts. For a few minutes longer he held on, and then passed the word along the deck that the danger was over. Now that they knew their exact position there was no longer any occasion for sounding. The men in the boat were called up, and the watch off duty ordered below, and when morning broke the land was far behind them. A brisk wind had sprung up from the south-east, and the vessel was just able to lay her course for Athens.

The doctor had remained below during their passage through the straits.

“I should only have been in the way if I had been on deck,” he said when Horace chaffed him for taking matters so easily. “When a man can do no good, it is always better for him to get out of the way; and after all there is no great pleasure in standing for hours afraid to move, and without any duty to perform; so I just chatted for a bit with your father, and directly I saw the sleeping draught I had given him was beginning to take effect I turned in myself, and had as comfortable a sleep as ever I had in my life. After sleeping on sofas for three weeks, in that heathen sort of way, it was a comfort to get between sheets again.”

“Well, but you went to bed the night before, doctor?”

“That was so,” the doctor agreed. “But a good thing is just as good the second time as it is the first—better, perhaps. The first time the novelty of a thing prevents you altogether enjoying it. I knew very well that if we ran into any of the Turkish ships, or the forts opened fire at us, I was like to hear it plainly enough.”

“And would you have lain there then, doctor?”

“No, lad. I would have had my duties to perform; and I would have dressed and gone into the main deck at once, with my instruments ready to do anything I could for those that required it.”

“Have you seen my father this morning, doctor?”

“Yes; and I am glad to say that he is all the better for his two nights’ sleep. His pulse is stronger, and I shall get him up here after breakfast. The news that we were fairly out to sea, and that all danger was over, was better for him than any medicine. Well, lad, we did not think eight-and-forty hours ago that we would be racing down the Ægean again, on board the Misericordia, by this time. We have had a wonderful escape of it altogether, and I would not like to go through it again for enough money to set me up for life in Scotland. When we were on board that Turkish brig, on our way to Constantinople, I would not have given a bawbee for our chances.”

When they arrived at Athens the Greek sailors who had personated Turks were landed. Mr. Beveridge was unequal to the exertion of going ashore; but day after day he was visited by politicians, military leaders, and others. After a fortnight spent there, Dr. Macfarlane said to him:

“It is no use, sir, my giving you medicines and trying to build you up, if you are going on as you are now doing. You are losing strength, man, instead of gaining it. Each morning you seem a little better; each evening you are fagged and worn out by these importunate beggars. I can see that it worries and dispirits you. It is all very good to wish well to Greece, Mr. Beveridge; but unless you have a desire to be buried in Greek soil, the sooner you are out of this the better. It is not so much change of air as change of thought that you require. Go anywhere, so that it is to some place where you will never hear the name of Greece.”

“I think you are right, doctor. The worry and disappointment has, I know, been telling on me for months. Yes, I will definitely decide to go away, at any rate for a time. Will you ask Captain Martyn to come down?”

“Captain Martyn,” he went on when the latter entered the cabin, “the doctor tells me I must absolutely get away from here.”

“I am quite sure that he is right, sir. You have been gradually wearing yourself out ever since you came here.”

“I think we will go back to England in the first place, Martyn. I have no doubt more bracing air will do me good. Then we can see how events go on here.”

“Very well, sir. I think we shall be all heartily glad to be on our way back.”

“You had better go ashore at once, Martyn. Take Horace with you, and go to my agents. You know they have always kept the papers in readiness for a re-sale of the vessel back to me. Go with them to the consulate and have the sale formally registered. I will write a note for you to take to my agent.”

Ten minutes later the gig took Martyn and Horace ashore. They returned four hours later. There was a little move of excitement among the crew as they stepped on deck again, for through the Greeks, who had heard the news from Mr. Beveridge, it had spread forward. On reaching the deck Martyn went to the signal locker. “Now, Miller,” he said, “down with that flag.”

The Greek flag fluttered down from the peak, and as the British ensign was run up in its place Martyn took off his cap and shouted: “Three cheers for the old flag, lads!” and the shout, given with all the strength of the lungs of officers and crew, showed how hearty was the pleasure that was felt at the change. As soon as the cheers had subsided orders were given to get down the awnings and prepare to make sail. In a few minutes the clank of the anchor chain was heard, and by the evening the schooner was running down past the shores of the Morea.

A month later they anchored in Portsmouth. Here half the crew were paid off, and as during their absence from England they had had but small opportunities of spending money, they had nearly two years’ pay coming to them, together with £30 a head, being their share of the prize-money. The remainder of the crew also received their pay and prize-money and two months’ leave of absence. Mr. Beveridge and Horace had had many discussions on the subject, and it had been agreed that the Misericordia (now again, since she re-hoisted the English flag, the Creole) should for a time be kept up as a yacht, with a complement of two officers and twenty men. Martyn, having been consulted, had chatted the matter over with Miller and Tarleton. Although both these had enjoyed their trip greatly, and had made a comfortable sum in pay and prize-money, both preferred to return to the Royal Navy, if they could do so, rather than remain in a yacht; and Mr. Beveridge promised to use his influence as soon as he returned to get them appointed to ships. This promise he was able to fulfil a few weeks after his arrival at home.

For home cruising as a yacht, Martyn considered that Tom Burdett would be sufficient for him. If she again went out to Greece there would be no difficulty in obtaining other officers and making up the crew to its full strength. Portsmouth had been chosen instead of Plymouth as their point of arrival, because from there Mr. Beveridge could much more easily get up to town, Dr. Macfarlane insisting that he should go up to obtain the best medical advice.

“But there is nothing the matter with me,” Mr. Beveridge had urged.

“That is just it, sir. If you had anything the matter with you I might have a chance of curing it. It is because I can’t see any reason why you do not gain strength that I want other opinion about you.”

The doctor had frequently talked it over with Horace during the voyage.

“I can see nothing bodily the matter with your father, Horace. I wish I could. There is nothing to account for his being in this feeble state. All that he says is that he feels tired. My opinion is that really this is a sort of reaction after mental excitement, just as there is reaction after great bodily fatigue. Your father has lived a smooth, easy, tranquil life, and the change, the excitement, the worry, and his utter disappointment with the Greeks themselves, have had the same sort of effect upon him as a climb up to the top of Ben Nevis might have on a man who did not stir out of his house for months together. As for that being the cause I have no doubt whatever. It is as to the cure that I want to consult with some big-wig. I don’t know whether quiet or movement would be the best for him. He could have had no quiet more complete than that he has had on the way home, and yet it has done him no good. If he were to go down home the inducement to arouse himself would be still less. But what sort of change would really suit him is more than I can say.”

Horace thoroughly agreed with the doctor. If even the cheerful society on board the yacht did not rouse his father, he dreaded what it would be when he was at home, with no one to stir him up in any way. There were two or three consultations in town with some of the leaders of the profession. After hearing the whole circumstances they were unanimous in agreeing that there seemed no serious disease of any kind, but at the same time his condition gave cause of anxiety.

“Your patient is evidently a man of highly nervous organization, and at present his nerves are a wreck. We quite agree with you that were he to go down to a lonely house in the country he would probably sink into the grave in a few months at the outside. If you could get him to go in that yacht of his on some expedition in which he feels what I may call a healthy interest, it might do him good. I should say a cold climate would be better for him than a warm one. He has had more than enough of that enervating work in Greek waters. Try and interest him in Polar expeditions. There have been a great many of them just lately. Ross and Parry and Franklin have all been trying their best to find the North-west Passage, which is not likely to be of any good if they do find it; but that is nothing to the point. Get him interested in the matter, and let him go and poke about for a bit among the icebergs. If you can get him to do that we see no reason why in time his mind should not recover its tone.”

The matter had to be done cautiously. Horace professed a vast interest in the recent expeditions; the doctor was full of interesting facts, and little by little they kindled an interest on the subject in Mr. Beveridge’s mind; and when Horace broke out one day, as if the idea had only just struck him, “My dear father, why shouldn’t we go up north in the yacht for a few months and become explorers? It would be glorious to see the icebergs and to shoot bears and seals, and would be a splendid change for us all. I am sure you would find it frightfully dull going back to Seaport,”—he did not entirely repudiate the idea, but said that he should not like to go away when things were looking so dark for Greece. Fortunately, a week later the news came that all the immense preparations the Sultan had been making for an invasion of Greece with a great army had been arrested by a tremendous fire, supposed to be the work of the janissaries, who did not like the prospect of leaving Constantinople. The fire had destroyed all the vast stores collected, the artillery, baggage-trains, and munitions of war of all kinds, and it was probable that at least a year would pass before a fresh effort could be made.

This news evidently relieved Mr. Beveridge’s mind, and when Horace, backed by Macfarlane, returned to the charge, he at once consented. Martyn was written to by Horace the same day. He at once came up to town, and saw some of the officers who had been out with Franklin and Parry. Returning to Plymouth, where the Creole was lying, a body of shipwrights were at once set to work to strengthen her by a network of timber below, and to sheath her with thick planking outside. The captain of a whaler was engaged as first officer. He was to come on board at Dundee, and to bring with him twelve picked hands accustomed to the Polar Seas. With great exertion the schooner was got ready in a month.

By this time the enthusiasm expressed by Horace and the doctor in the matter had infected Mr. Beveridge, who read up everything that had been written on the subject, and was visibly very much better by the time they went down with him to Portsmouth to join the Creole there. They were away from England eighteen months. They made no discoveries of the slightest importance, but they had numerous exciting adventures, had many narrow escapes of being nipped by icebergs, and passed a winter frozen up in Baffin’s Bay. The voyage achieved the object for which it was undertaken. The subject of Greece was a forbidden one, and Mr. Beveridge came to take a lively interest in the new scenes with which he was surrounded, joined in the hunting parties, took a prominent part in all the amusements got up for keeping the crew in good spirits and health through the winter, and returned to England a more healthy and vigorous man than Horace had ever before seen him. The Creole had taken out with her barrels and all other appurtenances for whaling, and having been fairly successful in that way, returned with sufficient oil and seal-skins to pay the greater part of her expenses.

“I feel another man, Horace, to what I was when I started,” Mr. Beveridge said as he stepped ashore at Plymouth.

“You look a different man, father—a different man altogether to what you have been since I first remember you. I don’t suppose you have grown, but you are so much more upright that you look as if you had, and you walk differently, and even your voice seems changed. Now, you know, you must not go back again.”

“I don’t mean to, my boy. It seems to me that I have thrown away twenty years of my life, and what there is remaining to me shall be spent differently. Now we have got a long arrear of news to get up.”

Horace felt at first uneasy when his father obtained a complete file of the newspapers from the time they had left England, and read up the history of affairs in Greece. There was, however, little to learn. Two civil wars had taken place, some large loans had been raised in England, but had been entirely frittered away and wasted; and when in June, 1824, the Turkish fleet had at last sailed, the Greeks had been as unprepared for resistance as they were when they first took up arms. Kasos and Psara had both been captured and their inhabitants either massacred or carried away into slavery, while the sailors of Hydra and Spetzas had not moved a hand to succour their countrymen.

Ibrahim Pasha of Egypt had sent an army to Greece, and had besieged Navarino and Pylos. The Greek army had advanced to relieve them, but being attacked by half their number of Egyptian troops were routed without the least difficulty at Krommydi. They were beaten again at Sphakteria, and Pylos and Navarino were forced to surrender; the Egyptians observing faithfully the terms they granted, and allowing the garrisons to depart in neutral ships. Dikaios was defeated and killed at Maniaki, having been deserted by all his troops but fifteen hundred. These fought splendidly although attacked by six thousand men. A thousand of them died on the field after having killed four hundred of their assailants. This was by far the most gallant affair throughout the war. Kolokotronis assembled ten thousand men, but was defeated with the greatest ease with the loss of over two hundred men, most of whom were killed in their flight.

When the Creole returned to England the siege of Missolonghi had begun. Reshid Pasha’s army, ten thousand strong, sat down before it. It was defended with extreme gallantry and resisted for many months, while the rest of Greece did little to assist it. After six months’ siege Reshid retired, being straitened for provisions and suffering from the vigorous sorties of the besieged; but in a short time Ibrahim arrived with his army and again besieged the place; throwing up formidable batteries and works against it. Several times terms were offered to the garrison, but were contemptuously refused, and several attacks were beaten off with great loss. At last the provisions were absolutely exhausted.

The brave defenders of the town resolved upon a step almost unexampled in history, namely, that the whole of the men should sally out, placing the women and children in their centre, and cut their way through the enemy. There were still nine thousand persons in the town, of whom only three thousand were men capable of bearing arms, two thousand men, women, and children were too weak from starvation and disease to join the movement; the rest were divided into three divisions. Most of the women dressed themselves in men’s clothing and carried arms, and even the children had loaded pistols. Unfortunately the Turks had been informed by a deserter that the attempt was about to be made.

The three divisions, in spite of the opposition of the Turks, attacked with such fury that they made their way through the lines of the enemy; but the people of Missolonghi itself, who were to form the fourth division and follow the others, were seized with a panic and fell back into the town. Had the Greeks outside fulfilled their promise, and moved forward a body of troops stationed a short distance away to receive the defenders of the place when they reached the open country, all the rest would have been saved; but instead of the fifteen hundred who were to have met them, but fifty were there. The Turkish cavalry and the Albanians harassed and cut them up, and even those who gained the shelter of the hills received no assistance from the irregulars, and many perished from hunger and disease, and finally only fifteen hundred escaped. The soldiers left behind in Missolonghi either by wounds or sickness intrenched themselves in stone buildings, and there defended themselves till the last, blowing up the magazines and dying in the ruins when they could no longer hold out. Four thousand Greeks were killed, three thousand were taken prisoners, chiefly women and children, and two thousand altogether escaped. The Acropolis of Athens resisted stoutly for a long time, but at last fell. The Greeks were defeated in almost every action upon which they entered, and affairs went from bad to worse, until the European governments at last determined to interfere; and their united fleets destroyed that of the Turks at the battle of Navarino, and forced Turkey to grant the independence of Greece.

As these events happened Mr. Beveridge followed their course with interest, but it was only with the interest shown by Englishmen in general. His personal feeling in the matter had entirely left him. During the last four years of the struggle there was no sign whatever that misfortune and disaster had had any effect in inducing the Greeks to lay aside their personal jealousies and ambitions, or to make any common effort against the enemy. The large sums they had received from the loans raised for the most part in England were spent in the most unworthy uses. They covered their uniforms with gold lace, and the dress of the men on foot often cost fifty pounds; those of horsemen ten times that amount. They affected all through to despise the Turks, and yet, except the fifteen hundred men under Dikaios and the defenders of Missolonghi, they never once opposed anything like an obstinate resistance to them, and the last show of resistance was almost crushed out when the intervention of Europe saved them.

The Creole had been laid up after her return from the Arctic Seas. Mr. Beveridge had purchased a large share in a fine East Indiaman, making the proviso that Martyn should be appointed to the command, he himself buying a share in her with the money he had earned during the four years’ service on board the schooner. Mr. Beveridge had, to the immense satisfaction of his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce, entirely abandoned the study of Greek, devoted himself to the affairs of his estate, became an active magistrate, and had, three years after his return, stood for Parliament as member for the county, and had won the seat. Horace was twenty when they returned from the north. He had a long talk with his father as to his future prospects and career. He was too old now to take up the thread of his studies again or to go to the university, and he finally determined, at the advice of his father, to study for the bar.

“You will never have any occasion to practise, Horace, but a few months every year in London will make a pleasant change for you; and as you may look to be a county magistrate some day you will find a knowledge of the law very useful to you. You will be in London five or six months every year, then you will have your shooting and hunting in the winter, and we will have two or three months’ cruise together in the Creole. I find that our expedition in Greece cost me, one way and another, just fifteen thousand pounds, which is a good deal less than I should have thrown away if it had not been for your advice. I hear that it is likely that Sir James Hobhouse’s estate will be in the market before long, and I think, as it almost adjoins ours, I shall buy it. I fancy that I shall get it for about thirty thousand pounds. That I should settle on you at once. I am not fifty yet, and feel that I have more life in me than I ever had, and I don’t want you to be waiting another twenty or thirty years to step into my shoes. Its management will be an occupation for you, and then you can marry whenever you feel inclined.”

This happened four years later; it arose out of a meeting at a dinner party in London. Horace had taken down a very pretty girl to whom he had just been introduced. He thought that she looked at him rather curiously when his name was mentioned. They chatted on all sorts of subjects during dinner, and when the ladies arose to go she said: “Please find me out when you come upstairs. I have a question I particularly want to ask you, but I could not very well do it here. Please do not forget, for it is important.” A good deal puzzled Horace made his way upstairs as soon as he could and saw that the girl was with another lady sitting in a quiet corner of the drawing-room. He crossed to them at once. “Mother,” the young lady said, “this is Mr. Beveridge.”

“You are right, Ada,” the lady said, rising and holding out her hand, “I recognize him at once now I see him. Oh, Mr. Beveridge, you do not know how we have longed to see you again, and you don’t know us, do you?”

“No, I can’t say that I do, madam,” Horace replied, more and more astonished.

“I am the lady you saved from being sold as a slave at Algiers when you captured the ship we were in off the coast of Asia Minor. This is my daughter. No wonder you don’t remember us for I was a strange-looking creature in that Greek dress, and Ada was but a child.”

“I remember you now, Mrs. Herbert,” Horace exclaimed. “I ought to have done so before, as we were four or five days on board together.”

“You must have thought us so ungrateful,” Mrs. Herbert said; “but we were not so; we never knew where to write to when you were out in Greece. Then two or three years afterwards we heard from someone who had been out there that you had returned, and my husband, who left Smyrna and came back to England after we got back, made all sorts of inquiries, and found out at last that you had gone away again on an Arctic expedition. Then he went out to Malta, where we have been living for the last three years, and only returned a month ago to England. My husband had to return to Smyrna; he had large business connections there that could not be broken off suddenly. Nothing could induce me ever to return there, but it was an easy run for him to Malta, and he was able to come and stay with us for a week or so every two or three months. For the last year he was training the son of the senior partner of the house to take his place at Smyrna, and he himself has now come back altogether, as Mr. Hamblyn has now retired, and he is the head of the firm. He is not here to-night, but will be delighted to hear that we have found you.”

“We have been back three years,” Horace said.

“Of course we did not know that you were in England. It has been a great grief to us. It seemed so extraordinary that after being saved by you from the most awful of all fates you should have disappeared out of our life as suddenly as you came into it. Of course it was not much to you—you who saved so many hundreds, we heard afterwards thousands of women and girls from slavery; but to us it was everything. And your father, Mr. Beveridge, is he quite well?”

“Yes, he is far better than I have ever known him to be. I am going down next week to help him; he is going to stand for our part of the county for Parliament. There is a vacancy there, and I fancy that he has a very good chance.”

“Is he, indeed? He did not give me the idea of being a man who would have cared for that sort of thing. Of course we only saw him just for those four days.”

“I am happy to say that he has changed very much since then. He came home very ill from Greece, but our eighteen months among the ice entirely set him up and made a new man of him. I am sure he will be very pleased when he hears that I have met you. And did you recognize me at once, Miss Herbert?”

“The name helped me,” the girl said. “When I heard it I felt sure it was you at once. It was very hard work sitting there talking to you as if you were a stranger.”

“Why did you not tell me at once?” Horace asked smiling.

She did not answer, but her mother said for her: “You can’t tell how we felt about you and your father, Mr. Beveridge, or you would not ask the question. The chances are that if Ada had told you who she was she would have burst out crying. She told me it was as much as she could do to restrain herself; and I think we have both had a quiet cry in this corner since we came upstairs. Now, please give me your address in town?”

“I have chambers in Mitre Court Temple, No. 3.”

“My husband will call to see you the first thing in the morning, I am sure. Mr. Beveridge and you must dine with us quietly to-morrow, so that we can talk it all over. You are not, I hope, engaged.”

Horace was not engaged, but if he had been he would probably have thrown it over.

Under these circumstances it was not very much to wonder at that a few months later the Morning Post contained this announcement:—“We understand that a marriage has been arranged between Mr. Horace Beveridge, the son of Mr. H. Beveridge, M. P., and Ada, only child of Mr. Herbert, of Bedford Square, the head of the firm of Herbert & Sandeson, the well-known firm of Levant merchants. We understand the acquaintance of Mr. Beveridge with the young lady he is now about to lead to the altar commenced under singularly romantic circumstances in the Levant six years ago.”

On the day after their marriage Horace and his wife sailed to spend their honeymoon among the fiords of Norway and in the Baltic on board the Creole. She was commanded by Miller, whose ship had been paid off a month previously, and Tarleton, whose frigate belonged to the Channel squadron, obtained three months’ leave to sail in her as first officer. Macfarlane was with them for a fortnight, not being able to get away for a longer time from the practice in which he had purchased a partnership at Plymouth. Tom Burdett went, of course, in his old capacity; but this was his last trip in her though he long remained the commander of the Surf, which was always kept in commission at Seaport, and in which Horace’s boys and girls learned to love the sea as much as did their father.

THE END

Table of Contents

OUT WITH GARIBALDI

PREFACE

CHAPTER I. AWAITING THE ATTACK.

CHAPTER II. A DESPERATE DEFENCE.

CHAPTER III. TROUBLES.

CHAPTER IV. A SUDDEN SUMMONS.

CHAPTER V ON THE WAY.

CHAPTER VI. THE VILLA SPINOLA

CHAPTER VII. THE EXPEDITION SAILS.

CHAPTER VIII. PALERMO.

CHAPTER IX. HARD FIGHTING.

CHAPTER X. WITH BIXIO.

CHAPTER XI. A HAZARDOUS EXPEDITION.

CHAPTER XII. AN AMBUSCADE.

CHAPTER XIII. ACROSS THE STRAITS.

CHAPTER XIV. A DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER XV. THE ADVANCE FROM REGGIO.

CHAPTER XVI. NAPLES.

CHAPTER XVII. THE BATTLE OF THE VOLTURNO.

CHAPTER XVIII. CAPUA.

PREFACE

THE invasion of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies by Garibaldi with a force of but a thousand irregular troops is one of the most romantic episodes ever recorded in military history. In many respects it rivals the conquest of Mexico by Cortez. The latter won, not by the greater bravery of his troops, but by their immense superiority in weapons and defensive armour. Upon the contrary, Garibaldi’s force were ill-armed and practically without artillery, and were opposed by an army of a hundred and twenty thousand men carrying the best weapons of the time, and possessing numerous and powerful artillery. In both cases the invaders were supported by a portion of the population who had been reduced to a state of servitude, and who joined them against their oppressors. There is another point of resemblance between these remarkable expeditions, inasmuch as the leaders of both were treated with the grossest ingratitude by the monarchs for whom they had gained such large acquisitions of territory. For the leading incidents in the campaign I have relied chiefly upon Garibaldi’s Autobiography and the personal narrative of the campaign by Captain Forbes, R.N.

G. A. HENTY.

“FRANK ENGAGED IN A TOUGH FIGHT WITH THE OFFICER WHO HELD THE FLAG”

OUT WITH GARIBALDI

A STORY OF

THE LIBERATION OF ITALY

BY

G. A. HENTY

Author of “The Lion of St. Mark” “No Surrender!” “St. George for England”

“Under Wellington’s Command” &c.

WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I.

LONDON

BLACKIE & SON, Limited, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C

GLASGOW AND DUBLIN

1901

Page

“FRANK ENGAGED IN A TOUGH FIGHT WITH THE OFFICER WHO HELD THE FLAG”

Frontis. 145

“WALKING UP AND DOWN THE ROOM LIKE A CAGED LION”

35

“HIS ASSAILANT FELL BACK AND DISAPPEARED”

91

“THE HINGES OF THE DOOR WERE BROKEN OFF”

161

“IN HER EXCITEMENT SHE FELL ON HER KNEES”

205

“‘SILENCE, SIGNORS!’ HE SAID IN A LOUD VOICE”

244

“IT WAS NOT UNTIL NULLO ORDERED FOUR MEN TO LOAD ... THAT HE WOULD ANSWER”

307

“HE WENT UP TO PERCIVAL AND PUT HIS HAND ON HIS SHOULDER”

337

MAP SHOWING POSITION OF THE OPPOSING FORCES ROUND CAPUA

313

PLAN OF THE BATTLE OF THE VOLTURNO

319

OUT WITH GARIBALDI.

CHAPTER I.

AWAITING THE ATTACK.

ON April 29th, 1849, two men were seated in a room whose open windows commanded a view down the Tiber. A sound of confused uproar rose from the city.

“I am afraid, Leonard,” the elder of the two men said, “that the crisis is at hand. The news that the French are landing to-day at Civita Vecchia is ominous indeed. It is true that Oudïnot has sent a message saying that the flag he has hoisted is that of peace and order. The people will not believe that he comes as an enemy; but, for my part, I have no doubt of it.”

“Nor have I,” the other replied. “It was bad enough that we had Austria against us, Sardinia powerless, and all the princelings of Italy hostile; but that France, having proclaimed herself a republic, should now interfere to crush us and to put the Pope back upon his throne is nothing short of monstrous. I feared that it would be so, but Mazzini had so much faith in his influence with members of the French Assembly that he has buoyed up the hopes of the populace, and even now the people generally believe that the French come as friends.”

“It is doubtless the influence of their new president, Napoleon, that has turned the scale against us,” the other said gloomily. “I do not suppose that he cares about the Pope one way or the other, but it is his interest to pose as his champion. By so doing he will gain the good opinion of Austria, of Naples, and the ducal rulers of the Italian states. Even Prussia, protestant as she is, would view with satisfaction the suppression of a rising like ours, for her throne well-nigh tottered in last year’s explosion. Russia, too, which perhaps more than any other power has reason to fear a popular rising, would feel grateful to Napoleon for undertaking to crush free thought in Rome. It is evident that the French President’s move is a politic one. Do you think that we shall fight, Leonard?”

“I fancy so. I have no belief in Mazzini’s courage, president though he may be. Garibaldi is the popular hero, and I know him well enough to be sure that if he has but a handful of men to back him he will fight till the end. We had the odds as heavily against us when we were comrades-in-arms at Rio, with but the Susie and a merchantman with three or four guns against the whole Brazilian navy, or when, with the Italian volunteers, two hundred strong, we several times withstood the assault of five times our number. You will see we shall fight; but there can be no question what the end must be. We may repulse Oudïnot’s attack; but France could send any amount of reinforcements to him, while we have no friends to go to. It is well that your wife, Muriel, and the boy were sent off a month since to Leghorn, where, if we escape from what must happen here, we can join them and take ship for England.”

“I am sorry that you should be involved in this affair, Leonard.”

“I am not sorry,” the other said. “In the first place, after being here more than ten years, I have come to hate the tyranny and oppression, I don’t say of the Pope himself, but of his underlings, as much as you do. In the second place, I would fight by the side of Garibaldi in almost any quarrel. I do not agree with him in his love for republics, but he has infected me with his hatred of tyrants and his burning patriotism. He is a glorious man; and after having been his comrade, I may almost say his brother, in adventures, hardships, and battles for two years, it would be strange indeed if I hesitated to join him in his crusade to rid Italy of her tyrants. I am a soldier, and I own to a fondness for fighting when convinced that the cause is a just one. I know your opinions on the subject; but I suppose you do not propose to fight yourself?”

“I do indeed, Leonard. I do not say that I should be a match for a strong and active man in a bout with swords, though of course I learned the use of the rapier when a student, but at fifty I can at least use a musket as well as a younger man, and if Rome fights I fight with her. Ah, here comes Garibaldi!”

The door opened, and a man entered, whose appearance, even had he not been dressed in a red shirt, blue trousers of rough cloth, and a soft, broad-brimmed wide-awake, would have been remarked wherever he went. Of middle height, he was exceptionally wide across the shoulders and deep in the chest; he wore his hair and beard long—both were of a golden yellow, giving a remarkably leonine look to his face; his eyes were blue, and the general expression of his face, when not angered, was pleasant and good-tempered, although marked also by resolution and firmness. At that time his name was comparatively little known in Europe, although the extraordinary bravery and enterprise that he had shown at Rio and Monte Video had marked him as a leader of guerilla warfare, possessing many characteristics that recalled the exploits of Lord Cochrane. It was only when, after his services had been declined by Carlo Alberto, King of Sardinia, he was, with a few hundred followers, making his way to aid in the defence of Venice against the Austrians, that, on hearing that Rome had risen, he hurried to aid the movement, and on his arrival there was greeted with enthusiasm by the populace, who had been informed by Mazzini of his exploits.

“You have heard the news?” he said as he entered.

“Yes; we were just talking it over,” Leonard Percival said, “and conclude, as I suppose you do, that the French come as enemies.”

“There can be no doubt about it, my friend,” Garibaldi said. “If they had said that they came as enemies I might have doubted them; but after the evasive answer their general gave to the deputation Mazzini sent them this morning, I have no question whatever that they will attack us to-morrow.”

“And you will fight?”

“Of course. We shall beat them, I think; in the end Rome must fall, but our resistance will not have been in vain. The stand we shall make against tyranny will touch every heart throughout Italy. It will show that, ground down as the people have been for centuries, the old fire of the Romans is not extinct. This will be but the beginning. When it is seen that the despots cannot maintain their authority save by the aid of foreign powers, there will be revolt after revolt until Italy is free. There were some grand lines you once told me as we sat round a camp fire, Percival, that exactly express my thoughts.”

“I know what you mean,” the Englishman said. “They were Byron’s:

For freedom’s battle once begun,

Bequeath’d by bleeding sire to son,

Though baffled oft, is ever won.”

“They are splendid and true,” Garibaldi said enthusiastically. “So shall it be with us. This is our first battle—we cannot hope to win it; but our guns will tell Italy and Europe that we have awoke at last, that, after being slaves so long that we had come to be looked upon as a people content to be ruled by despots, we are still men, and that, having once begun the fight for freedom, we will maintain it until freedom is won.”

“And now, what are your plans for to-morrow?”

“As soon as the French are seen approaching the city the church bells will ring and the alarm be beaten in the streets. The word has been passed round that all are to assemble instantly. The troops that have been organised will first pour out; the rest will follow with such arms as they have. We shall simply rush upon the French. In such a fight there is no need for manœuvring; and it is well that it is so, for there the French would be our superiors. We shall simply attack and drive them back. We may take it for granted that, being boastful creatures and believing that they have but to show themselves and we shall lay down our arms and implore their mercy, they will be wholly taken by surprise and disconcerted by our onslaught. Can you recommend anything better, my friend?”

“No. With such a force as yours, newly raised and wholly unused to discipline, it is probable that at the first engagement, and with the advantage of surprise, they will, as you say, drive back the French; but you will have to adopt different tactics afterwards: to stand on the defensive and prevent their entering the city as long as possible, and to defend every street and lane, as the Spaniards did at Saragossa. They may take the city at last, but at so terrible a cost of blood that we may be sure that when you rise again the French people will not allow another expedition to be undertaken for a cause in which they have no concern, and which would entail such heavy sacrifices.”

“Will you have a separate command, Percival? You have but to choose one, and it is yours.”

“I will fight by your side,” the Englishman said briefly. “I know that I shall get my full share of the work then.”

“And you, professor?”

“I shall go out with the rest. The students have elected me their captain, and I shall, of course, lead them. It is a simple matter. I see the enemy in front, and I go at them. Even I, a man of peace all my life, understand that. I shall have with me at least a dozen of my colleagues, and if I am shot they can direct our boys as well as I can.”

“Good!” Garibaldi said. “If I thought that you could keep the students in hand, and then dash into the thick of it if you see our men wavering anywhere, I should say do so; but I know that it would be impossible. They will long to be in the front rank and to set an example to others, and I shall feel confident that, wherever they may be, there will be no faltering. Your chief difficulty will be in restraining their ardour. Well, my friends, I have many things to arrange, so must be going. You will find me in my quarters at nine o’clock this evening, Percival. The officers and the heads of the various quarters of the town are to meet me there at that hour, to arrange where the assembling-places are to be when the alarm is given, and the streets through which they must move when we see at which point the French are going to attack us.”

“I will come down with him,” the professor said. “I will send word to my colleagues where to meet me an hour later, so that I can inform them of the arrangements.”

And with a nod Garibaldi, who had been unanimously elected general of the Roman forces, strolled away.

Leonard Percival had been a captain in the British army, but having become tired of garrison life during the long peace, had sold out in 1837, and sailed for South America, where there were always opportunities for a man of action to distinguish himself. He took part in the struggle of Rio Grande for separation from Brazil. Here he first made the acquaintance of Garibaldi, and shared with him in the many perilous adventures and desperate fights of that war. Becoming disgusted with the factions and intrigues that were rampant at Rio, he left the service of the little republic and returned to England.

He was the second son of a wealthy English gentleman, who had viewed with much disapproval his leaving the army and undertaking the life of a soldier of fortune when there was no occasion for his doing so, as he had an allowance amply sufficient for him to live upon. His father was not much surprised when, after staying for a month at home, Leonard told him that, having a taste for art, he had made up his mind to adopt it as a profession, and should go out to Rome to study. This seemed to him better than wandering about the world fighting in quarrels in which he had no concern, and he had no valid reply to his son when the latter said,—

“You see, father, you cannot expect me to spend my life in absolute laziness. I must be doing something. The life of a club lounger is the last I should choose. I have no liking for a country life—if I had I would go out to Australia or Canada and settle; but I know that in a few months I should be home again, for I could not stand a life of solitude. If you can suggest anything better I shall be ready, as far as possible, to be guided by your wishes.”

“You may as well have your own way, Leonard. I suppose it will come to that in the end, and therefore you may as well do it first as last; and at any rate, a few months in Rome will be a change for you, and I shall not be expecting by every post a communication saying that you have been killed.”

So Captain Percival went to Rome, without any idea of staying there more than a year. His plans, however, were changed when he met and fell in love with Muriel, the only child of Professor Forli, a man of almost European reputation for his learning and attainments. His wooing had been an uneventful one. His income was amply sufficient, in the professor’s eyes, to keep his daughter in comfort, and, moreover, the master under whom Leonard was studying gave an excellent account of his ability and industry, and in 1842 the marriage took place. Previous to this Leonard had obtained his father’s consent to his intended marriage, although not his approval.

“I consider that it is one more piece of folly,” he wrote. “There was no reason in the world why you should not have settled at home and made a good marriage. I had specially hoped that this would have been the case, as Tom still remains a bachelor. However, there are some redeeming points in the matter. I have, through a friend, who is a member of the Athenæum, learned that Professor Forli’s name is well known, and that he is considered one of the most learned men in Italy. In the next place, the young lady’s mother is, as you have told me, an Englishwoman of good family, and her daughter is therefore only half an Italian. From your description of her, allowing for the usual exaggeration in such cases, she takes after her mother, and might pass anywhere as of unmixed English blood, so I may hope that I shall not have black-haired, swarthy little grandchildren running about. I shall add a couple of hundred a year to your allowance, as I always intended to do when you married.”

A year later Captain Percival brought his wife home to England, and stayed there for some time; and here a son was born, who was christened Frank, after his grandfather. Whatever objections the latter might at first have felt to his son’s marriage, they were altogether removed by this visit; neither in appearance nor in speech did his wife betray her foreign origin, for her mother had always conversed with her in English, and she spoke it without the slightest accent. She was now twenty, was strikingly handsome, and very graceful in her movements. He would gladly have kept her and his son with him; but when they had consented to her marriage, her parents had bargained that she should, at any rate, spend a large portion of her time with them, as they had no other children. Moreover, her husband was now devoted to art, and although he had only been working for two years, his pictures were already beginning to attract attention.

Mr. Percival was, therefore, obliged to content himself with the promise that they would come over every year for at least four months. The arrangement, however, was not carried out, for, a few months after their return to Italy, Mr. Percival died suddenly. His death made no difference pecuniarily to his son, as he had settled upon him a sum sufficient to produce an income equal to that which he had before been allowed. His elder brother came out a year later, and stayed for a few weeks with him.

“You must send this little chap over to England to be educated, Leonard,” he had said, “if you will persist in sticking in this rotten old city. I don’t suppose I shall ever marry; and if not, of course some day he will come in for the property.”

“But why on earth shouldn’t you marry, Tom? You know what a trouble it was to our father that you did not do so—it was a real grievance to him.”

“Well, I should really have been glad to oblige him; but somehow or other I never saw any girl whom I earnestly desired to make my wife, or, as I suppose you would call it, fell in love with. I very much prefer knocking about in my yacht, or travelling, to settling down. Of course I always spent a month or two, twice a year, at my father’s, and was in town three months in the season—that is to say, when I did not get sick of it. Then I either went up the Mediterranean or to the West Indies, or knocked about round England for three or four months, and finished the year with a run up the Nile, or out to India or China. Now I feel even less inclined to marry than I did before, for if I did, it would simply mean eight months in the year down in the country, and four in London. Of course, if I ever do fall in love—and at forty it is hardly likely—I shall marry; I don’t bind myself in any way to remain single. Anyhow, I am glad that you are married, and that, when I go, there will be another Frank Percival, who we must hope will be of a more settled disposition than either of us, to reign in the old place.”

So things had gone on quietly until, in 1848, the revolution in Paris was followed by an upheaval all over Europe. The ascent of Pius IX. to the papal chair was hailed by the liberal party in Italy as the commencement of a new era. He was accredited, and not unjustly, with liberal views, and it was believed that he would introduce reforms into the Papal States, and act as a centre round which patriots could rally. Unfortunately, the party of reform in Italy was divided into two classes; of one of these the Marquis d’Azeglio was the leading spirit; he was a moderate reformer, and looked to a union of Italy under a constitutional monarch. Carlo Alberto, the King of Sardinia, seemed to him the only man who could assume that position, and for years d’Azeglio had worked quietly to this end.

A more violent spirit was however working with as much zeal and energy in another direction. Mazzini was an extreme republican of the narrowest kind; he was in communication with men of the same type in France, and had formed secret societies all over Italy. He and those with him were anxious to obtain the countenance and prestige which a Pope of advanced liberal opinions would give to their party, and Pius IX. was received with enthusiastic acclamations by the republican party of Rome. But, liberally inclined as he was, he shrank from committing himself wholly to the reformers. He was a weak man; and although his vanity was gratified by his reception, and although he had sincerely desired to introduce broad reforms, he hesitated when called upon to carry those reforms into action. The King of Sardinia had been pushed forward by the Mazzinians, until he compromised himself, and made advances to the Pope, when in 1847 Austria violated the Papal territories at Ferrara. But the Pope hesitated. His army was already near the frontier; but he declared that he had no intention of making war, and desired only to protect his territory.

The news of the movement had reached Monte Video; and Garibaldi, believing that the Pope would stand forth as the champion for the freedom of Italy, wrote, offering his services and those of his followers, the greater part of whom were Italians who had been exiled for their political opinions. No answer was received from him; and Garibaldi took the matter into his own hands, and with eighty-five Italians sailed for Europe. On arriving at Alicante he learned that a revolution had broken out in Paris, that Carlo Alberto had given his people a constitution, that Lombardy and Venice had risen, that the Milanese had driven the Austrians out of the city, that there were insurrections in Vienna and Berlin, that Tuscany and Rome were sending thousands of volunteers to fight in the national cause, and that even Ferdinand of Naples had promised his people a constitution. Garibaldi was unavoidably detained for some time at Nice, his native town, and before he was able to move a change had set in.

The Lombards and Venetians had both quarrelled among themselves. Mazzini’s party were struggling against those who would have made Carlo Alberto King of Italy. The Piedmontese, after brilliant successes at first, were obliged to retreat. The Roman volunteers had been forced to capitulate. Garibaldi went to see the king, and offer to act with his volunteers in his service; but his application was slighted, and this threw him into the hands of the revolutionary party. It was a grievous mistake on the part of the king; but the latter could not forget that Garibaldi had been a rebel against him, nor could Garibaldi forget that it was the king who had sentenced him to death and had sent him into exile. He therefore hurried to Milan, where he was received with enthusiasm. The king moved to the aid of Milan, against which the Austrians were advancing; but in that city the party of Mazzini was predominant, and they refused to open the gates to him; and early in August the king came to terms with the Austrians, and Milan surrendered.

For a time Garibaldi’s following alone maintained the war. Carrying on a guerilla warfare, he, with fifteen hundred men, was surrounded by five thousand Austrians, but he effected a marvellous retreat, and retired into Switzerland. Here he was taken ill, and was forced to rest for some months. He then went to Genoa. The extraordinary skill and bravery which he had shown during the campaign induced the King of Sardinia to offer him the rank of general in his army, that being the grade that he had held in Monte Video. But Garibaldi refused, and with two hundred and fifty volunteers started for Venice, which was besieged by the Austrians. On hearing, however, of the rising in Rome and the flight of the Pope—who had now abandoned his liberal professions, and had thrown himself into the hands of Austria—Garibaldi changed his course, and his ranks being swollen as he marched along, he arrived at Rome at the head of fifteen hundred men. Here he met his comrade in the struggle at Rio and Monte Video.

During his six years’ residence in Rome Captain Percival had imbibed that hatred of the Austrians and detestation of the despotisms under which the Italian States groaned, that was felt by all with whom he came in contact, his father-in-law, Professor Forli, being one of the leaders of the liberal party in Rome. His wife, too, was an enthusiast in the cause; and although he felt no sympathy whatever with Mazzini and the revolutionary party, he was, even before the arrival of Garibaldi, resolved to take up arms should Rome be attacked. The presence of Garibaldi still further confirmed this resolution; but as soon as he heard that a French expedition had set sail, he had insisted that his wife and child should leave the city, for he by no means shared the general belief that the French were coming as allies. Her mother accompanied her to Leghorn, for the professor was as anxious as Percival that his wife and daughter should be in a place of safety.

They were most reluctant to go, and only yielded when Signor Forli and Captain Percival declared that their presence in Rome would hamper their movements and render it impossible for them to make their escape if the city should be taken, which both foresaw would be the case. They promised that when they found all was lost they would leave the city and join them at Leghorn. Madame Forli was to take her maiden name again; and as two English ladies staying at an hotel at Leghorn they would be safe from annoyance even if a French or Austrian army marched through the town. The professor spoke English well, and once out of the city he and Leonard would be able to pass as two English tourists travelling from Naples to Florence.

Had the Pope sought refuge in Capua or Malta, events might have taken a very different turn; but he threw himself into the hands of the King of Naples, and went the length of pronouncing him to be a model monarch, a pattern to the rest of Europe, and this at a time when the disclosures that had been made respecting the horrible dungeons into which all Neapolitans suspected of entertaining liberal views were thrown, were filling Europe with horror.

This change of front extinguished the hopes of those who had imagined that the Pope would become the centre of liberal thought in Italy, rendered the people of the papal dominions desperate, and vastly increased the party of Mazzini and the extreme republicans. On February 9th a constituent assembly was held in Rome, and the republic was proclaimed. Garibaldi was appointed to defend the frontier. Volunteers poured in from all parts of Italy, and as the King of Sardinia had again taken up arms, a force was moving forward to support him, when the news came of his defeat at Novara, followed by his abdication and the succession of Victor Emmanuel to the throne. Austria, Naples, and Spain were now eager to crush the revolution in Rome; but the resolution of the Romans was unshaken, and they still hoped to be able to maintain themselves with, as they expected, the aid of France.

The terrible blow that had been inflicted on finding that the French were coming as enemies, instead of as friends, did not shake their determination, although it was now with a courage of despair rather than of hope that they prepared for the conflict. Rome must fall; but at least it would prove itself worthy of its best traditions, and set an example that would not be lost upon the peoples of Italy. Anything, they felt, would be better than the reign of a pope in close alliance with the tyrant of Naples; and the evening after the French landing saw Rome tranquil and grimly determined. Doubtless many of those who were resolved to fight till the last were buoyed up with the hope that in any case they would be able to make their escape when the action was over. Rome covered a great extent of ground, and the French army was not of sufficient strength to form a cordon round it.

Captain Percival had, a fortnight before, sent his finished and unfinished canvases and all his most valuable belongings down to Civita Vecchia, and had shipped them for England. He knew the reckless destruction carried out by an army after a successful assault, and that possibly, if it came to street to street fighting, a considerable portion of the city might be burnt. The professor had similarly sent away his very valuable collection of coins, books, and manuscripts. At nine o’clock they went down to the mansion that Garibaldi occupied. A long discussion took place, and routes were decided upon for the various contingents to follow when the alarm was given. News had been brought in from time to time during the day as to the movements of the French, and the point at which they would probably assault was therefore now known. It would be either at the Porta Cavalleggieri or at the Porta San Pancrazio.

Captain Percival and the professor returned to the former’s house, where the professor had taken up his residence since his wife had gone to Leghorn, and sat talking until a late hour. They were roused early the next morning by the ringing of the great bells of the cathedral, which were joined almost immediately by those of all the other churches in the city. Captain Percival had lain down fully dressed, and springing to his feet, he buckled on a sword, placed a brace of pistols in his belt, and then ran down to the Porta San Pancrazio, where, as he knew, Garibaldi would take up his post. The general, indeed, had not slept at all, but, fearful that the French might attempt an assault under cover of darkness, kept watch round the western wall, along which he had posted the men he could most depend upon. Even before the Englishman joined Garibaldi the roar of the guns on the wall told that the French were already advancing.

“It is like old times, comrade,” Garibaldi said, with a strong grip of his hand, “only it is on a larger scale than we were accustomed to in South America. Oudïnot is beginning with a blunder, for he is making for the Porta Cavalleggieri, which is flanked by the walls of the Vatican. He is over-confident, and I do not imagine that he expects anything like a serious resistance. I think we shall certainly beat him back there, and that then he will attack us here. Will you go to the other gate? All my old comrades know you, and, indeed, all the volunteers, as you have assisted to drill them.”

Oudïnot, indeed, had believed that the force of regular troops he had with him would easily brush aside the resistance of a half-armed mob.

Captain Percival hurried away. The volunteers were already gathered on the walls, and in every street the townspeople were hurrying out, armed with weapons of all kinds. On the roofs and at the windows of the houses women were clustered thickly, waving their handkerchiefs and scarves, and shouting words of encouragement and applause to the men. To the roar of cannon was now added the rattle of musketry. When he reached the gate he found a heavy column of volunteers drawn up there, while behind them was a dense crowd of excited citizens. From the wall he saw the French advancing; the leading regiment was but a few hundred yards away. They were moving steadily forward, apparently heedless of the cannon that thundered on their flank and face. The musketry they could afford to despise, for they were beyond the distance at which any accurate shooting was possible; and, indeed, the firing was of the wildest description, as comparatively few of the men had ever handled a gun until a few weeks previously. Captain Percival went up to the officer who was in command, and with whom he was well acquainted. Although the massive walls still stood, the gates had long since disappeared, their places being occupied simply by barriers, where the duty on provisions and goods coming into the city was collected.

“The men are clamouring to be let out,” he said. “What do you think, Captain Percival?”

“I should let them go soon. They are full of dash and enthusiasm at present, and would fight far better on the offensive than they would if they are kept stationary. I should keep them in hand till the French are within seventy or eighty yards of the gate. By that time they will be answering the fire from the walls, and even those in the front lines, whose muskets are still loaded, will only have time for one shot before our men are upon them. I should place three or four hundred of your steadiest men on the wall here, so that if the sortie is repulsed, they can cover the retreat by their fire.”

“I think that is good advice,” the other said. “Will you come down with me, and tell them that they shall go, but that they must not move till I give the order, and that no man is to fire until he is within ten yards of the enemy’s line.”

It was difficult to make their voices heard above the crack of musketry and the shouts of the excited crowd; however, their words were passed from man to man, and so back among the people behind. Now that they knew that they were to have their way, and that the critical movement was at hand, the shouting abated, and a stern look of determination settled on their faces. Leonard Percival joined a group of officers who were at the head of the volunteers, and the officer in command resumed his place on the wall, as it was all-important that, if the sortie were repulsed, he should lead his men down and oppose the entrance of the enemy until the retiring force had rallied.

It was not long before a roll of musketry broke out, showing that the assailants were now returning the fire of the Garibaldians on the wall. It grew louder and louder; and then, when the head of the French column was some eighty yards away, the officer on the wall gave the order, and the volunteers followed by the citizens poured out with a mighty shout. The French halted for a moment in surprise, not having dreamt that the defenders of the town would venture upon sallying out to attack them. Then there was a scattered fire of musketry; but most of the barrels were already empty, and few of the balls took effect. Without replying, the volunteers rushed forward, opening out as they ran to something like order. When within ten yards of the French bayonets every man delivered his fire, and then hurled himself upon the broken ranks. The struggle was a short one. The weight and impetuosity of the attack, supported as it was by a surging crowd of excited citizens, was irresistible, and the regiment broke and fled hastily to the shelter of the troops following it, leaving the ground strewn with dead and wounded. Then the bugles at the gate rang out the order to the exulting crowd to retire. The officers threw themselves in front of the men, and with great difficulty checked the pursuit, and caused them to withdraw to their original position behind the wall.

CHAPTER II.

A DESPERATE DEFENCE.

AFTER a short halt the French, having re-formed, changed their course and marched along parallel to the fortifications. Captain Percival had, on returning from the sortie, joined the officer on the wall, and watched alternately the movements of the French and the scene in the city. This was one of wild excitement—the men cheering and shouting, shaking each other by the hand, placing their hats on their bayonets, and waving them in answer to the wild applause of the women on the housetops. Some, however, were not content at being called back, instead of being allowed to complete what they considered their partial victory; forgetting that they would have been met in a very different manner by the troops in support, who would have been prepared for the attack and would have reserved their fire until the last moment. As soon as it became evident that the French intended to make their next move against the gate of San Pancrazio, the greater portion of the volunteers marched in that direction, Captain Percival accompanying them.

“You have done well so far,” Garibaldi said, as he joined them. “Now it will be our turn, and we shall have tougher work than you had, for they will be prepared. I suppose your loss was not heavy?”

“Very trifling indeed; there were but three dead brought in, and there were some ten or twelve wounded.”

“It was just the sort of action to raise the spirits of the men, and they are all in the humour for fighting. I shall therefore lead them out here. But we cannot hope to succeed with a rush as you did—they will be prepared for us this time; the best men would be killed before we reached them, and the mass behind, but few of whom have guns, would be simply massacred.”

The volunteers, who had undergone a rough sort of drill, were assembled before the French had concluded their preparations for an assault. Garibaldi appointed Captain Percival to take charge of the gate, having with him two hundred of the volunteers, behind whom were the armed citizens. These clamoured to go out as before; but Garibaldi raised his hand for silence, and then told them that he would not lead them to a useless massacre against an army of well-armed soldiers.

“Your duty,” he said, “is to remain here. If we have to fall back, you will open to let us pass. We shall be ready to do our share when necessary; but the defence of the gate will be for a while entrusted to you. If the enemy force an entrance, fall upon them as you would upon wild beasts; their discipline and their arms would be of no great advantage in a hand-to-hand fight. Each man must fight as he would were he protecting his family from a band of wolves—hatchet and pike must meet musket and bayonet, those who have knives must dive among the throng and use them fearlessly. It is a great charge that we entrust to you: we go out to fight; you will guard the city and all you hold dear.”

A loud cheer showed that he had struck the right chord, and the mob drew back as he led out some five thousand volunteers. These advanced to within musket-shot of the enemy, and then scattering, took shelter behind houses and cottages, walls and ruins. The French cannon opened fire as the movement was going on. These were answered by the guns on the walls, and as the French advanced a murderous fire was opened by their hidden foes. The battle raged for several hours. Sometimes the French advanced close up to the position held by the Garibaldians, but as soon as they did so, they were exposed also to the fire from the men on the walls; and in spite of Captain Percival’s efforts, groups of men made their way down the road and joined the firing line, lying down until the moment should come when they could spring like wild cats upon the French.

Once or twice, when the assailants pressed back the Garibaldians in spite of their efforts, they found themselves presently opposed by a crowd that seemed to leap from the ground, and who, with wild shouts, rushed upon them so furiously that they recoiled almost panic-struck before so unaccustomed an enemy. Men were pulled down, and as Garibaldi had given strict orders that no French soldier should be killed except when fighting, these were carried back triumphantly into the city. At last General Oudïnot, seeing that his troops were making no progress, and that, even if they could force their way into the city, they would suffer terribly in street-fighting with such assailants, gave the order for his men to retire. This they did sullenly, while a roar of triumphant shouting rose from the volunteers, the men on the walls, and the crowd that covered every house and vantage-ground, from which a view of what was passing outside could be obtained.

The Italian loss was only about a hundred men killed and wounded, whereas the French lost three hundred killed and wounded and five hundred prisoners. So unprepared was the French general for such a resistance, that he had to undergo the humiliation of sending in to Garibaldi to ask him to supply him with surgeons to dress the wounds of the French soldiers. During the fighting the French artillery had done far more injury to works of art in Rome than they had inflicted upon the defenders, as the artillery played principally upon the dome of St. Peter’s and the Vatican, both of which buildings were much damaged.

The joy caused in Rome by this victory was prodigious. Fires blazed that night on all the hills, every house was illuminated, the people thronged the streets, shouting and cheering. They had, indeed, much to be proud of: five thousand almost undrilled volunteers had defeated seven thousand of the best troops of France.

“WALKING UP AND DOWN THE ROOM LIKE A CAGED LION”

The French retired at once to Palo, on the road to Civita Vecchia. Garibaldi gave his troops a few hours’ rest, and then moved out to attack the French, and took up a most advantageous position. His troops were flushed with victory, while the French were cowed and dispirited; and he was on the point of attacking, when General Oudïnot sent a messenger to treat for an armistice, and as a proof of his sincerity offered to give up Ugo Bassi, a priest who had remained by the side of a wounded man when the Garibaldians had for a moment retired. Garibaldi would peremptorily have refused the request, for he was confident that he should defeat and capture the whole of the French. Mazzini, however, with his two associates in the triumvirate, still clung to the hope that the French would aid them, and determined to accept the armistice, fearing that were the whole French army destroyed, the national feeling would be so embittered that there would no longer be any hope whatever of an alliance. Garibaldi protested, declaring that the armistice would but enable the French reinforcements to arrive. Mazzini, however, persisted in the decision, and actually released the five hundred prisoners in exchange for the priest.

The folly of this violent democrat sealed the fate of Rome. Had Garibaldi been permitted to carry out his plans, the French army would have been destroyed or made prisoners to a man, and the enthusiasm that such a glorious victory would have excited throughout all Italy would have aroused the whole population to burst their bonds. Furious at this act of folly, Garibaldi and his troops re-entered Rome. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the people, but disliking such ovations, he slipped away with Captain Percival to the latter’s house. Professor Forli had taken no part in the fighting outside the walls, but stationing himself with the troops that manned them, had kept up a vigorous fire whenever the enemy were within gunshot. After the repulse of the second attack he had returned home.

“The stupidity of these people is incredible,” Garibaldi, who had scarcely spoken a word since he had turned back towards Rome, burst out, waving aside the chair that the professor offered him, and walking up and down the room like a caged lion. “We held the French in the palms of our hands, and they have allowed them to escape. A fortnight, and we shall have three times their number to face, and you know what the result will be. I regard the cause as lost, thrown away by Mazzini—a man who has never taken part in a battle, who kept himself shut up in the capital when the fighting was going on, a man of the tongue and not of action. It is too disgusting. I am a republican; but if a republic is to be in the hands of men like these, they will drive me to become a monarchist again. Carlo Alberto was weak, but he was at least a man; he staked his throne for the cause, and when it was lost, retired. Mazzini stakes nothing, for he has a safe-conduct; if he loses, he will set to to intrigue again, careless who may fall or what may come to Italy, if his own wild ideas cannot prevail; he desires a republic, but it is a republic that he himself shall manipulate. Well, if it must be, it must. I am no statesman, but simply a fighting man. I shall fight till the last; and the failure must rest upon the head of him who has brought it about.”

“It is a bad business,” Captain Percival said quietly. “I thoroughly agree with you, Garibaldi, in all you say; but as you know of old, I am not much given to words. I began this thing, and shall go through with it. I think, as you do, the cause is lost; but every blow we strike will find an echo in Italy, and a harvest will grow from the seeds some day. As to Mazzini and his two companions, I am not surprised. When you stir up muddy water, the scum will at first rise to the top. So it was in the first throes of the French Revolution, so it is here; the mob orators, the schemers, come to power, and there they remain until overthrown by men of heart and action. After Robespierre and Marat came Napoleon, a great man whom I acknowledge I admire heartily, enemy though he was of England; after Mazzini Italy may find her great men. I know you do not like Cavour; I admire him immensely. He is obliged to be prudent and cautious now; but when the time comes he will be regarded as the champion of free Italy; and from what I have heard of him, the young King Victor Emmanuel will be a sovereign worthy of him.”

“I hope it may prove so,” Garibaldi said shortly; “at present the prospect does not seem to me a fair one. And you, professor?”

“I shall carry out my plans, and when Rome falls, as fall it doubtless will, I shall, if I escape, join my wife at Leghorn, and go and establish myself in England. I have friends and correspondents there, and I have my son-in-law, who has promised me a home. Here I could not stay—I am a marked man; and the day that the Pope enters in triumph I should be consigned to a dungeon under St. Angelo.”

“There should be no difficulty in escaping,” Garibaldi said. “With fifteen miles of wall it would need fifty thousand men to surround them; and the French will want all their strength at the point where they attack us.”

It was evident that some time must elapse before there would be any change in the situation at Rome. Mazzini was sending despatches to Ledru Rollin and the French Assembly, imploring them to abstain from interference that would lead to the destruction of the Roman Republic; and until these could be acted upon, or, on the other hand, fresh troops arrived from France, matters would be at a standstill. In the meantime, danger threatened from another quarter; for the King of Naples was preparing to move with ten thousand men to reinstate the Pope. This force, with twenty pieces of cannon, had advanced as far as Albano. Three days after the battle, Garibaldi told Captain Percival that he was about to start that evening with four thousand men to meet the Neapolitan army, and asked him to accompany him.

“The troops will not be warned till an hour before we set out. It is important that no whisper shall reach the enemy as to our intentions or strength.”

“I shall be glad to go with you,” the Englishman said. “After the way your men fought against the French, I have no doubt that they will make short work of the Neapolitans, however great the odds against them. Bomba is hated by his own subjects; and it is hardly likely that they will fight with any zeal in his cause. They are very different foes from the French.”

Accordingly, at eight o’clock on the evening of May 4th, Captain Percival mounted and joined Garibaldi and his staff, and they rode to Tivoli, halting among the ruins of Adrian’s Villa.

The next morning scouts were sent off towards Albano, and returned in the evening with the news that the Neapolitans were still there, and showed no signs of any intention to advance, the news of the defeat of the French having, no doubt, greatly quenched King Ferdinand’s ardour.

On the 8th the Garibaldians moved to Palestrina, and the general despatched a body of men to drive back the scattered parties of Neapolitans who were raiding the country. This was done with little loss, the Neapolitans in all cases retiring hastily when approached. Garibaldi had information that evening that orders had been given for the main body of the enemy to advance and attack him on the following day. The information proved correct; and before noon the Neapolitan force was seen approaching, seven thousand strong. Garibaldi had no cannon with him, having set out in the lightest marching order. He distributed a portion of his force as skirmishers, keeping the rest in hand for the decisive moment. The Neapolitan artillery opened fire, and the main body advanced in good order; but as soon as a heavy fire was opened by the skirmishers, much confusion was observed in their ranks. Two other parties were at once sent out; and these, taking every advantage of cover, soon joined in the fray, opening a galling fire upon each flank.

Several times the Neapolitans attempted to advance, urged on by their officers; but the skirmishing line in their front was strengthened from the reserves whenever they did so, until the whole of the Garibaldians, with the exception of a thousand of the steadiest troops, were engaged, and an incessant fire was maintained against the heavy ranks of the enemy, whose artillery produced but little effect against their almost unseen foes. For three hours the conflict continued; then, as the Garibaldian reserve advanced, the confusion among the enemy reached a point at which it could no longer be controlled, and Ferdinand’s army fled like a flock of sheep. Garibaldi and his staff had exposed themselves recklessly during the fight, riding about among their troops, encouraging them, and warning them not to be carried away by their impetuosity into making an attack, until the enemy were thoroughly shaken and the orders issued for a general charge.

A heavy fire was maintained upon the staff by the Neapolitans; and it seemed to them that Garibaldi had a charmed life, for although several of the staff fell, he continued to ride up and down as if altogether oblivious of the rain of bullets. He did not, however, escape unscathed, being wounded both in the hand and foot. The fugitives did not halt until they had crossed the frontier into Neapolitan territory. The Garibaldians remained for two or three days at Palestrina; and seeing that the Neapolitans showed no signs of an intention to advance again, returned by a rapid march to Rome.

Mazzini’s efforts had been to some extent successful. The French Assembly declared that for France to aid in suppressing a people determined to obtain their freedom was altogether in contradiction with the condition on which the republic had been instituted, and sent M. de Lesseps as an envoy to Rome. Napoleon, however, was of opinion that the reverse to the French arms must be wiped out, and on his own authority despatched large reinforcements to Oudïnot.

To the indignation of Garibaldi’s friends and of the greater part of the population of Rome, it was found, on the return of the force to the capital, that, in spite of the brilliant successes that had been gained, Mazzini and the demagogues had superseded him in his command, and had appointed Colonel Roselli over his head. This step was the result of their jealousy of the popularity that Garibaldi had gained. His friends advised him not to submit to so extraordinary a slight; but the general simply replied that a question of this kind had never troubled him, and that he was ready to serve, even as a common soldier, under any one who would give him a chance of fighting the enemy of his country. On the 14th the Neapolitan army again advanced and occupied Palestrina; and the Roman army, now ten thousand strong, marched out on the 16th. Garibaldi, with two thousand men, moved in advance. Although Roselli was nominally in command of the army, he was conscious of Garibaldi’s greater abilities, and deferred, on all points, to the opinion of the man who was regarded by all as being still their Commander-in-chief.

When within two miles of Velletri Garibaldi met a strong column of Neapolitans; these, however, after but a slight resistance, took to flight, and shut themselves up in the town. Garibaldi sent back for reinforcements, but none arrived until too late in the day for the attack to be made; and in the morning it was found that the enemy had evacuated the place, the soldiers being so cowed by their superstitious fear of Garibaldi that the officers in vain attempted to rally them, and they fled in a disorderly mob. The panic reached the other portion of the army, and before morning the whole had again crossed the frontier. Garibaldi, at the head of his division, followed them up; and receiving authority to carry the war into the enemy’s country, was marching upon Naples, when he was recalled in all haste to aid in the defence of Rome, Oudïnot having given notice, in spite of a treaty agreed upon between M. de Lesseps, on the part of the French Assembly, and Mazzini, that he would attack Rome on Monday, June 4th.

Oudïnot was, however, guilty of an act of gross treachery, for, relying upon his intimation, the city was lulled into a sense of security that no attack would be made until the day named, whereas before daybreak on the 3rd his troops stole up and took possession of the buildings just outside the gate of San Pancrazio, and, before the Roman troops could assemble, captured the Porta Molle, after a desperate resistance by a few men who had gathered together on the alarm being given. The firing was the first intimation that Rome received of the treacherous manœuvre of Oudïnot. Again the church bells pealed out, and the populace rushed to defend their walls. Garibaldi felt that the occupation by the enemy of two great villas, a short distance from the wall, would enable them to place their batteries in such close proximity to the San Pancrazio gate that it was necessary at all hazards to recapture them; and, with his brave Lombard volunteers, he sallied out and attacked the French desperately.

All day long the fight continued, both parties being strongly reinforced from time to time; but in fighting of this kind the discipline of the French soldiers, and the military knowledge of their officers, gave them a great advantage over the Italians, who fought with desperate bravery, but without that order and community of effort essential in such a struggle. In vain did Garibaldi and Colonel Medici, the best of his officers, expose themselves recklessly in their endeavours to get their men to attack in military order and to concentrate their efforts at the given point; in vain did the soldiers show a contempt for death beyond all praise. When night fell the French still held possession of the outposts they had gained, and the Italians fell back within the walls.

That night Garibaldi held a council of war, at which Captain Percival was present. The latter and Colonel Medici were strongly of opinion that a renewal of the fighting of that day would be disastrous. The loss had already been very great, and it had been proved that, however valiantly they fought, the volunteers were unable to wrest the strong positions held by a superior force of well-disciplined men; for the French army now numbered forty thousand, while that of the defenders was but twelve thousand, and of these more than half had joined within the last three weeks. A series of such failures as those they had encountered would very quickly break the spirit of the young troops, and would but precipitate the end. These opinions prevailed, and it was decided that for the present they should remain on the defensive, maintaining a heavy cannonade from the walls, and making occasional sorties to harass the besiegers. In the meantime, the bridge across the Tiber should be destroyed, and, if possible, mines should be driven to blow up the batteries that would be erected by the French under cover of the positions they held.

These tactics were followed out. The French engaged upon the erection of the batteries were harassed by a continuous cannonade. Sorties were frequently made, but these were ere long abandoned; the loss suffered on each occasion being so heavy that the troops no longer fought with the courage and enthusiasm that had so animated them during the first day’s fighting. The attempt to blow up the bridge across the river by means of a barge loaded with explosives failed, and none of the defenders possessed the knowledge that would have enabled them to blow in the centres of the arches. The mines were equally unsuccessful, as the French countermined, and by letting in the water formed a streamlet that ran into the Tiber, filled the Italian works, and compelled the defenders to desist from their labours. Nevertheless, the progress of the siege was hindered; and although it was certain that the city, if unaided, must fall ere long, Mazzini still clung to the hope that the treaty made by Lesseps and carried by him to Paris would be recognised. This last hope was crushed by the arrival of a French envoy with the declaration that the French Government disavowed any participation in the Convention signed by M. de Lesseps.

Even Garibaldi now admitted that further resistance would only bring disaster upon the city, and cause an absolutely useless loss of life. Mazzini and his two colleagues persisted in their resolution to defend the town to the last, even if the French laid it in ashes, and they even reproached Garibaldi with cowardice. On the night of the 21st the French gained possession of the San Pancrazio gate, having driven a passage up to it unnoticed by the defenders. They at once seized the wall and captured two bastions, after a desperate defence by Garibaldi. They then planted cannon upon these and began to bombard the city. Twelve guns were also planted in a breach that had been effected in the wall, and terrible havoc was made among the villas and palaces in the western part of the city.

Roselli proposed that the whole defending force should join in an attack on the French batteries; but to that Garibaldi would not consent, on the grounds that these could not be carried without immense loss, and that, even if captured, they could not be held against the force the French would bring up to retake them. Gradually the assailants pushed their way forward, encountering a determined resistance at the capture of the Villa Savorelli. On the evening of the 27th no fewer than four hundred of its defenders fell by bayonet wounds, showing how desperately they had contested every foot of the advance. On the morning of the 30th three heavy columns of French advanced simultaneously, and carried the barricades the Romans had erected. Garibaldi, with the most determined of his men, flung himself upon the enemy; and for a time the desperation with which they fought arrested the advance. But it was a last effort, and Garibaldi sent to Mazzini to say that further resistance was impossible.

He was summoned before the triumvirate, and there stated that, unless they were resolved to make Rome a second Saragossa, there was no possible course but to surrender. In the end the triumvirate resigned, issuing a proclamation that the republic gave up a defence which had become impossible. The assembly then appointed Garibaldi as dictator, and he opened negotiations with the French. So enthusiastic were the citizens that, in spite of the disasters that had befallen them, many were still in favour of erecting barricades in every street and defending every house. The majority, however, acquiesced in Garibaldi’s decision that further resistance would be a crime, since it would only entail immense loss of life and the destruction of the city. For three days negotiations were carried on, and then Garibaldi, with four thousand men, left the city and marched for Tuscany, while the French occupied Rome. But in Tuscany the patriots met with but a poor reception, for the people, though favourable, dared not receive them. The French had followed in hot pursuit; the Austrians in Tuscany were on the look-out for them; and at last, exhausted and starving, they took refuge in the little republic of San Marino. Here they were kindly received; but an Austrian army was advancing, and the authorities of the republic were constrained to petition that the Garibaldians, now reduced to but fifteen hundred men, should be allowed to capitulate, and that they themselves should not be punished for having given them refuge.

These terms were granted, but the Archduke insisted upon Garibaldi himself surrendering. The general, however, effected his escape with his wife and twelve followers, embarking on board a fishing-boat, and they reached the mouth of the Po; the rest of the band were permitted by the Austrians to return to their homes. Garibaldi, alone, with his dying wife, was able to conceal himself among some bushes near the river; his companions were all taken by the Austrians and shot. Nine other boats, laden with his followers, could not get off before the pursuing Austrians arrived; and a heavy fire being directed upon them, they were forced to surrender. Garibaldi’s faithful wife, who had been his companion throughout all his trials, died a few days later. The Austrian pursuit was so hot that he was forced to leave her body; and after many dangers, he reached Genoa. He was not allowed to remain in Sardinia; and from thence took ship to Liverpool, and there embarked for New York.

Fortunately for Captain Percival, he and Professor Forli had, when on June 27th Garibaldi himself recognised that all further resistance was useless, determined to leave the city. When he stated his decision to Garibaldi, the latter warmly approved.

“You have done all that could be done, comrade,” he said; “it would be worse than folly for you to remain here, and throw away your life. Would that all my countrymen had fought as nobly for freedom as you have done, for a cause that is not yours!”

“I have a right to consider it so, having made Rome my home for years, and being married to the daughter of a Roman. However, we may again fight side by side, for assuredly this will not be the last time that an attempt will be made to drive out the despots; and I feel sure that Italy will yet be free. I trust that you do not mean to stay here until it is too late to retire. You must remember that your life is of the greatest value to the cause, and that it is your duty, above all things, to preserve it for your country.”

“I mean to do so,” Garibaldi said. “As soon as all see that further resistance is useless, I shall leave Rome. If I find that any spark of life yet remains in the movement, I shall try to fan it into flame; if not, I shall again cross the Atlantic until my country calls for me.”

That evening Captain Percival and the professor left the town. There was no difficulty in doing so, as the whole French force was concentrated at the point of attack. The professor had exchanged his ordinary clothes for some of his companion’s, and their appearance was that of two English tourists, when in the morning they entered Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber, by the road leading from Albano. As many fugitives from Rome had, during the past month, embarked from the little port, and it was no unusual thing for English tourists to find their way down there, they had no difficulty in chartering a fishing-craft to take them to Leghorn, it being agreed that they should be landed a mile or two from the town, so that they could walk into it without attracting any attention, as they would assuredly be asked for passports were they to land at the port.

The voyage was altogether unattended by incident; and on landing they made a detour and entered the town from the west, sauntering quietly along, as if they had merely been taking a walk in the country. Ten minutes later they entered the lodging that Madame Forli had taken, after staying for a few days at an hotel. Great indeed was the joy which their arrival excited. The two ladies had been suffering terrible anxiety since the fighting began at Rome, and especially since it was known that the French had obtained possession of one of the gates, and that a fierce struggle was going on. They were sure their husbands would keep their promise to leave the city when the situation became desperate; but it was too likely that Captain Percival might have fallen, for it was certain that he would be in the thick of the fighting by the side of Garibaldi. It was, then, with rapturous delight that they were greeted, and it was found that both were unharmed.

It was at once decided to start by a steamer that would leave the next day. Both the ladies possessed passports: Muriel that which had been made out for her husband and herself on their return from their visit to England; while her mother had one which the professor had obtained for both of them when the troubles first began, and he foresaw that it was probable he might have to leave the country. Therefore no difficulty was experienced on this score; and when the party went on board the next day the documents were stamped without any questions being asked. Not the least delighted among them to quit Leghorn was Frank, who was now four years old. He had found it dull indeed in their quiet lodging at Leghorn, and missed his father greatly, and his grandfather also, for the professor was almost as fond of the child as its parents.

There were but few passengers besides themselves, for in the disturbed state of Italy, and, indeed, of all Europe, there were very few English tourists in 1848; and even those who permanently resided in Italy had for the most part left. The passengers, therefore, were, with the exception of the two ladies and Captain Percival, all Italians, who were, like Signor Forli, leaving because they feared that the liberal opinions they had ventured to express—when it seemed that with the accession of a liberal pontiff to the papal chair better times were dawning for Italy—would bring them into trouble now it was but too evident that the reign of despotism was more firmly established than ever.

The steamer touched at Genoa, and here the greater portion of her passengers left, among them Professor Forli’s party. They took train to Milan, where they stopped for a few days, crossed the Alps by the St. Gothard’s Pass, spent a fortnight in Switzerland, and then journeyed through Bâle, down the Rhine to Cologne, and thence to England. They were in no hurry, for time was no object to any of them, as they were well supplied with money; and after the excitement and trouble of the last few months, the quiet and absence of all cause for uneasiness was very pleasant to them. On their arrival at Tom Percival’s town residence in Cadogan Place sad news awaited them. Only a fortnight before, his yacht had been run down at sea, and he and the greater part of the crew had perished.

CHAPTER III.

TROUBLES.

THE death of Tom Percival naturally made a great difference to his brother’s position. He was now a large land-owner, with a fine place in the country and a house in town. The next nine years of his life were unmarked by any particular incident. Signor Forli and his wife were permanently established in Cadogan Place. The professor had never been accustomed to a country life, and in London he was able to indulge in all his former pursuits. He had always laid by a certain amount of his income, and could have lived in some comfort in London, as until the troubles began he had received, in addition to his modest salary as a professor, the rents of a property he possessed near Naples, of which place he was a native. But neither Captain Percival nor his wife would hear of his setting up an establishment of his own.

“We shall not be up in town above three months of the year at the outside,” the former said; “and of course Muriel will always want to have you with us for that time, for I know very well that you will seldom tear yourself from your work and come down and stay with us in the country. It will be far better for us that the house shall be always used, instead of being left for nine months in the year to caretakers. You can fit up the library with cases for your coins and manuscripts. You have already made the acquaintance of many of the scientific and learned men you formerly corresponded with, and will soon get a very pleasant society of your own. It will be better in all respects. You can shut up the rooms you don’t use, while the servants whom I keep to look after the house must in any case be told to consider you as their master; and you can, if you choose, get a couple of Italian servants as your own special domestics.” And so, after much argument, it was settled, and for some years things went on to the satisfaction of all.

When ten years old Frank was sent to a preparatory school for Harrow, and three years later to the great school itself. Just at this time the professor determined to pay a visit to Italy. Since the fall of Rome everything had gone on quietly there; and although persons suspected of liberal ideas had been seized and thrown into prison without any public inquiry, he considered that now that he had been settled in England for years, and had become a naturalised British subject, he could without any risk go over to make an effort to obtain a reversal of the confiscation of his property in the Neapolitan territory. Before starting he had called upon the official representative of the Neapolitan government, and had been assured by him that his passport as a British subject would be respected, and that if he refrained from taking any part in politics he could travel in King Ferdinand’s territories without any fear of his movements being in any way interfered with.

Up to this time Captain Percival and his wife had been strongly against the proposed visit, but after the professor had received this official assurance they believed with him that he could in perfect safety undertake the journey. He wrote on his arrival at Naples, stating that he had, as soon as he landed, called upon one of the ministers, and reported to him the assurance that the envoy in London had given him, and had been told that, while expressing no opinion upon the probability of his obtaining a reversal of the confiscation of his estate, there could be no objection whatever to his endeavouring to do so, but that he did not think the government would authorise his establishing himself permanently in the kingdom, as his well-known political opinions would naturally render him obnoxious. He had given his assurance that he had no intention whatever of remaining beyond the time necessary for the purpose for which he had come; that he had now permanently settled in England, and had only come over for the purpose that he had specified; and that on no account would he hold any political discussions with such personal friends as he had in Italy, or give any expression whatever of his own views. He wrote that, as he had said before starting, he did not intend to call upon any of his former acquaintances, as, if he did so, it might bring them into discredit with the government.

No other letter was received from him. After waiting for three weeks, Captain Percival wrote to the proprietor of the hotel from which the previous letter was dated, asking if he was still there, and if not, if he was aware of his present address. The answer was received in due time, saying that Professor Forli had gone out one morning, a week after his arrival, with the intention, he believed, of visiting his former estate, but that he had not returned. Two days later a person had arrived bearing a letter from him, saying that he had changed his plans and should not return to Naples, and requesting that his luggage and all personal effects should be handed over to the bearer, who would discharge the amount owing for his bill. He had complied with the request, and had since received no communication from Professor Forli. Captain Percival went at once to call upon the minister for foreign affairs, stated the whole circumstances to him, and the assurance that the professor had received from the Neapolitan envoy before starting, and said that he felt sure that, in spite of his assurance and the protection of his passport as a British subject, his father-in-law had been seized and thrown into prison.

“If that is the case, a serious wrong has been committed,” the minister said. “But we cannot assume that without some proof. He may have been seized by some brigands, who by a ruse have obtained possession of his effects; possibly the person now in possession of the estate, fearing that he might be ousted from it, has taken these means for suppressing a claimant who might be dangerous. However, what you have told me is sufficient for me to commence action, by making a complaint to the Neapolitan government that a British subject, duly furnished with a passport, is missing, and requesting that measures shall at once be taken to ascertain what has become of him.”

Correspondence went on for three or four months, the Neapolitan government protesting that they had made inquiries in every direction, but had obtained no clue whatever as to Professor Forli’s movements from the time when he left his hotel, and disclaiming any knowledge whatever of him. It was now January 1858, and Lord Palmerston, who was then prime minister, took the case up warmly, and Captain Percival had several interviews with him.

“I quite agree with you, sir,” the minister said, “that he is probably in a Neapolitan dungeon; but at present we have no absolute proof of it; if we had I should summon Ferdinand to release him under a threat of war.”

“I am quite ready to go out, sir, to make personal inquiries; and if you could obtain for me an order to visit the various jails and fortresses in the Neapolitan territories, I may succeed in finding him.”

“I will obtain for you such an order,” Lord Palmerston said decidedly. “If they refuse my request, I shall be forced to the conclusion that they are afraid of your finding him there—not that I think it is likely you will do so. Indeed I regard it as certain that he would be removed from any prison before you arrived there, or if still there, that his dungeon would not be shown to you. At the same time, you would be doing good work. Already there have been some terrible disclosures as to the state of the Neapolitan prisons. These, however, have chiefly been made by men who have been confined there, and have been denounced as calumnies by the Neapolitan government; but coming from you, armed with the authority of our foreign office, they could not but make a profound impression. They might force the authorities to ameliorate the present state of things, and would certainly enlist the sympathy of the British public with the cause with which Professor Forli was associated, and for which I am aware you yourself fought.”

A fortnight later Captain Percival was again sent for by the foreign minister.

“Here,” the latter said, “is a royal order from the King of Naples for you to view any or all the prisons in his dominions without let or hindrance, in order to assure yourself that Professor Forli is not an inmate of any of them.”

Two days later Captain Percival started. On arriving at Naples, he first called upon the Neapolitan minister, who expressed himself with some indignation on the fact that the assurance of the government that they knew nothing of Professor Forli’s disappearance had been doubted; but stated that they were ready to offer him any facility in his search. Before commencing this, Captain Percival went out to the professor’s estate, near Capua, and saw the proprietor, who assured him that he had neither seen nor heard anything of its late owner; and although his assertions would have weighed but little if unsupported, Captain Percival’s investigations in the town and of several persons upon the estate all tended to show that the professor had not been seen there. His appearance was familiar to many, and he could hardly have visited the place without being recognised. Captain Percival went to see several of Signor Forli’s old friends, upon whom he would almost certainly have called before going to the estate, and from whom, indeed, he would have received far more information as to its condition than he would have obtained by direct application to a man who could not but have regarded him with hostility; none of them, however, had heard of his return to Italy.

After stopping two or three days there, he returned to Naples and began his inspection of the prisons. The Royal order being presented, he was everywhere received courteously, allowed to inspect them from the lowest dungeons to the attics under the roofs, and also to hold conversations with the prisoners. He had no idea that he would actually find the professor; his great hope was that he should learn from prisoners that he had been confined there, as this would enable the British government to demand his instant release. Terrible as had been the descriptions he had heard of the treatment of the prisoners and the state of the jails, they fell far short of the reality; and he not only sent detailed reports to the government, but also to The Times, which published them in full. They were copied into every paper in the kingdom, and created a general feeling of indignation and disgust.

Failing to obtain the smallest information as to the professor at Naples, Captain Percival then went down to Salerno, and left there with the intention of visiting the prisons in Calabria and at Reggio, and afterwards of crossing into Sicily and trying the gaols there. Four days after he left Salerno, the servant he had engaged in Naples returned to the town with the news that the carriage had been attacked by brigands, and that his master, who always carried a brace of pistols, had offered a desperate resistance, but had been killed. The horses had been taken out of the carriage, and they and Captain Percival’s luggage had been carried off to the hills. He himself had been allowed to return. The Governor of Salerno at once sent the man to Naples; the news was officially communicated to the British envoy, who telegraphed at once to London. A message was returned, saying that an official communication would be addressed to the government, and in the meantime he was to send down one of the officers of the embassy to inquire into the whole matter. He was to request the Neapolitan government to furnish an escort from Salerno, and was also to demand that steps should be taken to pursue and bring the brigands to justice.

The secretary of the legation had no difficulty in obtaining the order for an escort; and taking with him the servant who had brought the news, proceeded to the place where the affair had occurred. The carriage was found overthrown by the roadside. There were two or three bullet-holes in it; there was a dark patch evidently caused by blood in the road close by; and a few yards away was a bloodstained cap, which the servant recognised as being that of Captain Percival. Following up a track which led off the main road from here, they came upon some fragments of letters, among them one on which were the words, “Your loving wife, Muriel.” For two or three days the hills on each side of the track were searched, but no sign whatever was found of Captain Percival’s body. In the meantime, a strong force of carabinieri searched the mountains, and three weeks after the return to Naples of the search party from the legation, came the news that they had surprised and killed a notorious brigand leader with three of his followers, and had taken prisoner a fourth. This man was sent to Naples, and there questioned by a judicial official in the presence of the secretary of the legation.

He acknowledged that he had been one of the party, consisting of their leader and seven followers, who had attacked the Englishman’s carriage. They had not intended to kill him, but to carry him off for ransom; he, however, resisted so desperately that he was shot. Although very seriously wounded, they had carried him up to the mountains, believing that he would recover, and that they might still make money out of him. The man himself had been sent down to Salerno to ascertain whether the authorities were taking any steps to hunt down his capturers. As soon as he learned that a strong force of carabinieri had been ordered out in pursuit, he had returned to the hut occupied by his chief. He found that during his absence the prisoner had died. He had never asked where he had been buried, for it was a matter that did not concern him. The contents of the portmanteau had been divided among the party; he was himself now wearing the boots and one of the shirts of the dead man. That was all he knew.

The captain of the carabinieri testified that he had found an English portmanteau and many articles, some of which bore the initials “L. P.” upon them; there was a brace of handsome pistols of English make, which were used by the chief of the brigands in the fight; and in a cupboard among other things was the royal order for Captain Percival to visit his majesty’s prisons. A diligent search had been made in the neighbourhood of the hut, but the grave of the English gentleman had not been discovered. In due time the brigand was placed on trial, and was sentenced to imprisonment for life; and so the matter ended, save for the two widowed women and Frank.

It had been a heavy blow indeed for the lad, who was passionately attached to his father, and had also loved the professor, who had always been extremely fond of him. He was at home for Easter when the terrible news arrived. Neither his mother nor grandmother expressed a doubt that his father had been murdered; and when the news of the confession of one of the band and the discovery of Captain Percival’s belongings in the hut of the brigands arrived, they gave up all hope of ever seeing him again.

Madame Forli, however, while not doubting that Captain Percival had been killed, believed that the Neapolitan government were at the bottom of the matter. “I know what the methods of the Neapolitans are,” she said; “and the sensation caused by Leonard’s letters to the papers here may have decided them to put an end by any method to further revelations, and they may very well have employed these brigands to carry out their purpose. Every one knows that in many cases these men are in alliance with the officers of the police; and the latter are well paid to wink at their doings, and even to furnish them with information of the persons worth robbing, and to put them on their guard when, as occasionally happens, a raid is made by the carabinieri in the mountains. A capture is hardly ever effected; and while there is little chance of a political prisoner once shut up in their dungeons making his escape, notorious brigands frequently succeed in doing so. Nobody dares to speak of their suspicions; but there can be little doubt that the prison officials are bribed to connive at their escape, knowing well enough that the government will not trouble over the matter, while on the other hand the escape of a political prisoner brings disgrace and punishment upon all the prison officials.”

“I cannot think—I will not think so, mother,” Muriel exclaimed; “for were it so, the same treatment might be given to him that has, we have no doubt, befallen my father. A thousand times better that Leonard should have been killed, than that he should drag out his existence in such utter misery as that which he has described as being the lot of prisoners in the dungeons of Bomba. The brigands may have been set on by their government. That is possible—I can believe that iniquitous government to be guilty of anything—but whether Leonard was attacked merely for plunder, or for ransom, or by the connivance of the government, I cannot and will not doubt that he is dead; the story of one of the band can leave no doubt of this, and it is confirmed by his servant, who saw him fall. Never try to shake my confidence in that, mother. It was almost more than I could bear to think of my father as confined in one of those dungeons; if I thought for a moment that Leonard could be there too, I believe that I should lose my reason.”

Frank returned to school after the short holidays. His mother thought that it would be better so, as the routine of work and play would give him little time for moping over his loss. He worked harder than he had ever done at school before; but obtained leave off cricket, and spent his time out of school in long walks with one or other of his chums. After the summer holiday he was himself again. He was quieter than he had been, and held aloof from fun and mischief, but joined in the sports vigorously, and regained the ground he had lost, and came to be regarded as likely some day to be one of the representatives of the school.

When it seemed that the search for the body of Captain Percival had failed, Mrs. Percival wrote to the secretary of the legation in Naples, saying that she would be glad if her husband’s courier would come over to see her.

“I naturally wish to know,” she said, “as much as I can of the last movements of my husband from the only person who was with him; and I would willingly bear the expenses of his journey both ways, and pay him fifty pounds. I did not receive any letter from my husband during the fortnight preceding his death, and want to learn as much as possible about him.”

The secretary, on receiving the letter, sent the note to the chief of the police, in whose charge the man had been while the investigations were proceeding; an answer was returned saying that the man Beppo Paracini was not now in his charge, but that perhaps he could find him in the course of a few hours, and would, on doing so, send him to the legation at once.

Instead of seeing the man himself, however, the officer went to the director of the secret police. “As this affair has been in your department rather than in mine, signor, I thought it best to bring you this note I have just received from the British legation before taking any steps in the matter.”

The official read the note through. “You have done quite right,” he said. “The affair has been a very troublesome one, and now that it has practically come to an end, it would not do to take any false step in the matter. You shall hear from me in the course of the day.”

He sat thinking deeply for some minutes after the other had left him, then he touched a bell.

“Luigi,” he said, when a man entered, “go and fetch Beppo Paracini; if he is not in, find where he has gone and follow him.”

Half an hour later the courier entered. When before the court he had been dressed in the fashion affected by his class; now he was in dark, quiet clothes, and might have been taken for an advocate or notary.

“Beppo,” he said, “I thought that we had finished with that troublesome affair of the Englishman; but there is again occasion for your services in the same direction. Here is a letter from the secretary of the British legation saying that he wishes to see you, for that the Signora Percival has written to him to say that she is anxious to learn more of the last days of her husband, and is willing to pay your expenses to England and to give you fifty pounds for your services, if you would be willing to go to her for a few days. I regard this as a fortunate circumstance. The woman’s husband and her father have been constant enemies of the kingdom. Percival was a bosom friend of Garibaldi; her father was also his friend, though not to the same degree. Ever since they established themselves in England his family, who are unfortunately rich, have befriended Italian exiles.

“Forli was acquainted with all his compatriots in London, who, like himself, were men of education and position, and had escaped from justice. In that house any plot that was on foot, especially if Garibaldi was a leading spirit in it, would certainly be known. No doubt the loss of her husband will make this woman more inveterate against us than ever. I have often wished that I could establish an agent in her house, to keep me informed of what was going on there, who visited it, whether any meetings and consultations were held there, from whom they received letters, and the purport of them, but I have never before seen my way to it. The woman Forli is herself English, and consequently since her husband’s death no Italian servants have been kept in the house. This letter gives me the opportunity I have desired. I wish you to go to the British legation, and to express your willingness to accept the offer that is made, and if possible to obtain a situation in the house.

“You could represent that you were anxious to obtain a place of any kind in England, for that, owing to the part that you have taken in the search for Percival’s body—a search which brought about the death of the brigand Rapini and the breaking up of his band—your life was no longer safe there from the vengeance of his associates. You can say that before you became a courier you were in the service of several noble families—of course you will be provided with excellent testimonials—and as it was your zeal in her late husband’s behalf that had brought you into this strait, it is quite possible that she may offer you a post in the household. You can declare that you do not desire high wages, but simply a shelter. You will, of course, report yourself on arriving in London to the head of our secret agents there, and will act generally under his directions. I need not say that you will be well paid.”

“I will gladly accept the mission, signor, for, to say the truth, I am not without some apprehensions such as you suggest. I have changed my appearance a good deal; still, I cannot flatter myself that I could not be detected by any one on the search for me, and I do think that some of Rapini’s band, knowing that I was with the carabinieri, may have vowed vengeance on me; and, as you know, signor, a man so threatened cannot calculate on a very long life.”

“That is so, Beppo. Then we may consider the matter settled. If you cannot succeed in obtaining a position in the house of this family, I shall instruct my agent in London to utilise your services there, at any rate for the next six months. After that time you may return without much risk, for when it is found that you have disappeared from all your former haunts, the search for you is not likely to last long. At any rate, you might as well mention to those who have known you as a courier, that you intend to establish yourself either in Paris or Berlin. For as you speak both French and German as well as English, that would in any case be the course that a prudent man would adopt, after being mixed up in an affair that ended badly for the brigands. Well, in the first place, you had better go at once to the legation and accept their terms. Come here at eleven o’clock to-morrow, and I will give you further instructions.”

Thus it happened that when Frank came home next time from school, he was surprised at having the door opened to him by a grave-looking servant in plain clothes, who said in English, with a very slight foreign accent: “The Signora Percival is in the drawing-room, sir. I will see to your baggage and settle with the cabman.”

“Whom have you got hold of now, mother?” he said, after the first greeting—“an Italian? Isn’t he a fearfully respectable-looking man? Looks like a clergyman got up as a valet.”

“He was your dear father’s courier, Frank. I sent for him to come over here, as I wished to learn all about your father’s last days. The poor fellow was in fear of his life, owing to the evidence that he had given against the brigands. William had given me notice that he was going to leave only the day before; and as Beppo had served in several noble families, who had given him splendid testimonials, and was afraid to return to Italy, I was very glad to take him in William’s place, especially as he only asked the same wages I paid before. I congratulate myself on the change, for he is quite the beau-ideal of a servant—very quiet in the house, ready to do anything, gets on well with the other servants, and is able to talk in their own language to any of his countrymen who come here, either as visitors or as exiles in need of assistance. He has, indeed, saved me more than once from impostors; he has listened to their stories, and having been a courier, and knowing every town in Italy, on questioning them he found out that their whole story was a lie.”

“That is all right, mother; if you like him, that is everything. I own that I liked William; I am sorry that he has gone. I shall be some time getting accustomed to this chap, for he certainly is fearfully grave and respectable.”

CHAPTER IV.

A SUDDEN SUMMONS.

ONE Saturday early in March, 1860, Frank, now sixteen years of age, on starting for the football ground, was told that the house-master wished to see him, and he at once went into his study.

“Percival, I have received a note from your mother, asking me to let you out till Monday morning. She says that she particularly wants to see you, and will be glad if you will start at once. Of course I will do so; you had better catch the next train, if you can.”

“What in the world can the mater want to see me in such a hurry for?” Frank said to himself in a rather discontented tone as he left the master’s study. “It is a frightful nuisance missing the match this afternoon! I don’t know what Hawtrey will say when I tell him that I cannot play. Ah! here he is.”

“What is up, Percival?”

“I am awfully sorry to say that I have just received a message from my mater calling me up to town at once. I have no idea what it is about; but it must be something particular, for I told her when I wrote to her last that this was going to be the toughest match of the season; still, of course I must go.”

“I see that, Percival. It is a terrible nuisance; you are certainly the third best in the house, and now I shall have to put Fincham in, I suppose, and I am afraid that will mean the loss of the match.”

“He is as strong as I am, Hawtrey.”

“Yes; he is strong enough and heavy enough, but he is desperately slow. However, I must make the best of him.”

Frank hurried upstairs, and in ten minutes came down again, dressed. He ran the greater part of the way to the station, and just caught the up train. The disappointment over the football match was forgotten now. Thinking it over, he had come to the conclusion that either his mother or grandmother must have been taken seriously ill. It could hardly be his mother, for it was she who had written; still, she might have managed to do that, even if she had met with some sort of accident, if it was not too serious. If not she, it must be the signora, as he generally called her, and as he was very fond of her, he felt that her loss would be a heavy one indeed. His anxiety increased as he neared London; and as soon as the train stopped at Euston he jumped out, seized the first hansom, and told the cabman to drive fast to Cadogan Place. He leaped out, handed his fare to the cabman, ran up the steps, and knocked at the door.

“Is every one well, Beppo?” he asked breathlessly, as the servant opened it.

“Yes, sir,” the footman replied, in his usual calm and even voice.

“Thank God for that!” he exclaimed. “Where is my mother?”

“In the dining-room, sir, with the signora.”

Frank ran upstairs. “Mother, you have given me quite a fright,” he said. “From your message I thought that some one must have been suddenly taken ill, or you would never have sent for me when you knew that we played in the final ties for the house championship to-day. I have been worrying horribly all the way up to town.”

“I forgot all about your match, Frank,” his mother said. “I have had a letter that put it out of my head entirely.”

“A letter, mother?”

“Yes, Frank; from your hero, Garibaldi.”

“What is it about, mother?” Frank exclaimed excitedly, for he had heard so much of the Italian patriot from his father, and of their doings together in South America and the siege of Rome, that his admiration for him was unbounded.

“Sit down, Frank, and I will tell you all about it. The letter was addressed to your dear father. Garibaldi, being in Caprera, probably has but little news of what is passing at Naples. He had heard of my father’s disappearance, but was apparently in ignorance of what has happened since.”

She took out the letter and read:

“‘MY DEAR COMRADE AND FRIEND,—

“‘When I last wrote to you it was to condole with you on the disappearance of that true patriot and my good friend, Professor Forli. I hope that long ere this he has been restored to you; but if, as I fear, he has fallen into the clutches of the rascally government of Naples, I am afraid that you will never hear of him again. Several times, when you have written to me, you have told me that you were prepared to join me when I again raised the flag of Italian independence, though you held aloof when France joined us against Austria. You did rightly, for we were betrayed by the French as we were at Rome, and my birthplace, Nice, has been handed over to them. You also said that you would help us with money; and, as you know, money is one of our chief requisites. The time has come. I am convinced that the population of the Neapolitan territories are now reduced to such a state of despair by the tyranny of their government that they will be ready to hail us as deliverers.

“‘My plan is this: I am sure a thousand or so of the men who fought with me in the Alps will flock to my standard, and with these I intend to effect a landing in Sicily. If I capture Palermo and Messina I think I can rely upon being joined by no small number of men there, and by volunteers from all parts of Italy; five thousand men in all will be sufficient, I think—at any rate, that number collected, I shall cross to the mainland and march upon Naples. You may think that the adventure is a desperate one, but that is by no means my opinion; you know how easily we defeated the Neapolitan troops in 1848. I believe that we shall do so still more easily now, for certainly very many of them must share in the general hatred of the tyrant. Come, dear friend, and join us; the meeting-place is called the Villa Spinola, which is a few miles from Genoa.

“‘I do not anticipate any great interference from Cavour; he will run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, as your proverb has it. He dare not stop us; for I am convinced that such is the state of public opinion in Italy, that it might cost his master his crown were he to do so. On the other hand, he would be obliged to assume an attitude of hostility, or he would incur the anger of Austria, of the Papacy, and possibly of France; therefore I think that he will remain neutral, although professing to do all in his power to prevent our moving. I am promised some assistance in money, but I am sure that this will fall short of the needs. We must buy arms not only for ourselves, but to arm those who join us; we must charter or buy steamers to carry us to Sicily. Once there, I regard the rest as certain. Come to me with empty hands, and you will receive the heartiest welcome as my dear friend and comrade; but if you can aid us also with money, not only I, but all Italy, will be grateful to you. I know that you need no inducement, for your heart is wholly with us, and all the more so from this disappearance of madame’s father, doubtless the work of the tyrants. Need I say that our first step in every town and fortress we capture will be to release all political prisoners confined there?—and it may be that among these we will find Professor Forli. Turr will be with me, Baron Stocco of Calabria, Bixio, and Tuckory; and Madame Carroli has written to tell me that she places her three sons at my disposal in the place of their brave brother, and will, moreover, supply me with money to the utmost of her power. Come, then, dear friend, aid me with your arm and counsel, and let us again fight side by side in the cause of liberty.’”

Frank leapt to his feet. “You will let me go in my father’s place, mother, will you not? Many of those who will follow Garibaldi will be no older than myself, and probably not half so strong; none can hate the tyranny of Naples more than I do. It is the cause for which my father and grandfather fought; and we now have greater wrongs than they had to avenge.”

“That is what I thought you would say, Frank,” his mother said sadly. “‘Tis hard indeed to part with a son after having lost father and husband; but my father was an Italian patriot, my husband fought for Italy; in giving you up I give up my all; yet I will not say you nay. So fierce is the indignation in England at the horrors of the tyrants’ prisons that I doubt not many English will, when they hear of Garibaldi’s landing in Sicily, go out to join him; and if they are ready in the cause only of humanity to risk their lives, surely we cannot grudge you in the cause not only of humanity, but of the land of our birth.”

“I feel sure that father would have taken me, had he been here,” Frank said earnestly.

“I believe he would, Frank. I know that he shared to the full my father’s hatred of the despots who grind Italy under their heel; and besides the feeling that animated him, one cannot but cherish the hope that my father may still be found alive in one of those ghastly prisons. Of course my mother and I have talked the matter over. We both lament that your studies should be interrupted; but it can be for a few months only, and probably you will be able to return to Harrow when the school meets again after the long holiday—so that, in fact, you will only lose three months or so.”

“That makes no odds one way or another, mother. In any case, I am not likely to be a shining light in the way of learning.”

“No—I suppose not, Frank; and with a fine estate awaiting you, there is no occasion that you should be, though of course you will go through Oxford or Cambridge. However, we need not think of that now.”

“And will you be sending him any money, mother?”

“Certainly. Your father put by a certain sum every year in order that he might assist Garibaldi when the latter again raised the flag of freedom in Italy—a cause which was sacred in his eyes. At the time he left England, this fund amounted to £10,000; and as he never knew when the summons from Garibaldi might arrive, he transferred it to my name, so that he need not come back to England, should a rising occur before his return. So you will not go empty-handed.”

“That will be a splendid gift, mother. I suppose I shall not go back to school before I start?”

“No, Frank. Since you are to go on this expedition, the sooner you start the better. I shall write to your headmaster, and tell him that I am most reluctantly obliged to take you away from school for a few months; but that it is a matter of the greatest importance, and that I hope he will retain your name on the books and permit you to return when you come back to England.”

“If he won’t, mother, it will not matter very much. Of course I should like to go back again; but if they won’t let me, I shall only have to go to a coach for a year or two.”

“That is of little consequence,” his mother agreed; “and perhaps, after going through such an exciting time, you will not yourself care about returning to school again. You must not look upon this matter as a mere adventure, Frank; it is a very, very perilous enterprise, in which your life will be risked daily. Were we differently situated, I should not have dreamt of allowing you to go out; but we have identified ourselves with the cause of freedom in Italy. Your grandfather lost everything—his home, his country, and maybe his life; and your father, living as he did in Rome, and married to the daughter of an Italian, felt as burning a hatred for the oppression he saw everywhere round him as did the Italians themselves; perhaps more so, for being accustomed to the freedom Englishmen enjoy, these things appeared to him a good deal more monstrous than they did to those who had been used to them all their lives. He risked death a score of times in the defence of Rome; and he finally lost his life while endeavouring to discover whether my father was a prisoner in one of the tyrants’ dungeons. Thus, although in all other respects an English boy—or Italian only through your grandfather—you have been constantly hearing of Italy and its wrongs, and on that point feel as keenly and strongly as the son of an Italian patriot would do. I consider that it is a holy war in which you are about to take part—a war that, if successful, will open the doors of dungeons in which thousands, among whom may be my father, are lingering out their lives for no other cause than that they dared to think, and will free a noble people who have for centuries been under the yoke of foreigners. Therefore, as, if this country were in danger, I should not baulk your desire to enter the army, so now I say to you, join Garibaldi; and even should you be taken from me, I shall at least have the consolation of feeling that it was in a noble cause you fell, and that I sent you, knowing that my happiness as well as your life hung upon the issue. I want you to view the matter then, my boy, not in the light of an exciting adventure, but in the spirit in which the Crusaders went out to free the Holy Sepulchre, in which the Huguenots of France fought and died for their religion.”

“I will try to do so, mother,” Frank said gravely; “at any rate, if the cause was good enough for my father and grandfather to risk their lives for, it is good enough for me. But you know, mother,” he went on, in a changed voice, “you can’t put an old head on to young shoulders; and though I shall try to regard it as you say, I am afraid that I shan’t be able to help enjoying it as a splendid adventure.”

His mother smiled faintly. “I suppose that is boy nature. At any rate, I am sure that you will do your duty, and there is certainly no occasion for your doing it with a sad face; and bear in mind always, Frank, that you are going out not so much to fight, as to search every prison and fortress that may be captured, to question every prisoner whether he has heard or known any one answering the description of your grandfather, or—or——” and her lip quivered, and her voice broke.

“Or, mother?”—and he stood surprised as Mrs. Percival burst suddenly into tears, and the signora, rising from her seat, went hastily to her, and put her arm round her neck. It was a minute or two before Mrs. Percival took her hands from her face, and went on,—

“I was going to say, Frank, or of your father.”

Frank started, as if he had been suddenly struck. “My father,” he repeated, in a low tone. “Do you think, mother—do you think it possible? I thought there was no doubt as to how he was killed.”

“I have never let myself doubt,” Mrs. Percival went on. “Whenever the thought has come into my mind during the past two years I have resolutely put it aside. It would have been an agony more than I could bear to think it possible that he could be alive and lingering in a dungeon beyond human aid. Never have I spoken on the subject, except to my mother, when she first suggested the possibility; but now that there is a chance of the prison doors being opened, I may let myself not hope—it can hardly be that—but pray that in God’s mercy I may yet see him again.” And as she again broke down altogether, Frank, with a sudden cry, threw himself on his knees beside her, and buried his face in his arms on her lap, his whole figure shaken by deep sobs.

Mrs. Percival was the first to recover her composure, and gently stroked his hair, saying: “You must not permit yourself to hope, my boy; you must shut that out from your mind as I have done, thinking of it only as a vague, a very vague and distant possibility.”

“But how, mother, could it be?” he asked presently, raising his head. “Did we not hear all about his being killed, how Beppo saw him shot, and how one of the band testified that he was dead and buried?”

“So it seemed to me, Frank, when my mother first pointed out to me that all this might be false, and that just as the government of Naples declared they were absolutely ignorant as to your grandfather’s disappearance when it appeared to us a certainty that it was due to their own act, so they would not hesitate a moment to get rid of your father, whose letters as to the state of their prisons were exciting an intense feeling against them in every free country. She said it would be easy for them to bribe or threaten his servant into telling any tale they thought fit; he or some other agent might have informed the banditti that a rich Englishman would be passing along the road at a certain time, and that the government would be ready to pay for his capture and delivery to them. The prisoner taken may have been promised a large sum to repeat the story of the Englishman having died and been buried. It was all possible, and though I was determined not to think of him as a prisoner, my mother, who knew more of these things than I did, and how matters like this were managed in Italy, thought that it was so. Still to my mind there were, and still are, reasons against hope, for surely the Neapolitan government would have preferred that the brigands should kill him, rather than that they themselves should have the trouble of keeping him in prison.”

“Possibly they would have preferred that,” Signora Forli said, speaking for the first time. “They knew that he was an Englishman, and doubtless learned that he carried loaded pistols, and may have reckoned confidently upon his resisting and being killed, and may have been disappointed because the brigands, hoping for a large ransom, carried him off wounded.”

“But even then,” Mrs. Percival said, “they could have sent up their agents to the brigands and paid them to finish their work.”

“Yes, possibly that is what they did do; but though I have never spoken to you on the subject since you told me not to, I have thought it over many and many times, and it seems to me that they would scarcely do so, for they might thus put themselves into the power of these bandits. Any one of the band might make his way to Naples, go to the British legation, and under the promise of a large sum of money and protection denounce the whole plot. It seems to me more likely that they would send an agent to the chief brigand, and pay him a sum of money to deliver the captive up to men who would meet him at a certain place. It is probable that the chief would, on some excuse or other, get rid of all his band but two or three, hand over the prisoner, and share the money only with those with him, and when the others returned, tell them that the prisoner had died and that they had buried him. Then the carabinieri would use every effort to kill those who were in the secret, and being in earnest for once, they probably did kill the chief and those with him.

“Probably the man who gave his evidence was not one of the party at all, but some prisoner charged with a minor offence, who was promised his liberty as the price of telling the story that he was taught. If Leonard had been killed and buried, as they stated, his grave must surely have been found—the earth must still have been fresh; and, indeed, nothing is more unlikely than that the brigands should have taken any extraordinary trouble to hide the body, as they could not have anticipated that any vigorous search would be made for it. For these reasons I have all along believed that Leonard did not come to his end as was supposed. He may have been killed afterwards by those into whose hands he was delivered; but even this does not seem likely, for one of them might betray the secret for a large reward. He may have died in a dungeon, as so many thousands have done; but I believe firmly that he did not, as reported, die in the brigands’ hut. I have never since spoken on the subject to your mother, Frank, for I agreed with what she said, that it would be better to think of him as dead than in a dungeon, from which, as was shown in the case of your grandfather, there was no chance of releasing him. Now, however, if Garibaldi is successful, as every prison will be searched, and every political prisoner freed, there is a prospect that, if he is still alive, he may be restored to us.”

Frank, with the natural hope of youth, at once adopted the signora’s view; but his mother, although she admitted that it might possibly be true, still insisted that she would not permit herself to hope.

“It may be that God in His mercy will send him back to me; but, though I shall pray night and day that He will do so, it will be almost without hope that my prayer will be granted,—were I to hope, it would be like losing him again if he were not found. Now let us talk of other matters. The sooner you start the better, Frank; you will not have many preparations to make. The Garibaldian outfit is a simple one—a red shirt, trousers of any colour, but generally blue, a pair of gaiters and one of thick, serviceable boots, a wide-awake, or, in fact, any sort of cap with perhaps a red feather, a well-made blanket wound up and strapped over one shoulder like a scarf, a red sash for the waist, a cloak or great-coat strapped up and worn like a knapsack, and a spare shirt and a pair of trousers are all the outfit that you require. You had better take a good rifle with you, and of course a pair of pistols. All the clothes you can buy out there, and also a sword, for no doubt Garibaldi will put you on his staff.”

“In that case I shall not want the rifle, mother.”

“No; and if you do you can buy one there. In a town like Genoa there are sure to be shops where English rifles can be bought, and you might have difficulty in passing one through the customs—luggage is rigorously examined on the frontier and at the ports. A brace of pistols, however, would be natural enough, as any English traveller might take them for protection against brigands if he intended to go at all out of beaten tracks. As to the money, I shall go to the bank on Monday, and request them to give me bills on some firm in Genoa or Turin. Garibaldi will find no difficulty in getting them cashed. I should say that your best course will be to go through Paris and as far as the railway is made, then on by diligence over Mont Cenis to Turin, and after that by railway to Genoa. In that way you will get there in three or four days, whereas it would take you a fortnight by sea.”

“Then it seems to me, mother, that there is nothing at all for me to get before I start, except a brace of pistols; but of course I must have my clothes up from Harrow.”

“I will write for them at once, Frank. It would be better that you should not go down—you would find it difficult to answer questions put to you as to why you are leaving; and of course this enterprise of Garibaldi must be kept a profound secret. One cannot be too prudent in a case like this, for if a whisper got abroad the Italian government would be compelled to stop him.”

“You will not see Beppo here when you come back,” Mrs. Percival said to Frank on Monday evening. “I gave him notice this afternoon.”

“What for, mother? Anyhow, I am not sorry, for I have never liked him.”

“I know that you have not, Frank, and I begin to think that you were right. My maid said to me this morning that, though she did not like to speak against a fellow-servant, she thought it right to tell me that when I am out of the house and before I get up of a morning he is often in the drawing-room and dining-room, in neither of which he has any business; and that when she went up yesterday evening—you know that she is a very quiet walker—she came upon him standing outside the drawing-room door when we were chatting together, and she thought, though of this she was not quite sure, that he had his ear at the keyhole. He knocked and came in the instant he saw her, as if he had only that moment arrived there; but she had caught sight of him before he saw her, and was certain that he was listening.

“Of course, she might have been mistaken; but thinking it over, it seems to me that she was probably right, for once or twice since he has been here, it has struck me that the papers in my cabinet were not in precisely the same order as I had left them. You know that I am very methodical about such matters; still, I might each time, when I took them out, have omitted to return them in exactly the same order as before, though I do not think it likely that I could have done so. However, I thought nothing of it at the time; but now that I hear that he has been spying about the rooms and listening at the door, I cannot but connect the two things together, and it may be that the man has been acting as an agent for the Neapolitan government. You know, when we were talking the matter over on Saturday, my mother suggested that it was possible that the courier had been in league with the brigands. Possibly he may also be an agent of the government; and there was so great a stir made at that time that I cannot regard it as impossible, knowing how she and I are heart and soul with the Italian patriots, that he was sent over to watch us.”

“I think it not only possible but probable,” Signora Forli put in. “I know that in Italy the police have spies in every household where they suspect the owner of holding liberal opinions; and knowing that our house was frequented by so many exiles, they may have very well placed this man here. I regret now that at the time this man came over at your mother’s request, we listened to his plausible tale and took him into our service, but I had not at that time any strong suspicions that the attack on your father was a preconcerted one, and I should hardly have mentioned the idea to your mother had it occurred to me. However, it is of no use thinking over that now; the great point is to consider how it will affect your plan.”

“In what way, signora?” Frank asked in surprise; and Mrs. Percival added, “I don’t see what you mean, mother.”

“I mean this, dear: if this man is a spy, you may be quite sure that he has had false keys made, by which he can open your cabinet, your drawers, and your writing-desk. It is quite probable that he knows Garibaldi’s handwriting, for, knowing that the general was a great friend of your father, he would almost certainly be furnished with a specimen of it; and, if that was the case, we may take it for granted that wherever you put any letter from Garibaldi, he would get at it and read it. That in itself can do comparatively little harm, for rumours of the general’s proposed expedition are already current. But he will know that, immediately on receipt of that letter, you sent for Frank. Doubtless there are other Neapolitan spies over here, and every movement you have made since will, in that case, have been watched, and you will have been seen to go to the bank to-day. It is not likely that they would know how much we have drawn out, for your conversation was with the manager in his private room; but knowing your devotion to Garibaldi’s cause, they might well suppose that the amount would be a considerable one. We have made no secret of the fact that Frank will start the day after to-morrow to travel in Italy for a time; and he will guess that Frank is the bearer of this money to Garibaldi—possibly, as it seems that he listened at the doors, he may even have heard you tell Frank how much you were going to send. Yesterday evening we were talking over how the bills had best be concealed, and he may have heard that also; if he did, you may be pretty sure that they will never reach Garibaldi, unless our plans for their concealment are changed.”

“You frighten me, mother.”

“I don’t know that there is anything to be frightened about,” the signora said. “I do not for a moment suppose that he contemplates any actual attack upon Frank; though he will, I am convinced, try to get the money—partly, no doubt, for its own sake, partly because its loss would be a serious blow to Garibaldi. After the disappearance of his grandfather, and the commotion there was over the death or disappearance of his father, an attack upon Frank would appear to be a sequel of these affairs, and would cause such general indignation that the ministry would take the matter up in earnest, and the result would be far more disastrous for the government of Naples than could be caused by any amount of money reaching Garibaldi, whom they must regard as an adventurer who could give them some trouble, but who could not hope for success. Therefore, I do not think that there is any danger whatever of personal injury to Frank; but I do think there is grave fear that the money will be stolen on the way. If our suspicions are well founded as to Beppo, no doubt two or three of these agents will travel with him. If he stops to sleep at an hotel, his room would be entered and his coat carried off; he may be chloroformed when in a train and searched from head to foot; his baggage may be stolen on the way, but that would only be the case if they do not find the bills on his person or where we agreed last night to hide them.”

“I dare not let him go,” Mrs. Percival said, in a trembling voice.

“Why, mother,” Frank said almost indignantly, “you don’t suppose, now that I am warned, I shall be fool enough to let these fellows get the best of me? I will carry a loaded pistol in each pocket; I will not sleep in an hotel from the time I start till I have handed the bills to Garibaldi, and will take care always to get into a carriage with several other passengers. If I hadn’t had fair warning, I dare say I should have been robbed; but I have no fear whatever on the subject now that we have a suspicion of what may occur. But if you think it would be safer, I do not see why you could not send the bills by post to an hotel at Genoa.”

Signora Forli shook her head. “That would not do,” she said. “You do not know what these Neapolitan spies are capable of. If they find that you have not the money with you, they would follow you to your hotel at Genoa, bribe the concierge there to hand over any letter that came addressed to you, or steal it from the rack where it would be placed, while his attention was turned elsewhere. However, I have an old friend at Genoa, the Countess of Mongolfiere; we exchange letters two or three times a year. She is, of course, a patriot. I will, if your mother agrees with me, enclose the bills in an envelope addressed to you, put that in another with a letter saying that you will call at her house when you arrive at Genoa, and request her to hand the letter to you. I will say that it vitally concerns the cause, and beg her to place it under lock and key in some safe receptacle until you arrive.”

“That is an excellent idea, mother,” Mrs. Percival said, “and would seem to meet the difficulty.”

Frank rose from his seat quietly, stepped noiselessly to the door, and suddenly threw it open. To his surprise his mother’s maid was sitting in a chair against it, knitting.

“It is all right, Hannah,” he said, as she started to her feet. “I did not know you were there. I thought that fellow might be listening again,” and he closed the door.

“I asked her to sit there this evening, Frank,” Mrs. Percival said. “I knew that we should be talking this matter over, and thought it better to take the precaution to ensure our not being overheard.”

“Quite right, mother; I am glad you did so. Then you think that that plan will answer?”

“Yes, I think so; but you must be sure and take care of yourself, just as if you had the money about you.”

“That I will, mother; you can rely upon that.”

“And above all,” Signora Forli said, “you must beware, when you go to the Countess for the money, that you take every possible precaution. Call in the daytime, go in a carriage and drive straight from her place to the Villa Spinola; better still, go first to Garibaldi, tell him where the money is, and ask him to send three of his officers to your hotel on the following morning. Then take a carriage, drive to the Countess’s, and take it to the general with four of you in the carriage. They would not dare to attack you in broad daylight.”

“That is an excellent plan,” Mrs. Percival said, in a tone of great relief. “Certainly, if they do manage to search him on the way, and find that he has not got the bills upon him, they will watch him closely at Genoa, where, no doubt, they will get the assistance of some of Francisco’s agents. There are sure to be plenty of them in Genoa at present; but however many of them there may be, they would not venture to attack in daylight four men driving along what is no doubt a frequented road, more especially as they would know that three of them were Garibaldi’s men, which is as much as to say desperate fellows, and who would, no doubt, like yourself, be armed with pistols.”

“We had better take one more precaution,” Signora Forli said. “It is believed that you are going to start on Thursday morning. Your packing can be done in five minutes; and I think that it would be a good plan for you to have everything ready to-night, and send Mary out for a hansom to-morrow morning, so that you could, when it comes up to the door, go straight down, get into it, and drive to the station. I don’t say that they might not be prepared for any sudden change of our plans; but at least it would give you a chance of getting a start of them that they can never recover—at any rate, not until you get to Paris.”

“How could they catch me there?” Frank said.

“Francisco’s agents here might telegraph to his agents in Paris, and they might be on the look-out for you when you arrived, and take the matter up. You were going viâ Calais. Let me look at the Bradshaw.”

“Yes,” she said, after examining its pages; “the train for the tidal boat leaves at the same time as the Dover train. If, when you get into the cab, you say out loud, ‘Victoria,’ so that Beppo may hear it, you can then, when once on your way, tell the cabman to take you to Charing Cross. In that way, if there is any one on the look-out when the Calais train comes in, they will be thrown altogether off the scent.”

“It seems ridiculous, all these precautions,” Frank said, with a laugh.

“My dear, no precautions are ridiculous when you have Francisco’s agents to deal with. Now, I will write my letter to the Countess at once, so that she may get it before your arrival there. You will, of course, go out and post it yourself.”

CHAPTER V

ON THE WAY.

AFTER posting the letter, Frank made several small purchases, and was more than an hour away. On his return he saw a cab standing at the door. As he approached, Beppo came out with a portmanteau, handed it up to the driver, jumped in, and was driven off.

“So Beppo has gone, mother,” he said, as he joined her in the drawing-room.

“Yes. He came in directly you had left. He said that his feelings had been outraged by a servant being placed at the door. He could not say why she was there, but thought it seemed as if he was doubted. He could not but entertain a suspicion that she was placed there to prevent any one listening at the keyhole; after such an insult as that he could not remain any longer in the house. I said that he was at liberty to leave instantly, as his wages had been paid only three days ago. He made no reply, but bowed and left. Mary came up and told me ten minutes later that he had brought his portmanteau down, left it in the hall, and gone out, she supposed, to fetch a cab. I heard the vehicle drive up just now, and the front door closed half a minute ago.”

Signora Forli came into the room as she was speaking. “Mary tells me that Beppo has gone. It is a comfort that he is out of the house. When you once begin to suspect a man, the sooner he is away the better. At the same time, Frank, there can be no doubt that his going will not increase your chances of reaching Genoa without being searched. I should say that he had made up his mind to leave before you did, and he was glad that the fact of Mary being at the door gave him a pretext for his sudden departure. In the first place, he could conduct the affair better than any one else could do, as he knows your face and figure so well. Then, too, he would naturally wish to get the credit of the matter himself, after being so long engaged in it. Of course, you may as well carry out the plan we arranged, to start in the morning; but you may feel absolutely certain that, whatever you may do, you will not throw him off your track. He must know now that he is suspected of being a Neapolitan agent, and that you will very likely change your route and your time of starting.

“I regard it as certain that the house will be watched night and day, beginning from to-morrow morning, an hour or so before the trains leave. There will be a vehicle with a fast horse close at hand, possibly two, so that one will follow your cab, and the other drive at once to some place where Beppo is waiting. As likely as not he will go viâ Calais. If you go that way, so much the better; if not, he will only have to post himself at the station at Paris. It is likely enough that during the last day or two he has had one or two men hanging about here to watch you going in and out, and so to get to know you well, and will have one at each of the railway stations. He may also have written to the agents in Paris to have a look-out kept for you there.”

“But how could they know me?”

“He would describe you closely enough for that; possibly he may have sent them over a photograph.”

Frank got up and went to a side table, on which a framed photograph that had been taken when he was at home at Christmas, usually stood. “You are right,” he said; “it has gone.” Then he opened an album. “The one here has gone, too, mother. Are there any more of them about?”

“There is one in my bedroom; you know where it hangs. It was there this morning.”

“That has gone, too, mother,” he said, when he returned to the room.

“So you see, Muriel, I was right. The one from the album may have been taken yesterday, and a dozen copies made of it; so that, even if you give them the slip here, Frank, you will be recognised as soon as you reach Paris.”

“Well, mother, it is of no use bothering any more about it. I have only to travel in carriages with other people, and they cannot molest me; at worst they can but search me, and they will find nothing. They cannot even feel sure that I have anything on me; for now that Beppo knows he is suspected of listening at doors, he will consider it possible that we may have changed our plans about where we shall hide the money. It is not as if they wanted to put me out of the way, you know; you and the signora agreed that that is certainly the last thing they would do, because there would be a tremendous row about it, and they would gain no advantage by it; so I should not worry any further, mother. I do not think there is the slightest occasion for uneasiness. I will just go by Calais, as I had intended, and by the train I had fixed on; that in itself will shake Beppo’s belief that I have the money with me, for he would think that if I had it I should naturally try some other way.”

“At any rate,” Mrs. Percival said, “you shall not go by the line that we had intended. You would be obliged to travel by diligence from Dole to Geneva, thence to Chambery, and again by the same method over the Alps to Susa. You shall go straight from Paris to Marseilles; boats go from there every two or three days to Genoa.”

“Very well, mother; I don’t care which it is. Certainly there are far fewer changes by that line; and to make your mind easy, I will promise you that at Marseilles, if I have to stop there a night, I will keep my bedroom door locked, and shove something heavy against it; in that way I can’t be caught asleep.”

“Well, I shall certainly feel more comfortable, my dear boy, than I should if you were going over the Alps. Of course, the diligence stops sometimes and the people get out, and there would be many opportunities for your being suddenly seized and gagged and carried off.”

“They would have to be very sudden about it,” Frank laughed. “I do think, mother, that you have been building mountains out of molehills. Beppo may not be a spy, after all; he may have heard you talking of this ten thousand pounds, and the temptation of trying to get it may be too much for him. He will know now that I shall be on my guard, and that, even if I have the money on my person, his chance of getting it is small indeed. I believe that you and the signora have talked the matter over till you have frightened yourselves, and built up a wonderful story, based only on the fact that Mary thought that she caught Beppo listening at the door.”

“How about the photographs?” Mrs. Percival asked.

“Possibly he has a hidden affection for me,” Frank laughed, “and has taken these as mementos of his stay here. Well, don’t say anything more about it, mother; I am not in the least nervous, and with a brace of loaded pistols in my pocket and the fair warning that I have had, I do not think I need be afraid of two or three of these miserable Neapolitan spies.”

Accordingly, Frank started by the morning mail, as they had arranged. The carriage was full to Dover; and at Calais he waited on the platform until he saw an English gentleman with two ladies enter a compartment, and in this he took a vacant corner seat. On his arrival at Paris he drove across at once to the terminus of the railway to Marseilles, breakfasted there, and sat in the waiting-room reading till the door on to the platform opened, and an official shouted, “Passengers for Melun, Sens, Dijon, Macon, Lyons, and Marseilles.” There was a general movement among those in the waiting-room. Frank found that there was no fear of his being in a compartment by himself, for only one carriage door was opened at a time, and not until the compartment was full was the next unlocked. He waited until he saw his opportunity, and was the first to enter and secure a corner seat. In a short time it filled up.

He had slept most of the way between Calais and Paris, feeling absolutely certain that he would not be interfered with in a carriage with three English fellow-passengers. It was twelve o’clock now, and he would not arrive at Marseilles until seven the next morning, and he wondered where all his fellow-passengers, who were packed as closely as possible, were going, for although he did not wish to be alone, it was not a pleasant prospect to be for eighteen hours wedged in so tightly that he could scarcely move. Then he wondered whether any of the men who might be following were also in the train. He had quite come to the conclusion that his mother and grandmother had frightened themselves most unnecessarily; but he admitted that this was natural enough, after the losses they had had. At Dijon several passengers got out, but others took their places; and so the journey continued throughout the day. The carriage was generally full, though once or twice there were for a time but five besides himself. He read most of the way, for although he spoke Italian as fluently as English, he could not converse in French. When tired of reading he had several times dozed off to sleep, though he had determined that he would keep awake all night.

At ten o’clock in the evening the train arrived at Lyons. Here there was a stop of twenty minutes, and he got out and ate a hearty meal, and drank two or three cups of strong coffee. He was not surprised to find, on returning to his carriage, that all the passengers with two exceptions had left it. These had got in at Macon, and were evidently men of good circumstances and intimate with each other; he had no suspicions whatever of them, for it was certain that men who had any intention of attacking him would appear as strangers to each other. At Vienne both left the carriage. Frank was not sorry to see them do so.

“If there are really fellows watching me,” he said to himself, “the sooner they show themselves and get it over the better; it is a nuisance to keep on expecting something to take place when as likely as not nothing will happen at all.” He examined his pistols. They were loaded but not capped, and he now put caps on the nipples, and replaced them in his pocket.

Just before they had left Vienne a man had come to the window as if intending to enter, but after glancing in for a moment had gone to another carriage.

“HIS ASSAILANT FELL BACK AND DISAPPEARED”

“That is rather queer,” Frank thought. “As I am alone here, there was plenty of room for him. Perhaps he had made a mistake in the carriage. At any rate, they won’t catch me napping.”

The strong coffee that he had taken at Lyons had sharpened his faculties, and he never felt more awake than he did after leaving Vienne. He sat with his eyes apparently closed, as if asleep, with a warm rug wrapped round his legs. An hour later he saw a face appear at the opposite window. At first it was but for an instant; a few seconds later it appeared again and watched him steadily; then the man moved along to the door and another joined him. Frank without moving cocked the pistol in his right-hand pocket, and took a firm hold of the butt with his finger on the trigger. The door opened noiselessly, and the second man thrust in an arm holding a pistol; so it remained for half a minute. Frank was convinced that there was no intention of shooting if it could be avoided, and remained perfectly still; then the arm was withdrawn, and another man, holding a knife in one hand and a roll of something in the other, entered. In a moment Frank’s right arm flew up and his pistol cracked out: his assailant fell back and disappeared through the open door. Frank sprang to his feet as he fired, and stood with his pistol levelled towards the window, where the head of the second man had disappeared as his comrade fell backwards.

“He knows I have the best of him now,” Frank muttered to himself; “I don’t think that he will have another try.”

Advancing cautiously, he pulled the door to, lowered the window, and putting a hand out without exposing his head, turned the handle, and then drew up the window again. His foot struck against something as he backed to his seat in the corner. As he still kept his eyes fixed on the window, he paid no attention to this for a minute or two; then he became conscious of a faint odour.

“I expect that is chloroform or ether or something of that sort,” he said, as he lowered the window next to him; and then, still keeping an eye on the door opposite, moved a step forward and picked up a large handkerchief, steeped in a liquid of some sort or other. He was about to open the window and throw it out, when an idea struck him.

“I had better keep it,” he said: “there may be a beastly row over the business, and this handkerchief may be useful in confirming my story.”

He therefore put it up on the rack, lowered the window a few inches, and did the same to the one opposite to it. Then wrapping the handkerchief up in two or three newspapers he had bought by the way, to prevent the liquid from evaporating, he sat down in his corner again. He felt confident that the attack would not be renewed, now he was found to be on the watch and armed. It was probable that the two men were alone, and the one remaining would hardly venture single-handed to take any steps whatever against one who was certain to continue to be vigilant. He had no doubt that he had killed the man he fired at, and that, even if the wound had not been instantly fatal, he would have been killed by his fall from the train.

“It seems horrid,” he muttered, “to have shot a man; but it was just as much his life or mine as it would have been in battle. I hope no one heard the shot fired. I expect that most of the passengers were asleep; and if any one did hear it, he might suppose that a door had come open, or had been opened by a guard, and had been slammed to. Of course, the man’s body will be found on the line in the morning, and I expect there will be some fuss over it; but I hope we shall all be out of the train and scattered through the town before any inquiries are set on foot. If they traced it to me, I might be kept at Marseilles for weeks. Of course, I should be all right; but the delay would be a frightful nuisance. There is one thing,—the guard looked at my ticket just before the train started from the last station, and would know that I was alone in the carriage.”

In a few minutes the speed of the train began to slacken. He knew that the next station was Valence. He closed his eyes and listened as the train stopped. As soon as it did so, he heard a voice from the next carriage shouting for the guard. Then he heard an animated conversation, of which he was able to gather the import.

“The sound of a gun,” the guard said. “Nonsense; you must have been dreaming!”

“I am sure I was not,” a voice said indignantly. “It seemed to me as if it was in the next carriage.”

The guard came to Frank’s window. “Ah, bah!” he said. “There is only one passenger there, an Englishman. He was alone when we left Vienne, and he is sound asleep now.”

“Perhaps he is dead.”

It was possible, and therefore the guard opened the door. “Are you asleep, monsieur?”

Frank opened his eyes. “My ticket?” he asked drowsily. “Why, I showed it you at Vienne.”

“Pardon, monsieur,” the guard said. “I am sorry that I disturbed you. It was a mistake,” and he closed the door, and said angrily to the man who had called him: “It is as I said. You have been asleep; and I have woke the English gentleman up for nothing.”

A minute later the train moved on again.

“So far so good,” Frank said. “I should think that I am all right now. We shall be in at seven, and it will not be daylight till half-past six; and as I fancy that we must have been about midway between Vienne and Vallence when that fellow fell out, it is not likely that his body will be found for some time. They are sure to have chosen some point a good way from any station to get out of their own carriage and come to mine. Even when they find him, they are not likely to make out that he has been shot for some time afterwards. I hit him in the body, somewhere near the heart, I fancy; I did not feel sure of hitting him if I fired at his head, for the carriage was shaking about a good deal. It will probably be thought at first that he has either fallen or jumped out of his carriage. I suppose, when he is found, he will be carried to the nearest station, and put in somewhere till a doctor and some functionaries come, and an inquiry is held; and as he probably has been badly cut about the head and face, his death will be put down to that cause at first. Indeed, the fact that he was shot may not be found out till they prepare him for burial. I suppose they will take off his clothes then, as they will want to keep them for his identification, if any inquiries should ever be made about him. At any rate, I may hope to have got fairly away from Marseilles before the matter is taken up by the police, and even then the evidence of the guard that I was alone will prevent any suspicion falling especially on me.”

He had no inclination for sleep, and although he felt certain that he would not again be disturbed, he maintained a vigilant watch upon both windows until, a few minutes after the appointed time, the train arrived at Marseilles. Having only the small portmanteau he carried with him, he was not detained more than two or three minutes there, took a fiacre and drove to the Hôtel de Marseilles, which his Bradshaw told him was close to the steamboat offices. After going upstairs and having a wash, he went down again, carefully locking the door after him and putting the key in his pocket. He then had some coffee and rolls, and while taking these, obtained from the waiter a time-table of the departures of the various steamers from the port, and found, to his great satisfaction, that one of the Rubattino vessels would leave for Genoa at twelve o’clock.

As soon as the steamboat offices were open he engaged a berth, walked about Marseilles for an hour, returned at ten to the hotel, took a hearty lunch, and then drove down to the port. On questioning the steward he found that there were not many passengers going, and with a tip of five francs secured a cabin to himself; having done this, he went on deck again and watched the passengers arriving. They were principally Italians; but among them he could not recognise the face of the agent who had levelled a pistol at him. Both men had, indeed, worn black handkerchiefs tied across their faces below their eyes and covering their chins, and the broad-brimmed hats they wore kept their foreheads and eyes in shadow; and although he watched his fellow-passengers with the faint hope of discovering by some evil expression on his face his last night’s assailant, he had no real belief that he should, even under the most favourable circumstances, recognise him again.

Two or three of the men wore beards, and seemed to belong to the sailor class—probably men who had landed from a French ship, after perhaps a distant voyage, and were now returning home. He saw no more of these, as they at once went forward. There were only eight other passengers in the saloon; seven of these were Italians, of whom three were evidently friends. Two of the others had, Frank gathered from their talk, just returned from Brazil; the sixth was an old man, and the seventh a traveller for a firm of silk or velvet manufacturers in Genoa. The three friends talked gaily on all sorts of subjects; but nothing that Frank gathered, either from their conversation on deck or at dinner, gave any clue as to their occupation. They had evidently met at Marseilles for the first time after being separated for a considerable period—one had been in England, one at Paris, and one at Bordeaux; their ages were from twenty-three to twenty-six. Their names were, as he learned from their talk, Maffio, Sarto, and Rubini. Before the steamer had left the port half an hour, one of them, seeing that Frank was alone, said to him as he passed, in broken English,—

“It is warmer and pleasanter here, monsieur, than it is in London.”

“It is indeed,” Frank replied, in Italian; “it was miserable weather there, when I left the day before yesterday.”

“Per Bacco!” the young man said, with a laugh, “I took you to be English. Allow me to congratulate you on your admirable imitation of——”

“I am English, signor—that is, I was born of English parents; but I first saw light in Rome, and my grandfather was an Italian.”

This broke the ice, and they chatted together pleasantly.

“We are going to Genoa. And you?”

“I also am going to Genoa, and perhaps”—for he had by this time quite come to a conclusion on the subject—“on the same errand as yourselves.”

The others looked at him in some little surprise, and then glanced at one another. That this young Englishman should be going upon such an expedition as that upon which they were bound, seemed to be out of the question.

“You mean on pleasure, signor?” one of them said, after a pause.

“If excitement is pleasure, which no doubt it is—yes. I am going to visit an old friend of my father’s; he is living a little way out of the town at the Villa Spinola.”

The others gave a simultaneous exclamation of surprise.

“That is enough, signor,” the one called Rubini said, holding out his hand; “we are comrades. Though how a young English gentleman should come to be of our party, I cannot say.”

The others shook hands as warmly with Frank; and he then replied,—

“No doubt you are surprised. My father fought side by side with the man I am now going to see, in the siege of Rome, so also did my grandfather; and both have since paid by their lives for their love of Italy. My name is Percival.”

“The son of the Captain Percival who was murdered while searching in Naples for Signor Forli?” one of them exclaimed.

“The same. So, gentlemen, you can perhaps understand why I am going to the Villa Spinola, and why, young as I am, I am as eager to take part in this business as you yourselves can be.”

“Yes, indeed; your father’s name is honoured among us as one of our general’s friends and companions in South America, and as one of his comrades at Rome; still more, perhaps, for his fearless exposure of the horrors of the tyrants’ dungeons. However, it were best that we should say no more on the subject at present. It is certain that the general’s presence at Genoa is causing uneasiness both at Rome and Naples. Rumours that he intends to carry out some daring enterprise have appeared in newspapers, and no doubt Neapolitan spies are already watching his movements, and it may be there are some on board this ship. Our great fear is that Victor Emmanuel’s government may interfere to stop it; but we doubt whether he will venture to do so—public opinion will be too strong for him.”

“No one can overhear us just at present,” Frank said. “Certainly the Neapolitan spies are active. My mother’s house is frequented by many leading exiles; and we have reason to believe that it has been watched by a spy for some time past. I know that I have been followed, under the idea, perhaps, that I am carrying important papers or documents from the general’s friends there. An attempt was made last night to enter the carriage, in which I was alone, by two men, one of whom was armed with a pistol, and the other had a handkerchief soaked with chloroform. Fortunately, I was on my guard, and shot the fellow who was entering with the handkerchief; he fell backwards out of the carriage; I heard nothing more of the other one, and for aught I know he may be on board now.”

“You did well indeed!” Sarto said warmly. “I was in the next carriage to you. I did not hear the sound of your pistol-shot—I was fast asleep; but we were all woke up by a fellow-passenger who declared he heard a gunshot. When we reached Valence he called the guard, who said that he must have been dreaming, for there was only a young Englishman in the next carriage, and he knew that when it left the last station he was alone. When the train went on we all abused the fellow soundly for waking us with his ridiculous fancies; but it seems that he was right after all. You say there was another. What became of him?”

“I saw nothing more of him. He may be on board, for aught I know, for they had black handkerchiefs tied over their faces up to the eyes, and as their hats were pulled well down, I should not know him if I saw him.”

“Well, you have struck the first blow in the war, and I regard it as a good omen; but you must be careful to-night, for if the fellow is on board he is likely to make another attempt; and this time, I should say, he would begin by stabbing you. Are you in a cabin by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then one of us will sit up by turns. You must have had a bad night indeed, while we slept without waking, except when I was aroused by that fellow making such a row.”

“Oh, I could not think of that!”

“It must be done,” Rubini said earnestly. “However, I will lay the mattress of the spare bed of your cabin against the door, and lie down on it—that will do just as well. It will be impossible then to open the door; and if any one tries to do so, I shall be on my feet in a moment. I shall sleep just as well like that as in my berth. I have slept in much more uncomfortable places, and am sure to do so again before this business is over.”

“Thank you very much. I will not refuse so kind an offer, for I doubt greatly whether I could keep awake to-night.”

“Now let us say no more about it, for we may be quite sure that the man is still on your track, and there may be other Neapolitan agents on board. We cannot be too careful. It may be that old man who was sitting facing us at the table, it may be that little fellow who looks like the agent of a commercial house, and it may be one of the two men who say they come from South America; there is no telling. But at any rate, let us drop the subject altogether. We have said nothing at present that even a spy could lay hold of, beyond the fact that you are going to the Villa Spinola, which means to Garibaldi.”

They did not go up on deck again after dinner, but sat chatting in the saloon until nine o’clock, when Frank said that he could keep his eyes open no longer. After allowing him time to get into his berth, Rubini came in, took off his coat and waistcoat, pulled the mattress and bedding from the other bunk, and lay down on it with his head close to the door.

“Will you take one of my pistols, Rubini?” for by this time they called each other simply by their surnames.

“No, thank you; if the scoundrel tries to open the door and finds that he cannot do so, you may be sure that he will move off at once. He has been taught that you are handy with your weapons.”

Frank was sleeping soundly when he was woke by Rubini’s sharp challenge, “Who goes there?” It was pitch dark, and he was about to leap from his bunk, when Rubini said,—

“It is no use getting up. By the time I got this bed away and opened the door, the fellow would be at the other end of the boat. We may as well lie quiet. He is not likely to try again; and, indeed, I should not care about going outside the door, for it is pitch dark, and he might at the present moment be crouching outside in readiness to stab you as you came out. However, he is more likely to be gone now, for directly he heard us talking he would know that his game was up.” He struck a match. “It is just two o’clock,” he said; “we may as well have four hours’ more sleep.”

In a few minutes Frank was sound asleep again, and when he awoke it was daylight. Looking at the watch, he found that it was seven o’clock. “Seven o’clock, Rubini!” he said.

The Italian sat up and stretched his arms and yawned. “I have had a capital night. However, it is time to get up; we must turn out at once. We can’t be far from Genoa now; we are due there at eight o’clock, so we shall just have comfortable time for a wash and a cup of coffee before going ashore.”

Frank dressed hastily, and then ran up on deck, where he stood admiring the splendid coast, and the town of Genoa climbing up the hill, with its churches, campaniles, and its suburbs embedded in foliage. They were just entering the port when Maffio came up to him.

“Coffee is ready,” he said. “You had better come down and take it while it is hot. We shall have the custom-house officers off before we land, so there is no hurry.”

After making a meal on coffee with an abundance of milk, rolls and butter, Frank went up again. He then, at the advice of Rubini, drew the charges of his pistols and placed them in his portmanteau.

“We must go ashore in a boat,” Sarto said. “I have just heard the captain say that the wharves are so full that he may not be able to take the vessel alongside for a couple of hours.”

“Are you going anywhere in particular when you land?” Frank asked.

“We all belong to Genoa, and have friends here. Why do you ask?”

“Could you spare me an hour of your time to-day? I should not ask you, but it is rather important.”

“Certainly; we are all at your service,” Rubini said in some surprise. “At what hour shall we meet you, and where?”

“I am going to the Hotel Europa. Any time will suit me, so that it is a couple of hours before dusk. I will tell you what it is when you meet me; it is better not to speak of it here.”

The young men consulted together. “We will go to our friends,” Rubini said, “take our things there and spend an hour, and will call upon you, if convenient, at eleven o’clock.”

“Thank you; and you will see, when I have explained my reason for troubling you, that I have not done so wantonly.”

They landed at the step of the customs. “Have you anything to declare?” the official asked Frank, after his passport had been examined and stamped.

“I have nothing but this small portmanteau, which contains only clothes and a brace of pistols. I suppose one can land with them on payment of duty.”

“Certainly, monsieur; but why should an Englishman want them?”

“I intend to make a walking tour through Italy”—speaking as before in English; “and there are parts of the country where, after dark, I should feel more comfortable for having them in my pockets.”

“You are strange people, you Englishmen,” the officer said; “but, after all, you are not far wrong, though it seems to me that it would be wiser to give up what you carry about you than to make a show of resistance which would end in getting your throat cut.” He glanced at the pistols, named the amount of duty chargeable; and when this was paid, Frank nodded to his companions, who were being much more rigorously examined, took one of the vehicles standing outside the custom-house, and drove to the Hotel Europa.

CHAPTER VI.

THE VILLA SPINOLA

AFTER taking a room and seeing his portmanteau carried up there, Frank went out for an hour and looked at the shops in the principal street; then he returned to the hotel, and stood at the entrance until his three friends arrived. He had again loaded his pistols and placed them in his pocket, and had engaged an open vehicle that was now standing at the door.

“Let us start at once,” he said; “gentlemen, if you will take your places with me, I will explain the matter to you as we drive along.”

They took their seats.

“Drive to the Strada de Livourno,” he said to the coachman; “I will tell you the house when we get there. Now, my friends,” he went on, as the carriage started, “I will explain what may seem singular to you. My mother has sent out a letter which contained, I may say, a considerable sum to be used by the general for the purposes of this expedition. It had been intended that I should bring it; but when we discovered that there was a spy in the house, and that our cabinets had been ransacked and our conversation overheard, it was thought almost certain that an attempt would be made to rob me of the letter on the way. Finally, after much discussion, it was agreed to send the letter by post to the care of the Countess of Mongolfiere, who is an old friend of Signora Forli, my grandmother; she was convinced that I should be watched from the moment I landed, and advised me not to go to see the countess until I could take three of Garibaldi’s followers with me, and that after accompanying me to her house, they should drive with me to the Villa Spinola. Now you will understand why I have asked you to give up a portion of your first day to come to aid me.”

“I think your friends were very right in giving you the advice, Percival. After the two attempts that have been made—I will not say to kill you—but to search you and your luggage, it is certain that Francisco’s agents must have obtained information that you were carrying money, and perhaps documents of importance, and that they would not take their eyes off you until either they had gained their object or discovered that you had handed the parcel over to the general. I have no doubt that they are following you now in some vehicle or other.”

On arrival at the villa of the Countess of Mongolfiere, Frank sent in his card, and on this being taken in, was at once invited to enter. The countess was a lady of about the same age as Signora Forli.

“I am glad to see you, Signor Percival,” she said. “I have received the letter from Madame Forli with its enclosure.”

“I have brought you another note from her, madame la contessa,” he said, presenting it, “as a proof of my identity; for the matter is of importance, as you may well suppose, from the manner in which this letter was sent to you, instead of by the post direct to me.”

“So I supposed, signor. Signora Forli said that it concerned the good of the cause; and the manner in which she begged me to lock it up at once on my receiving it, was sufficient to show that it either contained money for the cause or secrets that the agents of the foes of freedom would be glad to discover. The mere fact that she gave no particulars convinced me that she considered it best that I should be in the dark, so that, should the letter fall into other hands, I could say truly that I had not expected its arrival, and knew nothing whatever of the matter to which it related.”

“It contains drafts for a considerable sum of money, signora, for the use of Garibaldi. The general, being ignorant of my father’s death, had written to him, asking him to join him, and recalling his promise to assist with money. My father, unfortunately, could no longer give personal service, but as he had for years put by a certain portion of his income for this purpose, my mother had it in her power to send this money. It was intended that I should bring it; but we found that all our doings were watched, and that, therefore, there was considerable danger of my being followed and robbed upon the way; and Signora Forli then suggested that she should send it direct to you, as possibly a letter addressed to me here might fall into the hands of the Neapolitan agents.”

“It was a very good plan,” the countess said. “And have you been molested on the way?”

“Attempts have been made on two occasions—once in the train on my way to Marseilles, and once on board the steamer coming here.”

“You must be careful even now, signor. If you are watched as closely as it would seem, you may be robbed before you can hand this letter over to the general. There is nothing at which these men will hesitate in order to carry out their instructions. You might be arrested in the streets by two or three men disguised as policemen, and carried away and confined in some lonely place; you might be accused of a theft and given in charge on some trumped-up accusation, in order that your luggage and every article belonging to you might be thoroughly searched, before you could prove your entire innocence. I can quite understand that, when you first started, the object was simply to search for any papers you might be carrying, and if this could be done without violence it would be so effected, although, if murder was necessary, they would not have hesitated at it; and even now, guessing as they will that you have come here, directly you have landed, to obtain some important document, they would, if they could find an opportunity, do anything to obtain it, before you can deliver it to Garibaldi.”

“I quite feel that, signora, and have three young Garibaldian officers waiting in a carriage below for me, and they will drive with me to the Villa Spinola.”

“That will make you perfectly safe,” and she then rose from her seat, opened a secret drawer in an antique cabinet, and handed him the letter. “Now, Signor Percival,” she said, “this has been a visit of business, but I hope that when you have this charge off your mind you will, as the grandson of my old friend Signora Forli, come often to see me while you are here. I am always at home in the evening, and it will be a great pleasure to me to hear more of her than she tells me in her letters.”

Thanking the countess for her invitation, and saying that he should certainly avail himself of it, he went down and again took his place in the carriage.

“Have you found all as you wished?” Sarto asked.

“Yes; I have the letter in my pocket.”

“That is good news. Knowing what these secret agents are able to accomplish, I did not feel at all sure that they might not in some way have learned how the money was to be sent, and have managed to intercept the letter.”

Having given instructions to the driver where to go, they chatted as they drove along of the proposed expedition.

“None of us know yet,” Rubini said, “whether it is against the Papal States or Naples. We all received the telegram we had for some time been hoping for, with the simple word ‘Come.’ However, it matters not a bit to us whether we first free the Pope’s dominions or Francisco’s.”

“Will you go in with me to see Garibaldi?”

“No; we have already received orders that, until we are called upon, it is best that we should remain quietly with our families. Were a large number of persons to pay visits to him, the authorities would know that the time was close at hand when he intended to start on an expedition of some kind. The mere fact that we have come here to stay for a time with our friends is natural enough; but we may be sure that everything that passes at the villa is closely watched. It is known, I have no doubt, that an expedition is intended, and Cavour may wait to prevent it from starting, until the last moment; therefore I should say that it is important that no one should know on what date Garibaldi intends to sail until the hour actually arrives. How we are to get ships to carry us, how many are going, and how we are to obtain arms, are matters that don’t concern us. We are quite content to wait until word comes to us, ‘Be at such a place, at such an hour.’”

“I would give something to know which among the men we are passing are those who have been on your track,” Sarto remarked. “It would be such a satisfaction to laugh in their faces and to shout, ‘Have you had a pleasant journey?’ or, ‘We congratulate you,’ or something of that sort.”

“They feel sore enough without that,” Maffio said. “They are unscrupulous villains; but to do them justice, they are shrewd ones, and work their hardest for their employers, and it is not very often that they fail; and you have a right to congratulate yourself that for once they have been foiled. It is certainly a feather in your cap, Percival, that you and your friends have succeeded in outwitting them.”

They had now left the city and were driving along the coast road towards the Villa Spinola. There were only a few people on the road.

“You see, it is well that we came in force,” Sarto remarked; “for had you been alone, the carriage might very well have been stopped, and yourself seized and carried off, without there being any one to notice the affair. I have no doubt that even now there is a party somewhere behind a wall or a hedge, in waiting for you; they would probably be sent here as soon as you landed, and would not be recalled, as, until you left the house of the countess, all hope that you would drive along this road alone would not be at an end.”

“We shall call and see you this evening, and we all hope that you will use our homes as your own while you are staying here,” Rubini said. “We can introduce you to numbers of our friends, all of our way of thinking, and will do our best to make your stay at Genoa as pleasant as possible. It may be some time before all is ready for a start, and until that is the case you will have nothing to do, and certainly Garibaldi will not want visitors.”

“I shall be pleased indeed to avail myself of your kindness,” Frank said. “It will be a great pleasure to me to see something of Italian society, and I should find time hang very heavy on my hands at the hotel, where there are, I know, very few visitors staying at present.”

“That is the villa,” Rubini said, pointing to a large house surrounded by a high wall.

“Will you take my vehicle back?”

“No; we shall walk. I should advise you to keep the carriage, however long you may stay here. These fellows will be very sore at finding they have failed, after all the trouble they have taken in the matter. I don’t say that they will be watching for you; but if they should come across you in a lonely spot, I think it is very probable that they would not hesitate to get even with you with the stab of a knife between your shoulders.”

Alighting, Frank rang at the bell. His friends stood chatting with him until a man, after looking through a grill in the gate, came out; and then, feeling that their mission was safely accomplished, they started for their walk back in high spirits.

“I do not know whether the general is in at present, signor,” the man said, as Frank was about to enter. “May I ask your business?”

“If you will take this card to him, I am sure that he will see me.”

In three minutes the gates were opened. Frank entered on foot, and would have left the carriage outside; but the porter said,—

“It had better come in, signor; carriages standing at a gate attract attention.”

Garibaldi was seated in a room with two men, who were, as Frank afterwards learned, Bixio and Crispi. Garibaldi had risen from his seat and was looking inquiringly at the door as the lad entered.

“Welcome, Signor Percival! You have come, doubtless, on the part of my dear friend your father. Has he not come with you? I trust that he is but delayed.”

“I come on the part of my mother, general,” Frank replied. “I lost my father more than a year ago.”

“And I had not heard of it!” the general exclaimed. “Alas! alas! for my friend and comrade; this is indeed a heavy blow to me. I looked forward so much to seeing him. Oh, how many friends have I lost in the past two years! And so your mother has sent you to me?”

“She bade me give you this letter, general.”

The letter was not a long one. Mrs. Percival briefly told how her husband had set out to endeavour to find where Professor Forli was imprisoned, how he had been attacked and killed by brigands, and how she, knowing what her husband’s wishes would have been, had sent her son. “He is young,” she said, “but not so young as many of those who have fought under you. He is as eager and enthusiastic in the cause of Italian liberty as was his father, having, as you may well suppose, learned the tale from my husband and myself, and my father and mother. As you will see, he speaks Italian as well as English, and I pray you, for the sake of my husband, to take him on your staff; or, if that cannot be, he will shoulder a musket and march with you. He does not come empty-handed. My husband has for years laid by a certain amount to be used in the good cause when the time came. He will tell you where it is to be obtained, and how. I wish you success with all my heart, and if the prayers of two widowed women will avail aught, you will have them daily. It is my only son I give you, and a widow cannot give more. The money is from my husband; the boy is from me.”

Garibaldi’s eyes filled with tears as he read the letter.

“Your mother is a noble woman indeed! How could she be otherwise, as the daughter of Forli and the wife of my brave comrade? Surely you will be most welcome to me, young man—welcome if you came only as your mother’s gift to Italy.”

Frank opened the envelope, which was directed to himself, and took out five slips of thin paper.

“These are bills, general,” he said, handing them to him. “They are drawn upon a bank at Genoa, and are each for two thousand pounds.”

“Francs, you must mean, surely?” Garibaldi said.

“No, general; they are English pounds.”

Exclamations of surprise and gratification broke from Garibaldi and his two companions.

“This is a royal gift!” the former cried. “My brave comrade is not here to help us; but he has sent us a wonderful proof of his love for the cause. It is noble!—it is superb! This will indeed be aid to us,” he went on, holding out his two hands to Frank. “We are strong in men, we are strong in brave hearts, but money is scarce with us, though many have given all that they possess. I know, lad, how you English object to be embraced,—were it not for that, I would take you to my heart; but a hand-clasp will say as much.”

The two officers were almost as much excited as Garibaldi himself, for this gift would remove one of the obstacles that lay in their way. By means of a subscription contributed in small amounts by patriots all over Italy for the purchase of arms, twelve thousand good muskets had been bought and stored at Milan, together with ammunition. When, a few days before Frank’s arrival, Crispi, with some other of Garibaldi’s officers, had gone to fetch them, they found that Cavour had placed a guard of royal troops over the magazine, with orders that nothing whatever was to be taken out. Heavy though the blow had been, the Garibaldian agents were already at work buying arms, but with no hope of collecting more than sufficient for the comparatively small force that would sail for Sicily. Even this addition of funds would not avail to supply that deficiency, as it was very difficult for the general’s agents, closely watched as they now were, to purchase military weapons.

For some time the conversation turned entirely upon the steps to be taken, now that the war-chest had been so unexpectedly replenished. Then Garibaldi put aside the papers on which he had been taking notes, and said,—

“Enough for the time, Signor Percival. I shall, of course, write myself to your good mother, expressing my heartfelt thanks, and telling her that if success attends us, she can be happy in the knowledge that it will be largely due to her. You will, naturally, yourself write home and tell her what joy her gift occasioned, how much it added to our hopes and relieved us of our difficulties. Tell her that I have appointed you as a lieutenant on my staff, and that I shall trust you as I trusted your noble father.”

“I thank you greatly, general; I hope to prove myself worthy of your confidence.”

“And now, sir, will you advise me as to your own movements?”

“I have put up at the Hotel Europa.”

“At present it will be best for you to stay there. We are anxious that there should be no appearance of any gathering here, and my friends will not assemble until all the preparations are completed. How did you come over here?”

“I drove, General; the carriage is waiting for me.”

“Then it must wait for awhile; or, better still, it can carry my two friends here to the town, where they have much to do. In future it will be best for you to walk over; ‘tis but a short distance, and I know that you English are good walkers. Of course, the authorities know that I am here; there is no concealment about that. As long as they do not see any signs of preparations for a movement, they will leave me alone. As probably your prolonged stay at the hotel may excite curiosity, it is well that you should visit the galleries and palaces, and take excursions in the neighbourhood. It may be as well, too, that you should mention casually at the table-d’hôte that you know me, as your father was a great friend of mine when we were together in South America, which will account for your paying visits here frequently. We know that we are being closely looked after by government spies, and must therefore omit no precaution. Now I wish you to take lunch with me, as I have many questions to ask you. I had heard, of course, of Signor Forli being missing, and of the correspondence between your government and that of Naples on the subject.”

Frank went out and told the driver that he should not be returning for some time, but that two gentlemen would go back in the carriage in a few minutes. “As I took the carriage from the hotel, the hire will, of course, be charged in my bill; but here are a couple of francs for yourself.”

In two or three minutes the Italian officers came out, and thanking Frank for the accommodation, drove away, while the lad himself re-entered the villa.

“The meal is ready,” Garibaldi said, when he entered the room where he had left him. “It is very pleasant to me to turn my thoughts for once from the subject of my expedition.”

The meal was a very simple one, though the general had ordered one or two extra dishes in honour of his guest.

“Now,” he said, when they had sat down, and the servant had retired, “tell me first of all about the loss of my dear friend.”

Frank related the story of his father going out to search for Signor Forli, and how he had been captured and killed by brigands. As the general listened, his kindly face grew stern and hard, but he did not speak until Frank brought the tale to an end.

“Cospetto!” he exclaimed, “he may have been killed by brigands, but I doubt not the Neapolitan government were at the bottom of it. I would wager any money that they hired the men of the mountains to disembarrass them of one who was exposing the horrible secrets of their prisons. And you say that his body could not be found. Was the search made for it simply by the carabinieri?”

“It was made by them, sir, but the secretary of our legation accompanied them, and wrote that, although he had himself searched everywhere in the neighbourhood of the hut, he could find no traces whatever of a newly made grave. I may say that Signora Forli still believes that my father was not killed, but was, like her husband, carried off to some dungeon.”

“It is possible,” the general said, “though I would not encourage you to hope; the ways of these people are so dark that there is no fathoming them. Since his grave could not be found, I regard it as certain that he was not buried there, for his captors would not have troubled to carry his body far, but would have dug a hole close by and thrown the earth over the body; and in that case, when the band returned, one or the other of the men who did the work would most likely have carelessly pointed to the spot, and said, ‘There lies the Englishman.’ But though I believe that he did not die there, he might have died elsewhere. His wounds were evidently very severe, and they may have proved fatal after he was carried off by those who took him away from the brigands; if they were not fatal, he may have been murdered afterwards.”

“Signora Forli thought, general, that it was more probable that he had been taken to one of the prisons, and that, just as they hunted down the brigands in order that none of these should have power to betray them, so they might have preferred putting him in prison to having him murdered, because in the latter case the men employed might go to the British legation and accept a large sum for betraying the secret.”

“It may have been so,” the general said; “and if we succeed, perhaps you will find both your father and grandfather. But do not cherish false hopes. Even if both were once in the Neapolitan dungeons, they may before this have succumbed to their treatment there. You have mourned them as dead; do not buoy yourself up with hope, for if you did so, the chances are all in favour of your suffering a terrible disappointment.”

“That is just what my mother impressed upon me, general. She said that from the first she had never allowed herself to think of my father as in prison; and it was not until she received your letter, and thought that at last there was really a chance that the inmost cells of all the prisons would be opened, she would admit a possibility of my father still being alive.”

“At least, she and you will have the consolation that if you do not find those dear to you, you will have aided in restoring fathers and husbands to hundreds of other grieving wives, mothers, and children.”

“May I ask how large a force you are likely to take over with you, general?”

“If the government had remained neutral and not interfered with me, we could have found men for the twelve thousand muskets they have seized; as it is, we have been obliged to write letters to all parts of Italy, stopping the volunteers who were preparing to join us. Some of these letters will doubtless fall into the hands of the authorities, and we have therefore so worded them that it may be supposed that the expedition has been altogether given up. A thousand men is the utmost that we can hope to embark secretly. These will be all picked men and gallant fellows who fought under me in the Alps, or men who have, like myself, been for years living as exiles. These thousand I have chosen, every one; they will die fighting, and will never turn their back to an enemy. Would that I had them all safely landed in Sicily, and had surmounted all the difficulties and dangers that are caused by the hostility of the government, which will, however, be glad enough to take advantage of our work.”

“My mother thought that you would probably form the Neapolitan States, if you conquered them, into a republic.”

“That was my dream when I was fighting at Rome but I see now that it is impossible. I am for a republic on principle, but I must take what I can get. I cannot conceal from myself that my experience of Mazzini and other enthusiasts is that they are not practical, they commit terrible blunders, and the matter ends in a dictatorship, as has twice been the case in France. Mazzini would sacrifice the practical to gain his ideal. I care nothing for theory—I want to see Italy free; and this can only be done under Victor Emmanuel. He is popular and energetic. His father suffered for his devotion to the cause of freedom. The son is a stronger man; but at present he is forced by Cavour and the other temporisers who surround him to curb his own impetuosity.

“I don’t like Cavour—he gave up my birthplace, Nice, to France; but, at the same time, I respect his great ability, and am sure that as soon as he feels the opportunity has come, he will grasp it, and the king will not hesitate to accept the possessions that I hope to gain for him. With Victor Emmanuel King of Northern and Southern Italy, the rest is simple. Then Italy can afford to wait its opportunity for driving the Austrians from Venezia, and becoming, for the first time since the days of the Romans, a united kingdom. When I hoist my banner in Sicily, it will be as a soldier of Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy.”

Frank was pleased to hear this. His father, though an advanced liberal in matters connected with Italy, was a strong conservative at home; and Frank had naturally imbibed his ideas, which were that the people of a constitutional monarchy, like that under which he lived, were in every respect freer and better governed than under any republic, still more so than they could be under a republic constituted according to the theories of Mazzini or those of the authors of the first and second French revolutions.

“By the way, you must have found it a terrible responsibility carrying so much money with you.”

“I did not carry it, general. The bills were, with the letter to you, sent by post to the care of the Countess of Mongolfiere, who was a friend of Signora Forli.”

“That was hazardous, too,” the general said, shaking his head. “To trust ten thousand pounds to the post was a terrible risk.”

“It was the best way that we could think of, general. The courier who was with my father when he was killed came over to see my mother at her request, as she wished to hear every detail about my father’s last days. He professed a great fear of returning to Italy, as, having given evidence against the brigands, he would be a marked man.”

“There is no doubt that is so,” Garibaldi put in. “His life would not have been worth a day’s purchase. These scoundrels have their agents in every town, men who keep them informed as to persons travelling, whom it would be worth while to capture, and of any movements of the carabinieri in their direction.”

“My mother, therefore, took him into her service,” Frank went on; “but two days before I started, she discovered that he had been acting as a spy, had been opening her desk, examining her letters, and listening at the door. She and Signora Forli had no doubt whatever that he had made himself acquainted with the contents of your letter, and believed that I was going to carry this money to you.”

“The villains!” Garibaldi exclaimed, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table: “it is just what they would do. I know that many of my friends enjoyed your father’s hospitality; and no doubt it would be a marked house, and the secret police of Francisco would keep an eye over what was being done there, and would, if possible, get one of their agents into it. This man, who had no doubt acted as a spy over your father when he was in Italy, would be naturally chosen for the work; and his story and pretence of fear served admirably to get him installed there. If he had learned that you were about to start to bring me ten thousand pounds, and perhaps papers of importance, it would have been nothing short of a miracle had you arrived safely with them.”

“That was what Signora Forli and my mother thought, sir. They were afraid to send the letter directed to me at the hotel where I was to stop, as the man would doubtless telegraph to agents out at Genoa, and they would get possession of it; so instead of doing so, they enclosed it in a letter to the countess. I posted it myself, and there was therefore no chance of the letter being lost, except by pure accident.”

“But if the spy did not know that you had sent the letter off by post, it would render your journey no less hazardous than if you had taken it with you.”

“My mother and the Signora were both convinced that an attempt would be made to search me and my baggage on the way, but they did not think that they would try to take my life; for after what had happened to my grandfather and father, there would be no question that my murder was the work of Neapolitan agents, and a storm of indignation would thus be caused.”

Garibaldi nodded. “No doubt they were right, and if the scoundrels could have got possession of what you carried without injury to you they would have done so. But they would have stuck at nothing in order to carry out their object; and had you caught them while they were engaged in searching your clothes or baggage, they would not have hesitated to use their knives. I cannot now understand how you have come through without their having meddled with you. It might have been done when you were asleep in an hotel, or they might have drugged you in a railway carriage, or in your cabin on board the steamer coming here. The secret police of Naples is the only well-organised department in the kingdom. They have agents in London, Paris, and other cities, and from the moment you left your mother’s house you must have been watched. Are you sure that, although you may not know it, you have not been searched?”

“I am quite sure, sir. We were so certain I should be watched that I made no attempt to get off secretly, but started by the train I had intended to travel by. I did not stop a night at an hotel all the way, and made a point of getting into railway carriages that contained other passengers. It happened, however, that at Vienne the last of those with me alighted. It was one o’clock in the morning when we left the station, and I felt sure that if an attempt was made, it would be before we stopped, especially as a man looked into the carriage just before we were starting, and then went away. I had a loaded pistol in each pocket and a rug over me, and I sat in the corner pretending to be asleep. An hour later a man came and looked in; another joined him. The door was partly opened, and an arm with an extended pistol pointed at me, but I felt perfectly sure that he had no intention of firing unless I woke.

“Half a minute later his comrade entered the carriage. He had an open knife in one hand, and a cloth in the other; but as he came in I shot him; he fell back through the carriage door. Whether in doing so he knocked his comrade down or not, I cannot say; but, at any rate, I saw no more of him. The man whom I shot had dropped what he held in his hand on to the floor. It was as I had expected—a handkerchief, soaked with chloroform. It was seven when I arrived at Marseilles. Fortunately, a steamer left at twelve. When I went on board I made the acquaintance of three young men, who were, I guessed, on the same errand as myself; their names were Rubini, Sarto, and Maffio. We soon became very friendly, and I found that my conjectures were correct. This being so, I told them what had happened; and as there was no one besides myself in my cabin, Rubini most kindly laid a mattress across the door and slept there. As I had not had a wink of sleep the night before, and only dozed a little the one before that, I should have had great difficulty in keeping awake. In the course of the night some one did attempt to open the door; but he was unable to do so on account of the mattress placed there, and we heard no more of him. I asked these gentlemen to come to the Hotel Europa at eleven, for I was really afraid to come along the road here by myself. They drove with me to the house of the countess, and then here, so that I was well guarded.”

“I know them all well,” Garibaldi said. “Rubini is a lieutenant in the Genoese company of my cacciatori; the others are in his company. You have done well indeed, my friend; it needed courage to start on such a journey, knowing that Francisco’s police were on your track. You have a right to feel proud that your vigilance and quickness defeated their attempt. It is well that you met Rubini and his friends; for as the spies would know directly you entered the palazzo of the countess that you had gone there for some special purpose, probably to obtain documents sent to her, I doubt whether you would have been able to come safely alone, even if the road had been fairly well thronged.”

“I should not have gone to the countess’s unless I had an escort, general. My intention was to come to you in the first place, and ask that three of your officers might accompany me to get the letter; but, of course, after having found friends who would act as my escort, there was no occasion to do so. I suppose there is no fear of my being further annoyed?”

“I should think not,” Garibaldi said; “now they know that your mission has been carried out, you will cease to be of interest to them. But at the same time, it would be well to be cautious. If the fellow you shot was the leader of those charged to prevent the supplies and letter coming to me, we may consider that there is an end of the affair. His death will give a step to some one, and they will owe you no ill will. If, however, the other man was the chief of the party, he would doubtless owe you a grudge. He is sure to be blamed for having been thus baffled by a lad; whereas had he succeeded, he would have received the approval of his superiors. I think, therefore, if I were you, I should abstain from going out after nightfall, unless with a companion, or if you do so, keep in the great thoroughfares and avoid quiet streets. That habit of carrying a loaded pistol in your pocket has proved a valuable one, and I should advise you to continue it so long as you are here. If you see Rubini, tell him that I thank him for the aid he and his friends rendered you. He and the others have all been instructed not to come here until they receive a communication that the time for action has arrived. My followers send me their addresses as soon as they reach Genoa, so that I can summon them when they are needed. It would never do for numbers of men to present themselves here. The authorities know perfectly well that I am intending to make an expedition to Sicily; but as long as they see no signs of activity, and their spies tell them that only some half-dozen of my friends frequent this villa, they may be content to abstain from interference with me; indeed, I do not think that in any case they would venture to prevent my sailing, unless they receive urgent remonstrances from Austria or France. Were such remonstrances made, they would now be able to reply that, so far as they can learn, I am remaining here quietly, and am only visited by a few private friends.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE EXPEDITION SAILS.

FRANK spent a pleasant three weeks in Genoa. The three young men did all in their power to make the time pass agreeably to him: they introduced him to their families and friends; one or the other of them always accompanied him to the theatre or opera, or, as much more frequently happened, to gatherings at their own houses or at those of acquaintances. Many of these were, like themselves, members of the Genoese corps; and both as a relative of two men who had sacrificed their lives in the cause of freedom, and especially for the aid that his mother had sent to Garibaldi to enable him to carry out his plans, he was everywhere most warmly received. He himself had not told, even his three friends, the amount that his mother had contributed; but Garibaldi’s companions had mentioned it to others, and it soon became known to all interested in the expedition.

Twice a week Frank drove out to Quarto. Matters had been steadily progressing. A thousand rifles, but of a very inferior kind, had been obtained from Farini, and a few hundred of a better class had been bought. These latter were for the use of Garibaldi’s own band, while the others would be distributed among such Sicilians as might join him on his landing. These would for the most part come armed, as large numbers of guns and stores of ammunition had been accumulated in the island for use in the futile insurrection a few months previously.

On May 5th all was ready. Frank paid his hotel bill, left his trunk to be placed in the store-room until he should send or return for it, and with a bundle, in which his sword was wrapped up in his blanket, cloak, and a light waterproof sheet, and with a bag containing his red shirts and other small belongings, together with his pistols and a good supply of ammunition, drove to the Villa Spinola. On the previous day he had sent on there a saddle and bridle, valise and holsters. The horses were to be bought in Sicily. Outside all seemed as quiet as usual, but once within the gates there was a great change. A score of gentlemen were strolling in little groups in the garden, talking excitedly; these were almost all new arrivals, and consequently unknown to Frank, who passed on into the house where Garibaldi, the officers of his staff, and other principal officers were engaged in discussing the final arrangements. Most of the staff were known to him, as they had been there for some days. He joined three or four of the younger men, who were sitting smoking in a room on the ground floor while the council was being held.

“So at last the day has arrived, lieutenant,” one of them said. “I think everything augurs well for us. I am convinced that the government do not mean to interfere with us, but are adopting the policy of shutting their eyes. Of course, they will disavow us, but they will not dare to stop us. They must know what is going on; there are too many people in the secret for it not to have leaked out. I don’t know whether you noticed it, but I could see, when I was in the city this morning, that there was a general excitement; people met and talked earnestly; every stranger, and there are a good many there to-day, is watched eagerly. You see, there is no ship of war in the port, which there certainly would have been, had they intended to stop us.”

“I shall be very glad when we are well at sea,” Frank said, “though I agree with you that it is not likely we shall be interfered with.”

They chatted for upwards of an hour, and the council broke up. A list was handed round, appointing the boats to which the various officers were told off; and Frank found that he was to go in the third that left the shore, together with Orsini, commander of the second company, and Turr, the first aide-de-camp of the general. The hours passed slowly. No regular meals were served, but food was placed on a long table, and each could go in and take refreshments as he pleased. The new-comers, and indeed all the officers, with the exception of two or three of Garibaldi’s most trusted friends, were still in ignorance as to how they were to obtain vessels to take them to Messina, and Frank, who was behind the scenes, listened with some amusement to the wild conjectures that they hazarded. He knew that the matter had been privately arranged with the owners of the Rubattino line of steamers that the Lombardo and Piemonte, both of which were in the harbour, should be seized by the Garibaldians. They were warm adherents of the national cause, but could not, of course, appear openly in the matter. They had already been paid the sum agreed on for any damage or injury that might happen to the vessels; while openly they would be able to protest loudly against the seizure of their ships, and, like the government, profess entire ignorance of what was going on. Only a few hands would be left on board. These were to offer a feigned resistance, but were to make no noise.

Among Garibaldi’s followers were several engineers, who were to take command of and assist in the engine-rooms. In order to save time, the Lombardo, which was much the larger of the two vessels, was to take the Piemonte in tow. There was still, however, some anxiety on the part of the leaders lest, at the last moment, the government should intervene, seize the arms, and take possession of the steamers. The seizure of the great magazine of arms at Milan showed that Cavour was in earnest in his endeavour to put a stop to an expedition of whose success he had not the slightest hope; but whether he would risk the ferment that would be excited, were Garibaldi and his followers to be seized at the moment of starting, was doubtful.

This was a question that had been discussed time after time by Garibaldi and his friends. That the minister was well informed as to all the preparations, the purchase of fresh arms, and the arrival of so many men at Genoa, was certain; but he could not know the exact hour at which the expedition was to start, nor even be sure that it might not march down the coast, and take ship at some other port than Genoa.

Ignorant as were the great bulk of those gathered at the Villa Spinola of Garibaldi’s plans, they knew that the movement was to begin that night, and there was a general feeling of restlessness and excitement as evening approached. From time to time messengers brought news from the city. All was well; there was no unusual stir among the troops. The police went about their usual duties unconcernedly, and apparently without noticing the suppressed excitement of the population. At nightfall the word was passed round that all were to lie down as they could, as there would be no movement until one o’clock. The order was obeyed, but there was little sleep. It was known that Bixio and some other officers had already left the villa; and a whisper had run round that they were going to seize some ships, and that the embarkation would take place before morning.

At one o’clock all were in motion again. The servants of the villa brought round bowls of coffee and milk, and as soon as these were drunk and some bread hastily eaten, all made ready for a start. Frank had that evening donned his uniform for the first time, and had been at work, with two other members of the staff, serving out rifles and ammunition, from an outhouse which had been converted into a magazine; the men coming in a steady stream through a back entrance into the garden, and passing again with their arms through another door. Another party were at work carrying down boxes of ammunition and barrels of flour and other provisions to the shore. At one o’clock the whole force were gathered there. It was an impressive sight, and Frank for the first time fully realised the singularity and danger of the expedition in which he was to share.

Here were a thousand men, all of whom had fought again and again under Garibaldi in the cause of Italian liberty. They were about to start, against the wishes of the government of their country, to invade a kingdom possessed of strong fortresses and an army of one hundred and twenty-eight thousand regular troops. Success seemed altogether impossible. But Frank had deeply imbibed the conviction of his mother and Signora Forli that the people at large would flock to the standard. He had been carried away with the enthusiasm of the general and those about him, and even the darkness of the night, the mystery of the quiet armed figures and of the boats hauled up in readiness for the embarkation, did not damp the suppressed excitement that made every nerve tingle, and rendered it difficult to remain outwardly impassive.

The men talked together in low tones. Here were many who had not met since they had parted after the events that had laid another stone to the edifice of Italian Unity, by the addition of Tuscany, Parma, and Modena to the Kingdom of Sardinia. The greater part of them were Lombards and Genoese, but there were many from Turin and other cities of Piedmont. Some were exiles, who had received a summons similar to that sent by Garibaldi to Captain Percival. The greetings of all these men, who had been comrades in many dashing adventures, were warm and earnest, though expressed in but few low words.

Hour after hour passed, and expectation grew into anxiety. All knew now that Bixio had gone to seize two steamers, and that they should have been in the roadstead at two o’clock; but at four there were still no signs of them, and the fear that he had failed, that the government had at the last moment intervened, grew stronger. It was not until dawn was beginning to break that the two steamers were made out approaching, and anxiety gave place to delight.

Steadily and in good order the men took their places, under the direction of the officers assigned to each boat, and by the time the steamers arrived as near as they could venture to the shore, the boats were alongside with their crews. The embarkation was quickly effected. It was found that there had been no dangerous hitch in the arrangements, the delay having been caused by the difficulty Bixio had had in finding the two steamers, which were anchored in the extensive roadstead of Genoa among many other ships. The stores were hastily transferred from the boats to the steamers, and these at once started for the spot where two boats, laden with ammunition, percussion caps, and rifles, should have been lying off the coast. Either through misunderstanding of orders or the interference of the authorities, the two boats were not at the rendezvous; and after cruising about for some hours in every direction, Garibaldi decided that no further time could be lost, for at any moment government vessels might start in pursuit. Accordingly the steamers’ heads were turned to the south, and the expedition fairly began.

Delighted as all on board the Lombardo and Piemonte were to have escaped without government interference, the loss of the ammunition was a very serious blow. They had brought with them from the Villa Spinola scarcely sufficient for a couple of hours’ fighting for those on board. They had neither a reserve for themselves, nor any to hand over with the guns to those they expected to join them on landing. It was, therefore, absolutely necessary to touch at some port to obtain ammunition, and Garibaldi chose Talamone, at the southern extremity of Tuscany, within a few miles of the boundary of the Papal States. They arrived there early the next morning, and Garibaldi at once went ashore and desired the governor of the fort, in the name of the king, to hand over to him supplies of ammunition and some guns.

Whatever doubts the governor may have had as to Garibaldi’s authority, he and the governor of the much larger neighbouring town of Orbetello rendered him all the assistance in their power, and gave him a considerable amount of ammunition and several guns. The vessels filled up with coal, and the inhabitants welcomed the expedition with enthusiasm. For this conduct the governor of Talamone afterwards received a severe reprimand from the government, who were obliged to clear themselves of any participation whatever in the expedition, and had, a few hours after Garibaldi left Genoa, despatched a fast screw frigate, the Maria, under the orders of Admiral Persano in pursuit. His official orders were to capture and bring back the steamers and all on board; but there can be little doubt that he received secret instructions in a contrary sense. At any rate, the frigate, after a prolonged cruise, returned to Genoa without having come within sight of the expedition.

Before leaving Talamone, Garibaldi accepted an offer of one of his followers to undertake, with sixty men, to effect a diversion by raising the population in the north of the Papal States. The expedition seemed a hopeless one with so small a force; and it would seem that Garibaldi assented to it in order to rid himself from some whose impetuosity and violent disposition might have led to trouble later. As was to be expected, the little party failed entirely in their object, and were defeated and captured very shortly after crossing the frontier.

All were glad on board the two ships, when they were again under steam, and heading for their goal. As by this time it was certain that the news of their departure from Genoa would have been telegraphed to Naples, and that the ships of war of that country would be on the look-out to intercept them, it was decided, at a council of war held by Garibaldi, that instead of landing near Messina, they should make for the little island of Maregigimo, lying off the north-west corner of Sicily, as by this route they would be likely to escape the vigilance of the Neapolitan ships-of-war, which would be watching for them along the coast from the Straits of Messina to Palermo.

Arriving at Maregigimo late on the evening of the 10th, and learning from the islanders that the coast of Sicily was everywhere patrolled, they decided to take the bold step of sailing into the harbour of Marsala. As a large mercantile port, this offered several advantages. The true character of the vessels would not be suspected until they arrived there, and hostile ships cruising near might take them for ordinary merchantmen. There was also the advantage that, being only some seventy miles from Cape Bona, in Africa, it afforded a better chance of escape, should they meet with misfortune after landing, and be obliged to re-embark. As they neared the coast they made out several sailing vessels and steamers near it, and in the roadstead of Marsala two ships-of-war were anchored. To their joy, they were able to make out through a telescope, while still at a considerable distance, that these vessels were flying the British ensign, and so headed straight for the port, which they found full of merchantmen.

They had indeed been attended by good fortune, for three Neapolitan ships-of-war had left the port that morning and were still in sight. Being evidently suspicious, however, of the two steamers entering the port together, they turned and made for Marsala again. Not a moment was lost by the Garibaldians, and the disembarkation at once began. It happened that the British vessels-of-war were in the line of fire, and consequently the whole of the men were landed before the Neapolitans could bring their guns to bear. Two-thirds of them were still on the quay, getting the ammunition and stores into the carts, when the enemy opened fire upon them with shell and grape; fortunately the discharges were ill directed, and the Garibaldians marched off into the town without loss. They were welcomed with lively acclamation by the working classes of the town; but the authorities, while throwing no opposition in their way, received them under protest, as indeed was natural enough, for they could hardly suppose that this handful of men could succeed against the power of Naples, and dreaded the anger of the government should they bestow any warm hospitality upon these adventurers.

Two days were spent at Marsala in gaining information as to the state of the country, making arrangements for the march inland, and for the transport of ammunition and spare rifles, and in obtaining stores of provisions sufficient for two or three days. It was fortunate indeed that no Neapolitan troops were stationed in the town, and that they were therefore able to pursue their work without interruption. During the voyage the force had been divided into eight companies, and a ninth was now formed from the Sicilians who joined them. The enthusiasm, that had been necessarily shown rather in action than in shouts by the people of Marsala, who, with Neapolitan ships in the bay, feared that any demonstration might draw upon themselves a terrible retribution, now showed itself openly. The force was accompanied by great numbers of men and women,—even monks joined in the procession,—while from every village parties of fighting men, many of whom had taken part in the late insurrection, joined the party; and when on the day after leaving Marsala they reached Salemi, the force had been augmented by twelve hundred men.

Here Garibaldi, at the request not only of his own men, but of the authorities of the little town and deputies from villages round, assumed the title of dictator, in the name of Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy—thus proclaiming to the world that he had broken altogether with the republican faction.

Except when on duty, there was a thorough comradeship among the Garibaldians. Fully half of the thousand men who had left Genoa with him belonged to the upper and professional classes, and were of the same rank of life as the officers; consequently, when the march was done or the men dismissed from parade, all stiffness was thrown aside, and officers and men mingled in the utmost harmony. All were in the highest spirits. The first well-nigh insuperable difficulties had been overcome; the hindrances thrown in their way by the Italian government had failed to prevent their embarkation; the danger of falling into the hands of the Neapolitan navy had been avoided, and the reception which they met with showed that they had not overestimated the deep feeling of hostility with which the Sicilians regarded their oppressors.

Frank, while on capital terms with all the officers, who were aware how much the expedition owed to his family, and who saw the almost affectionate manner in which Garibaldi treated him, kept principally with his special friends, Maffio, Rubini, and Sarto.

During the voyage, as an occasional change from the one absorbing topic, they asked him many questions about his school-days, and were intensely interested in his description of the life, so wholly different from that at Italian schools and academies.

“We don’t have such good times as you have,” Rubini said; “you seem to have done just what you liked, and your masters do not appear to have interfered with you at all.”

“No, except when in school, they had nothing to do with us.”

“And you went where you liked and did what you liked, just as if you were grown-up men? It is astonishing,” Maffio said; “why, with us we are never out of sight of our masters!”

“We might not quite go where we liked: there were certain limits beyond which we were supposed not to pass; but really, as long as we did not get into any rows, we could pretty well go anywhere within walking distance. You see, the big fellows to a certain extent keep order; but really they only do this in the houses where we live—outside there is no occasion to look after us. Though we are but boys, we are gentlemen, and are expected to act as such. I can’t see why boys want looking after, as if they were criminals, who would break into a house or maltreat an old woman, if they had the chance. It is because we are, as it were, put on our honour and allowed to act and think for ourselves, instead of being marched about and herded like a flock of sheep, that our public school boys, as a rule, do so well afterwards. Our great general, Wellington—at least I think it was he—said, that the battle of Waterloo was fought in the playing fields of Eton. Of course, though he said Eton, he meant of all our public schools. Certainly we are much less likely to come to grief when we leave school and become our own masters, than we should be, if we had been treated as children up to that time.”

“That must be so,” Rubini said thoughtfully. “I wish we had such schools in Italy; perhaps we shall have some day. We have many universities, but no schools at all like yours. Of course, your masters are not priests?”

“Well, they are almost all clergymen, but that makes no difference. They are generally good fellows, and take a lot of interest in our sports, which is natural enough, for many of them have been great cricketers or great oarsmen—that is, they have rowed in their university boat. A master who has done that sort of thing is more looked up to by the boys, and is thought more of, than fellows who have never done anything in particular. The sort of fellows who have always been working and reading, and have come out high at the universities, are of course very good teachers, but they don’t understand boys half as well as the others do.”

“But why should you respect a master who has been, as you say, good at sports, more than one who has studied hard?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. Of course it is very creditable to a man to have taken a high degree; but somehow or other one does have a lot of respect for a fellow who you know could thrash any blackguard who had a row with him in a couple of minutes—just the same as one feels a respect for an officer who has done all sorts of brave actions. I heard, some time ago, that one of our masters had been appointed to a church in some beastly neighbourhood in Birmingham or one of those manufacturing towns, and the people were such a rough lot that he could do nothing with them at first. But one day, when he was going along the street, he saw a notorious bully thrashing a woman, and he interfered. The fellow threatened him; and he quietly turned in, and gave him the most tremendous thrashing he had ever had, in about three minutes. After that he got to be greatly liked, and did no end of good in his parish. I suppose there was just the same feeling among those fellows as there is with us at school.”

“It seems impossible,” Rubini said, in a tone almost of awe, “that a minister should fight with his hands against a ruffian of that kind.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Frank replied: “if you saw a big ruffian thrashing a woman or insulting a lady, or if even he insulted yourself, what would you do? I am supposing, of course, that you were not in uniform, and did not wear a sword.”

“I do not know what I should do,” Rubini said gravely. “I hope I should fly at him.”

“Yes; but if he were bigger and stronger, and you could not box, what would be the good of that? He would knock you down, and perhaps kick you almost to death, and then finish thrashing the woman.”

The three friends looked gravely at each other.

“Yes; but you say that this man was a priest, a clergyman?” Maffio urged.

“Yes; but you must remember that he was also a man, and there is such a thing as righteous anger. Why should a man look on and see a woman ill-treated without lifting his hand to save her, simply because he is a clergyman? No, no, Maffio. You may say what you like, but it is a good thing for a man to have exercised all his muscles as a boy, and to be good at sports, and have learned to use his fists. It is good for him, whether he is going to be a soldier, or a colonist in a wild country, or a traveller, or a clergyman. I am saying nothing against learning; learning is a very good thing, but certainly among English boys we admire strength and skill more than learning, and I am quite sure that as a nation we have benefited more by the one than the other. If there was not one among us who had ever opened a Latin or Greek book, we should still have extended our empire as we have done, colonised continents, conquered India, and held our own, and more, against every other nation by land and sea, and become a tremendous manufacturing and commercial country.”

The others laughed. “Well crowed, Percival! No doubt there is a great deal in what you say, still I suppose that even you will hardly claim that you are braver than other people.”

“Not braver,” Frank said; “but bravery is no good without backbone. If two men equally brave meet, it is the one with most ‘last’—that is what we call stamina—most endurance, most strength, and most skill, who must in the long-run win.”

“But the fault of you English is—I don’t mean it offensively—that you believe too much in yourselves.”

“At any rate,” Frank replied, “we don’t boast about ourselves, as some people do, and it is because we believe in ourselves that we are successful. For example, you all here believe that, small as is your number, you are going to defeat the Neapolitans, and I think that you will do it, because I also believe in you. It is that feeling among our soldiers and sailors—their conviction that, as a matter of course, they will in the long-run win—that has carried them through battles and wars against the biggest odds. That was the way that your Roman ancestors carried their arms over Europe. They were no braver than the men they fought, but they believed thoroughly in themselves, and never admitted to themselves the possibility of defeat. What a mad expedition ours would be if we had not the same feeling!”

“I won’t argue any more against you, Percival,” Rubini laughed; “and if I ever marry and have sons, I will send them over to be educated at one of your great schools—that is, if we have not, as I hope we may have by that time, schools of the same kind here. Can you fence? Do you learn that at your schools?”

“Not as a part of the school course. A fencing master does come down from London once a week, and some of the fellows take lessons from him. I did among others; but once a week is of very little use, and whenever I was in London during the holidays, I went pretty nearly every day to Angelo’s, which is considered the best school for fencing we have. Of course my father, being a soldier, liked me to learn the use of the sword and rapier, though I might never have occasion to use them, for, as I was his only son, he did not want me to go into the army. It is just as well now that I did go in for it.”

“I don’t expect it will be of much use,” Rubini said. “If the Neapolitans do not show themselves to be braver soldiers than we take them for, there will be no hand-to-hand fighting. If, on the other hand, they do stand their ground well, I do not expect we shall ever get to close quarters, for they ought to annihilate us before we could do so. Well, I long for the first trial.”

“So do I. I should think that a good deal would depend upon that. If we beat them as easily as I have heard my father say they were beaten near Rome in 1848, it is hardly likely that they will make much stand afterwards. It is not only the effect it will have on the Neapolitan troops, but on the people. We cannot expect that the Sicilians will join us in considerable number until we have won a battle, and we want them to make a good show. Even the most cowardly troops can hardly help fighting when they are twenty to one; but if we are able to make a fair show of force, the enemy may lose heart, even if the greater part of our men are only poorly armed peasants.”

To most of those who started from Genoa, fully prepared to sacrifice their lives in the cause they regarded as sacred, the success that had attended their passage, and enabled them to disembark without the loss of a man, seemed a presage of further good fortune, and they now marched forward with the buoyant confidence, that in itself goes a long way to ensure success; the thought that there were fifty thousand Neapolitan troops in the island, and that General Lanza had at Palermo twenty-eight thousand, in no way overawed them, and the news that a strong body of the enemy had advanced through Calatafimi to meet them was regarded with satisfaction.

Calatafimi stood in the heart of the mountains, where the roads from Palermo, Marsala and Trapani met; and on such ground the disproportion of numbers would be of less importance than it would be in the plain, for the cavalry of the enemy would not be able to act with effect. The ground, too, as they learned from peasants, was covered with ruins of buildings erected by Saracens, Spaniards, and Normans, and was therefore admirably suited for irregular warfare. Garibaldi, with a few of his staff, went forward to reconnoitre the position. He decided that his own followers should make a direct attack, while the new levies, working among the hills, should open fire on the Neapolitan flanks and charge down upon them as opportunity offered.

At Marsala the staff had all bought horses, choosing hardy animals accustomed to work among the mountains. It was not the general’s intention to hurl his little force directly on the Neapolitan centre, situated in the valley, but, while making a feint there, to attack one flank or the other, the rapidity with which his men manœuvred giving them a great advantage. While, therefore, the six little guns he had obtained at Talamonte were to open fire on the enemy’s centre, covered by a couple of hundred men, the rest were to act as a mobile force under his own direction; their movements would be screened by the ruins and broken ground, and he would be able to pass in comparative shelter from one flank to the other, and so surprise the enemy by falling upon them where least expected.

As they approached the scene of action, the Garibaldians left the road, scattering themselves in skirmishing order on either side, and working their way along through the ruins, which so covered their advance, that it was only occasionally that a glimpse of a red shirt or the gleam of the sun on a musket-barrel showed the enemy that their assailants were approaching. On ground like this horses were of little use, and Garibaldi ordered all the junior members of his staff to dismount, fasten their horses in places of shelter, and advance on foot with the troops, as he should not require their services during the fight.

CHAPTER VIII.

PALERMO.

FRANK’S heart beat fast with the excitement of the moment. Save himself, there was not one of Garibaldi’s own men but was accustomed to the sound of artillery, and he could scarcely restrain himself from starting when on a sudden the Neapolitan batteries opened fire, and their missiles struck rocks and walls round him, or burst overhead.

“It is not so bad as it looks,” Rubini, whom he joined as he ran forward, said with a laugh.

“It is fortunate that it is not,” Frank replied; “it certainly sounds bad enough, but, as I don’t think they can see us at all, it can only be a random fire.”

He soon shook off the feeling of uneasiness which he could not at first repress, and presently quitted his friend and pushed forward on his own account, keeping close to the road and abreast of Garibaldi, so that he could run up and receive any orders that might be given. It was not long before the enemy opened a musketry fire. The guns had been following Garibaldi, and he now superintended them as they were run into position, three on either side of the road. They were not placed at regular distances, but each was posted where the men would, while loading, be sheltered behind walls, from which the guns could be run out, wheeled round and fired, and then withdrawn. Frank was not long in joining the Garibaldian line, which was lying in shelter at the foot of the declivity.

In front of them was a level space of ground with a few little farmhouses dotted here and there. On the opposite side of this the hills rose much more steeply. Near the summit were the main body of the Neapolitans, who were altogether about two thousand strong; an advanced guard of some five or six hundred had descended into the valley, and were moving across it; they had guns with them, which were now at work, as were others with the main body.

When Garibaldi joined his troops he at once ordered the Genoese company to attack the advancing enemy and if possible to capture the guns they had with them. Followed by a party of the Sicilians, and by Frank and several other officers who had no special duties to perform, they dashed forward. At the same moment a number of the peasants, who had made their way round on either flank unobserved, opened fire upon the Neapolitans, who at the order of the officer in command began to fall back. The Garibaldians hurled themselves upon them, and hastened the movement. The guard had no idea of making a frontal attack upon an enemy so strongly posted, and had, as Frank had heard him say before he dismounted, intended to compel them to fall back by flank attacks. He was not surprised, therefore, to hear the trumpet sounding the recall.

The summons was, however, unheard, or at any rate unheeded, by the Genoese, who continued to press hotly upon the Neapolitans; the latter had now been joined by their supporting line, and Garibaldi saw that the small party, who were now almost surrounded, must be destroyed, unless he advanced to their assistance. The trumpet accordingly sounded the charge, and the men sprang to their feet and dashed forward at full speed. The fighting had been hand to hand, and the Garibaldians had only gained the advantage so far from the fact that they were accustomed to fight each for himself, and were individually more powerful men; it was indeed their habit, in all their fights, to rely on the bayonet, and they still pressed forward. Frank was now as cool and collected as he would have been in a football match, and had several times to congratulate himself on the training he had received in the use of his sword, having two combats with Neapolitan officers, and each time coming off victorious.

Presently, in front of him, he saw one of the Neapolitan standards. In the confusion it had been left almost unguarded; and calling to three or four of the men around him, he dashed at it. There was a short, sharp fight: the men standing between him and the flag fell before the bayonets of the Garibaldians. Frank engaged in a tough encounter with the officer who held the flag, and finally cutting him down, seized the staff and carried it back into the Garibaldian ranks.

“Well done, well done, Percival!” He turned and saw Garibaldi himself, who, at the head of his main body, had that instant arrived.

The Neapolitans, although also reinforced, fell back up the hill. The face of the ascent was composed of a series of natural terraces, and as they retreated up these, a storm of fire from the reserve at the top of the hill and the cannon there, was poured upon the Garibaldians. The general halted his men for a minute or two at the foot of the lower terrace, where they were sheltered by the slope from the missiles of the enemy; they were re-formed, and then re-commenced the ascent. It was hot work; the ground was very steep, and swept by the enemy’s fire. As each terrace was gained, the men rushed across the level ground and threw themselves down panting at the foot of the next slope, where they were to some extent sheltered. Two or three minutes, and they made their next rush. But little return to the enemy’s fire was attempted, for the wretched muskets with which they had been supplied at Genoa were practically useless, and only the Genoese, who had brought their own carbines, and were excellent shots, did much execution.

Several times the Neapolitans attempted to make a stand, but were as often driven back. On this occasion, however, they fought well and steadily; the terror of Garibaldi’s name had ceased to have its effect during the twelve years that had elapsed since Ferdinand’s army had fled before him, but the desire to wipe out that disgrace no doubt inspired them, and Garibaldi afterwards gave them full credit for the obstinacy with which they had contested his advance. At last the uppermost terrace was reached; there was one more halt for breath, and then the Garibaldians went forward with a cheer. The resistance was comparatively slight: the Neapolitan troops at first engaged had already exhausted their ammunition, and had become disheartened at their failure to arrest the impetuous assault of their enemies; and when the Garibaldians reached the summit of the hill, they found that the enemy were in full retreat.

Exhausted by their efforts, and having suffered heavy loss, they made a short halt; the horses of the general and his staff were brought up by the small party who had been left with the guns, and who had advanced across the plain at some little distance in the rear of the fighting line. As soon as they arrived the advance continued until the little army halted at Calatafimi, some miles from the scene of battle. The Garibaldians had captured only one cannon, a few rifles, and a score or two of prisoners, for the most part wounded; but by the defeat of the enemy they had gained an enormous advantage, for, as the news spread throughout the country, its dimensions growing as it flew, it created great enthusiasm, and from every town and village men poured down to join the army of liberation.

The Neapolitan governor had indeed made a fatal mistake in not placing a much larger force in the field for the first engagement. The troops fought bravely, and though beaten, were by no means disgraced; and had they been supported by powerful artillery, and by a couple of regiments of cavalry, which could have charged the Garibaldians in the plain, the battle would have had a very different result.

At Calatafimi the Garibaldians halted. The Neapolitan wounded had been left here; their own had, when the fighting ceased, been sent back to Vita. The inhabitants vied with each other in hospitality to them, and although saddened by the loss of many of their bravest comrades, all regarded the victory they had won as an augury of future success. Already the country had risen; the Neapolitans in their retreat had been harassed, and numbers of them killed by the peasants; every hour swelled the force, and next morning they set out in the highest spirits, and with a conviction that success would attend them. And yet there were grave difficulties to be met, for ten thousand Neapolitans were massed in two formidable positions on the road by which it was believed that the Garibaldians must advance, and twelve thousand remained in garrison at Palermo. That evening they reached Alcamo, a large town, where they were received with enthusiasm. The excitement was even more lively when the next day they entered Partinico, where the inhabitants, who had been brutally treated by the Neapolitans in their advance, had risen when they passed through as fugitives, and massacred numbers of them, and pursued them a considerable distance along the road to Palermo. At this point the Garibaldians left the road, and ascended to the plateau of Renne, and thence looked down on the rich plain in which Palermo stands, and on the city itself. Here two days of tremendous rain prevented farther movement.

“You are now seeing the rough side of campaigning, Percival,” Rubini said, with a laugh, as the four friends sat together in a little arbour they had erected, and over the top of which were thrown two of their blankets.

“It is not very pleasant, certainly,” Frank agreed; “but it might be a good deal worse; it is wet, but it is not cold, and we are not fasting; we each of us laid in a good stock of provisions when at Partinico, but I certainly never anticipated that we should have to rely upon telegraph poles for a supply of fuel: it is lucky that the wires run across here, for we should certainly have had to eat our meat raw, or go without, if it hadn’t been for them.”

None of the men appeared to mind the discomfort; the supply of wood was too precious to be used except for cooking purposes, and indeed it would be of no use for the men to attempt to dry their clothes until the downpour ceased. Two days later, the enemy having sent out a strong reconnoitring party, Garibaldi determined to cross the mountains and come down upon the main southern road from Palermo. Officers had been sent to the various towns on that road to summon all true men to join. The force started in the evening and performed a tremendous march; the guns were lashed to poles and carried on the men’s shoulders, the boxes of ammunition were conveyed in the same manner. The rain continued incessantly, and there was a thick fog which added greatly to the difficulties. It was not until daylight that the head of the column began to straggle into Parco, on the southern road.

They at once seized some commanding positions round the place, and began to throw up entrenchments, but as Parco was commanded by hills, it could not be defended against a determined attack. Two days later two strong columns marched out from Palermo. The first advanced by the road that crossed the valley, and threatened the Garibaldian rear by the passage through the hills known as the pass of Piana dei Greci. Garibaldi at once sent off his artillery and baggage by the road, and with a company of his cacciatori and a body of the new levies, who were known as picciotti, hurried to the pass, which they reached before the Neapolitans arrived there. On their opening fire, the Neapolitans, thinking that they had the whole Garibaldian force in front of them in an extremely strong position, retired at once. Finding that the freedom of his movements would be embarrassed by his cannon, which under the most advantageous circumstances could not contend against those of the enemy, he sent them away along the southern road, while he withdrew his force from Parco, and for a short time followed the guns; he then turned off into the mountains and directed his march to Misilmeri, a few miles from Palermo, having completely thrown the enemy off his track. The pursuing column, believing that the whole Garibaldian force was retreating with its guns, pushed on rapidly, while Garibaldi had already turned the strong position of Monreale, and was preparing to attack the town.

His force had here been increased by the volunteers who had arrived from the southern villages. The Neapolitan general, Lanza, soon obtained information as to the invader’s position, and prepared with absolute confidence to meet his attack, which must, he believed, be made by the coast road. On the evening of the 26th Garibaldi moved across the country by a little-frequented track, and the next morning appeared on the road entering the town at the Termini gate. The twelve thousand Neapolitan troops who still remained in the town had no suspicion that their foe was near. The day before, the commander of the column that had passed through Parco had sent in the news that he was in hot pursuit of the Garibaldians, who were flying in all directions, and the governor had given a banquet in honour of the rout of the brigands. The military bands had played on the promenade, and the official portion of the population had been wild with joy.

On the other hand, messages had passed constantly between Garibaldi’s agents and the leaders of the patriotic party in the town, who had promised that the population would rise as soon as he entered the city. It was upon this promise that the general based his hopes of success; for that three thousand badly armed men could hope to overcome twelve thousand troops, well supported by artillery, and defending the town street by street, seemed impossible even to so hopeful a spirit. No time was lost. The Garibaldians rushed forward, drove in at once an outpost stationed beyond the barriers at the gate, and carried the barricades, before the troops could muster in sufficient force to offer any serious resistance.

But beyond this the opposition became obstinate and fierce; the cacciatori pressed forward by the principal street, the bands of picciotti distracted the attention of the enemy by advancing by parallel streets, and, although the cannon of the Castello Mare thundered, pouring shot and shell broadcast into the quarter through which the Garibaldians were advancing, and though from the large convent of San Antonio, held by a battalion of bersaglieri, a terrible fire was maintained upon the flank of the cacciatori at a distance of a couple of hundred yards, they nevertheless pressed on, clearing the street of the troops who opposed their advance, until they reached the square in the centre of the city.

All this time the guns of the Neapolitan ships-of-war had been pouring a fierce fire into the town, with the apparent object of deterring the populace from rising, for it was upon private houses that the damage was committed, and was, so far as the Garibaldians were concerned, innoxious. For a short time the object was attained: so terrible was the fire that swept the principal streets leading down to the water, so alarming the din of exploding shells and falling walls, that for a short time the populace dared not venture from their houses; but fury succeeded to alarm, and it was not long before the inhabitants flocked out into the streets, and under the direction of Colonel Acerbi, one of the most distinguished officers of the thousand, began to erect barricades. These sprang up with marvellous rapidity; carts were wheeled out from the courtyards and overturned, men laboured with pickaxes and crowbars tearing up the pavements, women threw out mattresses from the windows; all worked with enthusiasm.

Garibaldi established himself at the Pretorio Palace, the central point of the city; and here the members of the revolutionary committee joined him. His staff were sent off in all directions to order all the bands scattered throughout the city to assemble there. The people of Palermo were wholly without firearms, as all weapons of the kind had been confiscated by the authorities; but armed with hatchets, axes, knives fastened to the end of sticks and poles to act as pikes, long spits and other improvised weapons, they prepared to defend the barricades. A few, indeed, brought out muskets which had been hidden away when all the houses had been searched for weapons, but the greatest difficulty was experienced from the want of powder.

Garibaldi now stationed his forces so as to intercept all communications between the various points where the Neapolitan troops were concentrated. Lanza himself, who was at once commander-in-chief and viceroy, was with several regiments at the royal palace.

The Castello Mare was held by a strong force, and there were some regiments at the palace of finance. These points they had only reached after hard fighting; but once there they were isolated from each other, and to join hands they would have to pass along streets blocked by barricades, and defended by a desperate population, and exposed to the fire of the Garibaldians from every window and roof.

That night hundreds of men and women were set to work to grind charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre, to mix them together to form a rough gunpowder, and then to make it up into cartridges. Such a compound would have been useless for ordinary purposes, but would have sufficient strength for street fighting, where it was but necessary to send a bullet some twenty or thirty yards with sufficient force to kill.

The fire of the fleet, Castello Mare, and the palace was maintained all day. The town was on fire in many places. A whole district a thousand yards in length and a hundred yards wide had been laid in ashes, convents and churches had been crushed by shells, and a large number of the inhabitants had been killed by grape and cannister; but after four hours’ fighting there was a lull in the musketry fire: the Neapolitans were gathered in their three strong places, and were virtually besieged there. In spite of the continued cannonade, the populace thronged the streets which were not in the direct line of fire, the bells of the churches pealed out triumphantly; bright curtains, cloths and flags were hung out from the balconies, friends embraced each other with tears of joy; while numbers continued to labour at the barricades, the monks and clergy joining in the work, all classes being wild with joy at their deliverance from the long and crushing tyranny to which they had been subjected.

Frank had entered the city with the chosen band, who had led the attack on the Termini gate, and advanced with them into the heart of the city. In the wild excitement of the fight he had lost all sense of danger; he saw others fall around him, his cheek had been deeply gashed by a bullet, but he had scarce felt the pain, and was almost surprised when a man close to him offered to bind up his wound with his sash. One of the first orders that Garibaldi gave, after establishing himself at the Pretorio Palace was to send for him.

“Lieutenant Percival,” he said, “I commit to you the honour of leading a party to the prisons, and liberating all the political prisoners you find there. You have won that distinction by having, in the first place, captured the flag of the tyrants at Calatafimi, and also by the gallant manner in which you have fought in the first rank to-day. I marked your conduct, and it was worthy of your brave father. I can give it no higher praise.”

Taking twenty men with him, Frank went to the prisons. On entering each, he demanded from the officials a list of all prisoners confined, and the offences with which they were charged, so that no criminals should be released with the political prisoners. He hardly needed the list, however, for the criminals were but few in number, the Neapolitan authorities not having troubled themselves with such trifles as robberies and assassinations, but the prisons were crowded with men of the best blood in the city and the surrounding country, who had been arrested upon the suspicion of holding liberal opinions, and who were treated with very much greater severity than were the worst malefactors. The thunder of the guns had already informed them that a terrible conflict was going on, but it was not until Frank and his men arrived that the prisoners knew who were the parties engaged, and their joy and gratitude was unbounded when they learned that they were free, now and for ever, from the power of their persecutors.

As they marched to the prison, several of the men had shouted to the crowd, “We are going to free the captives.” The news had spread like wildfire, and as the prisoners issued from the jail they were met by their friends and relatives, and the most affecting scenes took place. Although Frank considered it unlikely in the extreme that persons arrested on the mainland would be carried across to the island, he insisted on the warders accompanying him over the whole prison and unlocking every door, in spite of their protestations that the cells were empty. Having satisfied himself on this head, he went to the other prisons, where similar scenes took place.

The fire of the Neapolitan ships was kept up until nightfall, and then ceased, rather from the exhaustion of the gunners, who had been twelve hours at work, than from any difficulty in sighting their guns; for in Palermo it was almost as light as day, the whole city being lit up by the tremendous conflagration, and in addition every house save those facing the port was illuminated, candles burning at every window. Throughout the night work was carried on, fresh barricades were erected, and others greatly strengthened. It was all-important that the three bodies of troops, isolated from each other, should not effect a junction. Boats were sent off to the merchant ships in the harbour in order to purchase powder, but none could be obtained; however, by morning so much had been manufactured that with what still remained in the Garibaldian pouches there was enough for the day’s fighting.

At Garibaldi’s headquarters there was no sleep that night: the revolutionary committee received orders from the general where the armed citizens were to take their posts at the barricades, and how their men were to be divided into sections. They were to impress upon all that, though the fighting must be desperate, it could not last long. At the royal palace there were no provisions of any kind for the troops stationed there, nor were there any in the palace of finance; so that if the struggle could be maintained for another day or two at the most, the troops would be driven to surrender by starvation.

Frank had time, after he returned from the prisons, to have his wound dressed, and he then received the congratulations of his three friends, all of whom were more or less severely wounded.

“You have come out of it rather the best of us, Percival,” Maffio said: “I have a bullet through the arm, Rubini has lost two of the fingers of his left hand, and Sarto will limp for some time, for he has been shot through the calf of his leg; so we shall have no scars that we can show, while you will have one that will be as good as a medal of honour.”

“I am sure I hope not,” Frank said; “I can assure you that, honourable as it may be, it would be a nuisance indeed, for I should be constantly asked where I got it, and when I answered, should be bothered into telling the whole story over and over again. However, I think we can all congratulate each other on having come out of it comparatively unhurt; I certainly never expected to do so,—the row was almost bewildering.”

“It was almost as bad as one of your football tussles,” Sarto laughed.

“You may laugh, but it was very much the same feeling,” Frank replied. “I have felt nearly as much excited in a football scrimmage as I was to-day; I can tell you that when two sides are evenly matched, and each fellow is straining every nerve, the thrill of satisfaction when one finds that one’s own side is gaining ground is about as keen as anything one is ever likely to feel.”

The next day the fighting recommenced, the Neapolitan troops making desperate efforts to concentrate. The fighting in the streets was for a time furious. At no point did the enemy make any material progress, although they gained possession of some houses round the palace and finance offices. The barricades were desperately defended by the armed citizens and the picciotti, and from time to time, when the Neapolitans seemed to be gaining ground, the men of Garibaldi’s thousand flung themselves upon them with the bayonet. That morning, under the superintendence of skilled engineers, powder mills were established, and the supply of gunpowder was improved both in quantity and quality, men and women filling the cartridges as fast as the powder was turned out. Fighting and work continued throughout the night, and all next day.

CHAPTER IX.

HARD FIGHTING.

ON the following morning Frank was riding with a message from the general, when he heard a sudden outburst of firing at some distance ahead of him. He checked his horse to listen.

“That must be near the Porto Termini,” he said, “and yet there are none of the enemy anywhere near there. It must be either some fresh body of troops that have arrived from the south of the island, or Bosco’s column returned from their fool’s errand in search of us. If so, we are in a desperate mess. Six thousand Neapolitan troops, under one of their best generals, would turn the scale against us; they must be stopped, if possible, till the general can collect our scattered troops.”

Frank’s second supposition was the correct one. The two columns that had, as they believed, been in pursuit of Garibaldi, had returned to the town. So unanimous were the country people in their hatred of the Neapolitans, that it was only on the previous day that they had learned that the enemy, who they believed were fugitives, had entered Palermo with their whole force. Furious at having been so tricked, they made a tremendous march, and arriving at the Termini gate early in the morning, made a determined attack on the guard there, who defended themselves bravely, but were driven back, contesting every step.

Frank hesitated for a moment, and then shouted to a soldier near him: “Run with all speed to the palace; demand to see the general at once. Say that you have come from me, and that I sent you to say that the Porto Termini is attacked, I know not with what force, and that I am going on to try to arrest their progress until he arrives with help. As you run, tell every man you meet to hasten to oppose the enemy.”

The man started to run, and Frank galloped on, shouting to every armed man he met to follow him. The roar of battle increased as he rode. When he reached the long street leading to the gate, he saw that the enemy had already forced their way in, and that a barricade was being desperately defended by the little force that had fallen back before them. His horse would be useless now, and he called to a boy who was looking round the corner of a house.

“Look here, my lad: take this horse and lead him to the general’s headquarters. Here is a five-franc piece. Don’t get on his back, but lead him. Can I trust you?”

“I will do it, signor; you can depend upon me.”

Frank ran forward. The tremendous roll of fire beyond the barricade showed how strong was the force there, and he felt sure that the defenders must speedily be overpowered. Numbers of men were running along the street; he shouted to them: “The barricade cannot hold out; enter the houses and man every window; we must keep them back to the last. Garibaldi will be here before long.”

He himself kept on until within some two hundred yards of the barricade; then he stopped at the door of a house at the corner of a lane at right angles to the street, and ran into it. He waited until a score of men came up.

“Come in here,” he said: “we will defend this house till the last.”

The men closed the door behind them, and running into the lower rooms, fetched out furniture and piled it against it. They were assisted by five or six women, who, with some children, were the sole occupants of the house.

“Bring all the mattresses and bedding that you have,” Frank said to them, “to the windows of the first floor. We will place them on the balconies.”

In three or four minutes every balcony was lined with mattresses, and Frank sheltered his men behind them. Looking out, he saw that the fighting had just ceased, and that a dense mass of the enemy were pouring over the barricade; while at the same moment a crackling fire broke out from the houses near, into which its defenders had run, when they saw that the barricade could be no longer defended. Along both sides of the street, preparations similar to those he had ordered had been hastily made; and the men who were still coming up were all turning into the houses. Directly the Neapolitans crossed the barricade, they opened fire down the street, which was speedily deserted; but Frank had no doubt that, as the Garibaldian supports came up, they would make their way in at the back and strengthen the defenders. A hundred yards higher up the street was another barricade; behind this the townspeople were already gathering. Frank ordered his men to keep back inside the rooms until the enemy came along.

“Your powder is no good till they are close,” he said, “but it is as good as the best at close quarters.”

“THE HINGES OF THE DOOR WERE BROKEN OFF”

From time to time he looked out. The roar of musketry was continuous; from every window came puffs of smoke, while the enemy replied by a storm of musketry fire at the defenders. While the column was still moving forward, its officers were telling off parties of men to burst open the doors and bayonet all found in the houses. He could mark the progress made, as women threw themselves out of the windows, preferring death that way to being murdered by the infuriated soldiers. It was not long before the head of the column approached the house; then Frank gave the word, and from every window a discharge was poured into the crowded mass. Stepping back from the balconies to load, the men ran out and fired again as soon as they were ready; while through the upper part of the open windows a shower of bullets flew into the room, bringing down portions of the ceiling, smashing looking-glasses, and striking thickly against the back walls.

Several of the party had fallen in the first two or three minutes, and Frank, taking one of their muskets and ammunition, was working with the rest, when a woman whom he had posted below ran up to say that they were attacking the door, and that it was already yielding. Two or three shots fired through the keyhole had indeed broken the lock, and it was only the furniture piled against it that kept it in its place. Already, by his instructions, the women had brought out on to the landing sofas, chests of drawers, and other articles, to form a barricade there. Frank ran down the stone stairs with six of the men, directing the others to form the barricade on the first floor, and to be prepared to help them over as they returned. It was two or three minutes before the hinges of the door were broken off, by shots from the assailants, and as it fell it was dragged out, and a number of men rushed in and began to pull down the furniture behind.

Now Frank and his party opened fire, aiming coolly and steadily. But the soldiers rushed in in such numbers that he soon gave the word, and his party ran upstairs, and, covered by the fire of their comrades, climbed up over the barricade on to the landing. Here they defended themselves desperately. The enemy thronged the staircase, those who were in front using their bayonets, while the men in the passage below fired over their heads at the defenders. Momentarily the little band decreased in number, until but two remained on their feet by the side of Frank. The women, knowing that no mercy would be shown, picked up the muskets of the fallen, and fired them into the faces of the men trying to pull down or scale the barricades. But the end was close at hand, when there came a tremendous crash, a blinding smoke and dust. The house shook to its foundations, and for a moment a dead silence took the place of the din that had before prevailed.

Frank and his two companions had been thrown down by the shock. Half stunned, and ignorant of what had happened, he struggled to his feet. His left hand hung helpless by his side. He took his pistol, which he had reserved for the last extremity, from his belt, and looked over the barricade. At first he could see nothing, so dense was the smoke and dust. As it cleared away a little, he gave an exclamation of surprise and thankfulness: the stairs were gone.

“Thank God!” he said, turning round to the women behind him, who were standing paralysed by the explosion and shock. “We are safe: the stairs have gone.”

Still he could scarce understand what had happened, until he saw a yawning hole in the wall near the stairs, and then understood what had taken place. The ships-of-war were again at work bombarding the town. One of their shells had passed through the house and exploded under the stairs, carrying them away, with all upon them. Below was a chaos of blocks of stone, mingled with the bodies of their late assailants; but while he looked, a fierce jet of flame burst up.

“What was there under the stairs?” he asked the women.

“The store of firewood, signor, was there.”

“The shell which blew up the stairs has set it alight,” he said. “We are safe from the enemy; but we are not safe from the fire. I suppose there is a way out on to the roof?”

“Yes, signor.”

“Then do one of you see that all the children upstairs are taken out there; let the rest examine all the bodies of the men who have fallen; if any are alive they must be carried up.”

He looked down at the two men who had stood by him till the last: one had been almost decapitated by a fragment of stone, the other was still breathing; only three of the others were found to be alive, for almost all, either at the windows or the barricade, had been shot through the head or upper part of the body.

Frank assisted the women, as well as he was able, to carry the four men still alive up to the roof. The houses were divided by party walls some seven or eight feet high. Frank told the women to fetch a chair, a chest of drawers, and a large blanket, from below. The chest of drawers was placed against the wall separating the terrace from that of the next house down the lane, and the chair by the side of it. With the aid of this, Frank directed one of the women to mount on to the chest of drawers, and then took his place beside her.

“You had better get up first,” he said, “and then help me a little, for with this disabled arm I should not be able to manage it without hurting myself badly.” With her aid, however, he had no difficulty in getting up. There were several women on the next roof, but they had not heard him, so intent were they in watching the fray; and it was not until he had shouted several times that they caught the sound of his voice above the din of fighting.

“I am going to hand some children and four wounded men down to you,” he said, as they ran up.

The children were first passed down; the women placed the wounded men one by one on a blanket, and standing on two chairs raised it until Frank and the woman beside him could get hold. Then they lowered it down on the other side until the women there could reach it. Only three had to be lifted over, for when it came to the turn of the fourth he was found to be dead.

“You will all have to move on,” Frank said, as he dropped on to the terrace; “the next house is on fire: whether it will spread or not I cannot say, but at any rate you had better bring up your valuables, and move along two or three houses farther. You cannot go out into the street; you would only be shot down as soon as you issued out. I think that if you go two houses farther you will be safe; the fire will take some time to reach there, and the enemy’s column may have passed across the end of the street before you are driven out.”

The women heard what he said with composure; the terrors of the past three days had excited the nerves of the whole population to such a point of tension, that the news of this fresh danger was received almost with apathy. They went down quietly to bring up their children and valuables, and with them one woman brought a pair of steps, which greatly facilitated the passage of the remaining walls. One of the wounded men had by this time so far recovered himself that he was able, with assistance, to cross without being lifted over in a blanket. A fresh contingent of fugitives here joined them, and another wall was crossed.

“I think that you are now far enough,” Frank said: “will you promise me that if the flames work this way”—and by this time the house where the fight had taken place was on fire from top to bottom—“you will carry these wounded men along as you go from roof to roof? I have my duties to perform and cannot stay here longer. Of course, if the fire spreads all the way down the lane, you must finally go down and run out from the door of the last house; but there will be comparatively small danger in this, as it will be but two or three steps round the next corner, and you will there be in shelter.”

“We promise we will carry them with us,” one of the women said earnestly: “you do not think that we could leave the men who have fought so bravely for us to be burnt?”

Frank now proceeded along the roofs. Two of the women accompanied him, to place the steps to enable him to mount and dismount the walls. There was no occasion to warn those below as to the fire, for all had by this time noticed it. He went down through the last house, opened the door, and ran round the corner, and then made his way along the streets until he reached the spot where the combat was raging. Garibaldi had, on receiving his message, hurried with what force he could collect to the scene of conflict; but, as he went, he received a letter from General Lanza, saying that he had sent negotiators on board the flag-ship of the British fleet anchored in the roadstead, Admiral Mundy having consented to allow the representatives of both parties to meet there.

The tone of the letter showed how the Sicilian viceroy’s pride was humbled. He had, in his proclamation issued four days before, denounced Garibaldi as a brigand and filibuster; he now addressed him as His Excellency General Garibaldi. Garibaldi at once went on board the English admiral’s ship, but the fire of the Neapolitan ships and their guns on shore continued unabated. General Letizia was already on board, with the conditions of the proposed convention. To the first four articles Garibaldi agreed: that there should be a suspension of arms for a period to be arranged; that during that time each party should keep its position; that convoys of wounded, and the families of officials, should be allowed to pass through the town and embark on board the Neapolitan war-ships; and that the troops in the palace should be allowed to provide themselves with daily provisions. The fifth article proposed that the municipality should address a humble petition to his majesty the king, laying before him the real wishes of the town, and that this petition should be submitted to his majesty.

This article was indignantly rejected by Garibaldi. Letizia then folded up the paper and said, “Then all communications between us must cease.”

Garibaldi then protested to Admiral Mundy against the infamy of the royal authorities in allowing the ships and forts to continue to fire upon his troops while a flag of truce was flying. Letizia, who could hardly have expected that the article would be accepted, now agreed to its being struck out, and an armistice was arranged to last for twenty-four hours. Garibaldi returned on shore, and at a great meeting of the citizens explained the terms to them, and stated the condition that he had rejected. It was greeted with a roar of approval, and the citizens at once scattered with orders to increase the strength of the barricades to the utmost. The work was carried on with enthusiasm; the balconies were all lined with mattresses, and heaped with stones and missiles of all kinds to cast down upon the enemy, and the work of manufacturing powder and cartridges went on with feverish haste. Now that the firing had ceased, officers from the British and American vessels off the town came ashore, and many of them made presents of revolvers and fowling-pieces to the volunteers. The sailors on a Sardinian frigate almost mutinied, because they were not permitted to go ashore and aid in the defence.

Before the twenty-four hours had passed, General Letizia called upon Garibaldi and asked for a further three days’ truce, as twenty-four hours was not a sufficient time to get the wounded on board. This Garibaldi readily granted, as it would give time for the barricades to be made almost impregnable, and for him to receive reinforcements, while it could not benefit the enemy. Volunteers arrived in companies from the country round, and Orsini landed with the cannon and with a considerable number of men who had joined him.

Such was the report given by Letizia, on his return to the royal palace, of the determined attitude of the population and of the formidable obstacles that would be encountered by the troops directly they were put in motion, that General Lanza must have felt his position to be desperate. He accordingly sent Letizia back again to arrange that the troops at the royal palace, the finance office, and the Termini gate should be allowed to move down towards the sea and there join hands. To this Garibaldi willingly assented, as, should hostilities be renewed, he would be able to concentrate his whole efforts at one point, instead of being obliged to scatter his troops widely to meet an advance from four directions.

All idea of further fighting, however, had been abandoned by Lanza, and before the end of the armistice arrived, it was arranged that all should be taken on to their ships, and the forts, as well as the town, evacuated. The general also bound himself to leave behind him all the political prisoners who had been detained in the Castello Mare.

The enthusiasm in the city was indescribable, as the Neapolitans embarked on board their ships. The released prisoners were carried in triumph to Garibaldi’s headquarters. Every house was decorated and illuminated, and the citizens, proud of the share they had taken in winning their freedom, speedily forgot their toils and their losses. The men who had marched with Garibaldi from Marsala were glad indeed of the prospect of a short time of rest. For nearly three weeks they had been almost incessantly marching or fighting, exposed for some days to a terrible downfall of rain, without shelter and almost without food. Since they had entered Palermo, they had only been able to snatch two or three hours’ sleep occasionally. They had lost a large number of men, and few of them had escaped unwounded; but these, unless absolutely disabled, had still taken their share in the fighting, and even in the work of building the barricades.

For Garibaldi’s staff there was little relaxation from their labours. In addition to his military duties, Garibaldi undertook with his usual vigour the reorganisation of the municipal affairs of the town. The condition of the charitable establishments was ameliorated; schools for girls established throughout the island; a national militia organised; the poorer part of the population were fed and employed in useful work; the street arabs, with whom Palermo swarmed, were gathered and placed in the Jesuit College, of which Garibaldi took possession, to be trained as soldiers. The organisation of the general government of the island was also attended to, and recruiting officers sent off to every district evacuated by the enemy.

This Garibaldi was able to do, as over £1,000,000 sterling had been, by the terms of the convention, left in the royal treasury when it was evacuated by the enemy. Contracts for arms were made abroad; a foundry for cannon established in the city, and the powder mills perfected and kept at work. Increasing reinforcements flocked in from the mainland; Medici with three steamers and two thousand men arrived the evening before the Neapolitan troops had finished their embarkation; Cosenz shortly afterwards landed with an equal number; other contingents followed from all the Italian provinces. Great Britain was represented by a number of enthusiastic men, who were formed into a company. Among these was a Cornish gentleman of the name of Peard, who had long been resident in Italy, and had imbibed a deep hatred of the tyrannical government that ground down the people, and persecuted, imprisoned, and drove into exile all who ventured to criticise their proceedings. He was a splendid shot, and the coolness he showed, and his success in picking off the enemy’s officers, rendered him a noted figure among Garibaldi’s followers.

The army was now organised in three divisions: one under General Turr marched for the centre of the island; the right wing, commanded by Bixio, started for the south-east; and the left, under Medici, was to move along the north coast; all were finally to concentrate at the Straits of Messina.

It was now the middle of July. Wonders had been accomplished in the six weeks that had passed since the occupation of Palermo. Garibaldi, who had been regarded as almost a madman, was now recognised as a power. He had a veritable army, well supplied with funds—for in addition to the million he had found in the treasury, subscriptions had been collected from lovers of freedom all over Europe, and specially from England—and although there still remained a formidable force at Messina, it was regarded as certain that the whole of Sicily would soon become his.

One of the Neapolitan war-ships had been brought by her captain and crew into Palermo and placed at the disposal of Garibaldi; two others had been captured. Cavour himself had changed his attitude of coldness, and was prepared to take advantage of the success of the expedition, that he had done his best to hinder. He desired, however, that Garibaldi should resign his dictatorship and hand over the island to the King of Sardinia. The general, however, refused to do this. He had all along declared in his proclamations that his object was to form a free Italy under Victor Emmanuel, and now declared that he would, when he had captured Naples, hand that kingdom and Sicily together to the king, but that until he could do so he would remain dictator of Sicily.

There can be no doubt that his determination was a wise one, for, as afterwards happened at Naples, he would have been altogether put aside by the royalist commissioners and generals, his plans would have been thwarted in every way, and hindrances offered to his invasion of the mainland, just as they had been to his expedition to Sicily.

Cavour sent over Farina to act in the name of the king. Admiral Persano, who, with a portion of the Italian navy, was now at Palermo, persuaded Garibaldi to allow Farina to assume the position of governor; but, while allowing this, Garibaldi gave him to understand that he was to attend solely to financial and civil affairs. Farina’s first move, however, was to have an enormous number of placards that he had brought with him stuck all over the city, and sent to all the towns of the island, with the words, “Vote for immediate annexation under the rule of Victor Emmanuel.” The Sicilians neither knew nor cared anything for Victor Emmanuel, whose very name was almost unknown to the peasants. It was Garibaldi who had delivered them, and they were perfectly ready to accept any form of government that he recommended. Garibaldi at once told Farina that he would not allow such proceedings. The latter maintained that he was there under the authority of the king, and should take any steps he chose; whereupon the general sent at once for a party of troops, who seized him and carried him on board Persano’s ships, with the advice that he should quit the island at once. This put an effectual stop to several intrigues to reap the entire fruits of Garibaldi’s efforts.

Frank had passed a weary time. His wound had been a serious one, and at first the surgeons had thought that it would be necessary to amputate the limb. Garibaldi, however, who, in spite of his many occupations, found time to come in twice a day for a few minutes’ talk with him, urged them, before operating, to try every means to save the arm; and two weeks after Frank received the wound, the care that had been bestowed upon him and his own excellent constitution enabled them to state confidently that he need no longer have any anxiety upon that account, as his recovery was now but a question of time. The general thanked Frank for the early information sent by him of Bosco’s arrival, and for his defence of the house, and as a reward for these and his other services promoted him to the rank of captain. A fortnight later, he was so far convalescent that he could move about with his arm in a sling. He had already regained most of his bodily strength, and by the end of the second week in July he was again on horseback.

He was, then, delighted when, on July 17th, he heard that Garibaldi was going to start at once to assist Medici, who, with Cosenz, had advanced to within some twenty miles of Messina, and had had some skirmishes with a force of six thousand five hundred picked troops with a powerful artillery. The Neapolitans, who were commanded by General Bosco, had now taken up a very strong position near the town and fortress of Milazzo.

Colonel Corti arrived at Palermo on that day with nine hundred men in an American ship. He had left Genoa at the same time as Medici, but the vessel was captured by Neapolitan men-of-war, and towed into Naples, where she was anchored under the guns of the fort. She lay there for twenty-two days, when the strong remonstrances of the American minister forced the government of Naples to allow her to leave. She now arrived just in time for those on board to take part in the operations. Garibaldi embarked a portion of them on a British merchantman he had chartered, and proceeded on board with his staff. The next day he landed at the port of Patti, some twenty miles from Milazzo, and on the 19th joined Medici’s force.

A strong brigade that had been sent by land had not yet arrived, but Garibaldi determined to attack at once. The position of the Neapolitan force was a very strong one. Their right extended across the front of the fortress of Milazzo, and was protected by its artillery; its approaches were hidden by cactus hedges, which screened the defenders from view, and could not be penetrated by an attacking force, except after cutting them down with swords or axes. The centre was posted across the road leading along the shore. Its face was defended by a strong wall, which had been loopholed. In front of this the ground was covered with a thick growth of canes, through which it was scarcely possible for men to force their way. The Neapolitan left were stationed in a line of houses lying at right-angles to the centre, and therefore capable of maintaining a flanking fire on any force advancing to the attack.

The Garibaldians suffered from the very great disadvantage of being ignorant of the nature of the ground and of the enemy’s position, the Neapolitans being completely hidden from view by the cactus hedges and cane brakes. Garibaldi had intended to attack before daylight, but the various corps were so widely scattered that it was broad day before the fight began. As soon as the force had assembled they advanced across the plain, which was covered with trees and vineyards, and as they approached the enemy’s position they were received with a heavy fire by the unseen foe. For hours the fight went on. In vain the Garibaldians attempted to reach their hidden enemies, for each time they gathered and rushed forward, they were met by so heavy a fire that they were forced to retire. The left wing, indeed, gave way altogether and fell back some distance from the battle-field, but the centre and right, where Garibaldi himself, with Medici and many of his best officers were fighting, still persevered.

At one o’clock Garibaldi sent off several of his officers to endeavour to rally and bring up some of the scattered detachments of the left wing. After a lot of hard work they returned with a considerable force. Garibaldi, at the head of sixty picked men, made his way along the shore, until, unobserved, they reached a point on the flank of the enemy’s left wing; then, pouring in a heavy volley, they dashed forward, captured a gun, and drove the Neapolitans from their line of defence. Suddenly, however, a squadron of the enemy’s cavalry fell upon the Garibaldians and drove them back in disorder. Garibaldi himself was forced off the road into a ditch; four troopers attacked him, but he defended himself with his sword, until Missori, one of his aides-de-camp, rode up and shot three of the dragoons.

The other troops, who had been following at a distance, now came up; and together they advanced, driving before them the defenders of the enemy’s entrenchments, until these, losing heart, broke into flight towards the town. The panic spread, and at all points the Garibaldians burst through the defences, in spite of the fire of the guns of the fortress, and pursued the flying enemy into the town. Here a sanguinary contest was maintained for some hours, but at last the Neapolitan troops were all driven into the fortress, which, now that the town had been evacuated by their own men, opened fire upon it. The gunners were, however, much harassed by the deadly fire maintained by Peard and his companions, all of whom were armed with rifles of the best pattern, while the guns of the Garibaldian frigate played upon the sea face of the fortress. The position was, in fact, untenable. General Bosco knew that no assistance could reach him, for the greater portion of the Neapolitan troops had already withdrawn from the island. The little fortress was crowded with troops, and he had but a small supply of provisions.

Three days later, he hoisted the white flag, and sent one of his officers into the town to negotiate terms of surrender. These were speedily concluded. All artillery, ammunition, and the mules used by the artillery and transport, were left behind, and the troops were to be allowed to march, with their firearms, down to the wharf; there to be conveyed on board the ships in the harbour, and landed on the mainland.

Frank had not taken part in the battle of Milazzo, which had cost the Garibaldians over a thousand in killed and wounded; for he had been despatched by Garibaldi, when the latter went on board ship at Palermo, to General Bixio, who was in the centre of the island, to inform him of the general’s advance, and to state that probably he would be in Messina in a week. He said that some little time must elapse before the arrangements for the passage across to the mainland could be effected; and that Bixio was to continue to stamp out the communistic movement, that had burst out in several of the towns there, and to scatter the bands of brigands; and was, a fortnight after Frank’s arrival, to march with his force to Messina.

Frank would have much preferred to accompany the general, but the latter said: “No doubt, Percival, you would have liked to go with me, but some one must be sent, and my choice has fallen upon you. I have chosen you because, in the first place, you are your father’s son. You have already distinguished yourself greatly, and have fought as fearlessly and as steadily as the best of my old followers. Surely it would be impossible for me to give you higher praise than that. In the next place, you are not yet fit for the hard work of the campaign. Mantoni tells me that it will be some weeks before your arm will be strong again; though the bone has healed better than he had expected, after the serious injury you received in your gallant defence of that house, when Bosco entered the town.

“But even had it not been for that, I think that you have done more than your share. There are many ardent spirits who have arrived from the mainland, who have not yet had a chance of striking a blow for their country; and it is but fair that they should have their opportunity. Moreover, your mother sent you out on a special mission, first to hand to me her noble gift, and secondly to search the prisons in the towns we might occupy, for her father, and possibly her husband. She knew that, going with me, you must share in the perils and honours of the campaign. You have done so gloriously, but in that way you have done enough. Grievous indeed would it be to me had I to write to your good mother to say that the son she had sent me had been killed. Her father has been a victim for Italian liberty. Her husband has, if our suspicions are well founded, sacrificed himself by the fearlessness with which he exposed the iniquities of the tyrants’ prison-houses. It would be too cruel that she should be deprived of her son also.

“I regard it as certain that you will not find those you seek in the prisons of this island. As you saw when we opened the doors here, there were no prisoners from the mainland among those confined there. You will be with me when we cross the straits: it is there that your mission will really begin, and it is best that you should reserve yourself for that. The battle I go to fight now will be the last that will be needed, to secure at least the independence of Sicily. And I doubt much whether, when we have once crossed, we shall have to fight as hard as we have done. Here we landed a handful; we shall land on the mainland over twenty thousand strong; the enemy despised us then—they will fear us now.”

“Thank you, general; I should not have thought of questioning your orders, whatever they might have been, but I felt for a moment a little disappointment that I was not to take part in the next battle. I will start at once to join General Bixio. Will it be necessary for me to stay with him till he marches to Messina, or can I ride for that city when I have delivered your orders?”

“In that you can consult your own wishes, but be assured that I shall not attempt to cross the straits until Bixio joins me; and I should say that you would find it more interesting with him than doing routine work at Messina; moreover, you must remember that the population there are not all united in our favour, as they are here. They are doubtless glad to be free, but the agents of the revolutionists have been at work among them, and, as you know, with such success that I have been obliged to send Bixio with a division to suppress the disorders that have arisen. I have not freed Sicily to hand it over to Mazzini’s agents, but that it shall form a part of United Italy under Victor Emmanuel. Still there is enough excitement existing there to render it somewhat hazardous for one of my officers to ride alone through the country, and I think that it would be much better for you therefore to remain with Bixio.”

CHAPTER X.

WITH BIXIO.

JUST as the ship carrying Garibaldi and his followers weighed anchor, Frank rode out from Palermo. The road was the best in the island, and he arrived late that evening at Polizzi, a distance of some forty miles from Palermo. On the following day he halted at Traina; here he found a detachment of Bixio’s brigade, which was commanded by Rubini, who welcomed him most cordially.

“Who would have thought of seeing you, Percival! Surely the general is not coming this way?”

“He started yesterday to join Medici, and give battle to Bosco, who has some seven thousand picked troops at Milazzo. He has sent me here with an order for Bixio.”

“It is enough to make one tear one’s hair,” Rubini said, “to think that we are out of it.”

“Well, we have done our share, Rubini, and although I was disappointed at first, I admit that it is only fair that the men who have done no fighting should have a turn. We have lost about a third of our number, and most of us have been wounded. Medici’s corps have never fired a shot yet, nor have those of Cosenz; we shall have our share again when we cross to Calabria. Now, what are you doing here?”

“We are scattered about in small detachments, giving a sharp lesson, whenever we get the chance, to the revolutionists.”

“But who are the revolutionists?”

“They are agents of the revolutionary committee—that is, of Mazzini and his fanatics—and it seems that several parties of them were landed on the east coast to get up a row on their own account; and just as Farina has been trying to induce the country to throw over Garibaldi, and declare for Victor Emmanuel, of whom the people know nothing, and for whom they care less, these agents have been trying to get them to declare for a republic, and they have certainly had more success than Farina had. There is nothing tangible in the idea of a king, while, when the poor fools are told that a republic means that the land and property of the rich are to be handed over to the poor, the programme has its attractions. At any rate, it has its attractions for the brigands, of whom, at the best of times, there are always a number in the forests on the slopes of Etna; and I have no doubt that money was freely distributed among them to inflame their zeal. Several houses of well-to-do citizens and country proprietors had been looted, and something like a reign of terror had begun, before Bixio’s brigade marched to restore order.

“You see there are a great many more of these bands in the forests than usual. After the rising in the winter was suppressed, very many of those who took part in it dared not return to their homes, and so fled to the hills; the better class of these men came in as soon as our capture of Palermo made it safe for them to do so. A company of them has been formed, and is now with Bixio, and I believe that others have enlisted with Medici; still there are a good many of the lower class who joined in the rising, still among the hills. In a rebellion like this the insurgents would be divided into two classes—the one true patriots, the other men who join in the hope of plunder, the discontented riffraff of the towns. A life in the mountains offers great attractions to these: in the first place they don’t have to work for a living, and in the next there is always the chance of carrying off some rich proprietor and getting a large ransom for him. These therefore go to swell the ranks of the men who have for years set the authorities of the island at defiance, and have terrorised all the people dwelling on the plains at the foot of Etna.

“Just at present all these men call themselves republicans, and had it not been for Bixio’s arrival they would have established a perfect reign of terror. We here have shot a good many, and I believe Bixio has also given them some sharp lessons; at any rate, our presence here has effectually stopped the game of the revolutionists in the towns and villages on the plain, but it will be a long time indeed before brigandage can be suppressed, and of course there is no intention of attempting such a business now; that will be a work that must be undertaken by government, when Italy has achieved her freedom, and feels in a position to turn her attention to putting down these bands which have for years past—I may almost say for centuries—been a disgrace to our land. We are here solely to put a stop to the revolutionary movement, just as Garibaldi put a stop to the royal movement by sending Farina out of the island.”

“And where is Bixio?”

“He has been sweeping through the small towns and villages round the foot of the mountains, and will this afternoon, I believe, arrive at Bronte, which has been the headquarters of this revolutionary business. I expect he will put his foot heavily on the men who have been foremost in stirring the people up there. Bixio is just the man for this work. He knows that one sharp lesson impresses the minds of people like these Sicilians, and has far more effect than lenient measures or verbal reproofs. They have to be taught that it is not for them to meddle in affairs of state. All these matters must be left to their representatives in parliament and the government of the country. The petty authorities of these little towns come to regard themselves as important personages, and indulge themselves in prating on public affairs, instead of minding their own business, which, in this case, is to do their best to give protection to the people in their districts against the incursions of bands of brigands. I suppose you go on to-morrow?”

“Yes; I shall start at daybreak; it is not many hours’ ride.”

“I have about a score of mounted men here, Percival. I will send four of them with you.”

“Surely there is no occasion for that,” Frank said.

“Well, I don’t know: I think there is. There are no large bands, so far as I know, down in the plain at present; but some of these gangs have broken up, especially those that came from the mainland, and have not as yet taken to the mountains. They go about perpetrating crimes at detached houses or on any traveller they meet. I need not say that at present their animosity to the red shirts is bitter, and that in revenge for their comrades who have been shot or hanged, they would certainly kill any of us on whom they could lay hands; so it would be better for you to have four men as an escort. They might as well be doing that as anything else, for just at present there is nothing going on about here, and it is as dull as it would be in a small garrison town in Northern Italy. How long do you suppose it will be before we join Garibaldi at Messina?”

“Not for some little time, I think. If he and Medici defeat Bosco at Milazzo, as I suppose they will, he will at once go on to Messina; but his message to Bixio was that it must take some time to make the preparations for crossing to the mainland, and that until he sends word to the general to join him, he is to continue his work of stamping out this movement in restoring order, in reorganising the municipal authorities, and in placing the administration of the towns and villages in the hands of well-affected men, so that there can be no chance of Mazzini’s party causing any serious disturbances again, after he has left.”

“I see you still wear your arm in a sling?”

“Yes; Mantoni told me that it would not be safe to take it out of the splints for another month, but he had every hope that when I did so I should be able to use it, though I must not put too much strain on it. Of course it is a nuisance, but I have every reason to be thankful, for I was afraid for a time that I was going to lose it altogether.”

“It was a grand thing, the defence of that house, Percival.”

“It was a grand thing that that shell struck the stairs just when it did, for another minute would have seen the end of the defence and of our lives. As it was, that explosion saved four of us, for the wounded men we carried off are all convalescent,—and also the lives of five women and eight children, for, exasperated as the Neapolitans were, they would assuredly have shown no more mercy there than they did in the other houses they entered. I have been well rewarded, for Garibaldi has made me captain.”

Sarto and Maffio returned at this moment, and the three heartily congratulated Frank on his promotion. They had been away with a small detachment to a village three miles distant, in search of a man who had been one of the most prominent in stirring up the peasantry, but he had left before they got there. They spent a pleasant evening together, and in the morning Frank started with the four mounted men and rode to Bronte. Just as he approached the town he heard several volleys of musketry, and on inquiry found that thirty men who had been captured on the march or caught in hiding in the town had been shot. All were strangers—either revolutionary agents or brigands. On inquiring for the general, he found that he had just gone to the town hall, where he had ordered the municipal authorities and the principal citizens to meet him. Putting up his horse, he went there first. Bixio had just begun to speak.

“If I had done my duty,” he said, “you as well as the men who have been stirring up riot and revolution would be lying dead outside the town. It is scandalous that you, men who have been elected by your fellows for the maintenance of order and good government in this town and district, should allow yourselves to be terrified into obedience by a handful of agitators, instead of calling out all the men capable of bearing arms and suppressing the sedition at once. You have failed miserably in your duty. The man who came as your deliverer is now, in the hour of battle, weakened by being compelled to send part of his army to suppress the disorder at which you have connived. You private citizens are scarcely less to blame: when you saw that these men were allowing brigandage and robbery to go on unchecked and making speeches subversive of order instead of doing their duty, you should have taken the matter into your own hands, expelled them from the offices they disgraced, and appointed worthier men as your representatives.”

He spoke to an officer standing by him, who went out and returned with twenty soldiers who had been drawn up outside the hall. Bixio remained silent during his absence, and now said: “Captain Silvio, you will arrest the syndic and these municipal councillors, and march them off to prison. They may think themselves fortunate that I do not order them to be shot for conniving at sedition, and permitting these brigands to carry on their work of crime with impunity.”

The soldiers surrounded the men pointed out, and marched away with them.

“Now, sirs,” Bixio then went on to the private citizens, “you will at once placard the town with notices that the most worthy and loyal man in the town, whoever he may be, is nominated by me as syndic, and that twelve others, all of them loyal and true men, are appointed municipal councillors. I leave it to you to make the choice, but mind that it be a good one. Of course I wish men of standing and influence to be appointed, but the one absolute qualification is that they shall be men who have shown themselves opposed to the conduct of those who will pass the next six months in prison; who can be trusted to maintain law and order with a strong hand, to punish malefactors, and to carry out all orders they may receive from General Garibaldi, Dictator of the Island of Sicily. Let me have the names of the men you have chosen in the course of an hour. I shall have inquiries made as to the character and reputation of each before confirming their appointment. I have nothing more to say.”

The men retired, looking greatly crestfallen; and Bixio, turning round, saw for the first time Frank, who had quietly taken up his place behind him. The young fellow had been a great favourite of his ever since he saw him on the occasion of his first visit to Garibaldi.

“Ah, Percival, I am glad to see you, and that you should be here is a proof that your arm is getting stronger. I suppose you are here on duty?”

“Yes, sir; knowing that rumours of various kinds might reach you, the general has sent me to tell you that he has started with a portion of Cosenz’s men to reinforce Medici, and to attack Bosco at Milazzo. He considers that he will have sufficient force for the purpose, but if not, he will, in a couple of days after he arrives there, be joined by the rest of Cosenz’s command, who are proceeding by land. After beating Bosco, he will go on to Messina. It will take him a considerable time to make all the preparations needful for the expedition to the mainland, and he wishes you to continue your work here, to put down all disorder, and to organise and establish strong and loyal municipal and district councils in this part of the island, so that when he advances, he need have no cause for any anxiety whatever for the state of affairs here. He will send you ample notice when all is in readiness for the invasion of Calabria.”

“I should like to be at Milazzo,” Bixio said, “but as that is now impossible I should prefer remaining here until Garibaldi is ready to start, to hanging about Messina for weeks: that sort of thing is very bad for young troops. Here they get plenty of marching, and a certain amount of drill every day, and in another month or six weeks even the latest recruits, who arrived before we left Palermo, will be fit to take part in a battle by the side of our veterans. Are you to stay with me, or to go on to Messina?”

“I had no explicit order, sir, but from what the general said, I gathered that he thought it better for me to stay, at any rate for the present, with you. The doctor said that I must keep my arm in a sling for some time to come, and although I did not ride here at any great speed, I feel some sharp twinges in it, and think I should wait a few days before I mount again. After that I shall be happy to carry out any orders, or perform any duty, with which you may think fit to intrust me.”

“Quite right, Percival. You will, of course, be attached to my staff while you are with me, and I will set you to easy work when I consider you fit to undertake it. Now that I have put things in train here, I shall make it my headquarters for a time, but shall be sending parties to the hills. I know that the villages there are all terrorised by the brigands, and although it is hopeless to try to stamp these fellows out, I may strike a few blows at them. The worst of it is, that half the peasantry are in alliance with them, and the other half know that it is as much as their lives are worth to give any information as to the brigands’ movements, so that to a large extent I shall have to trust to luck. When you are able to ride again, I will send you off with one of these parties, for I am sure that the air of the slopes of Etna will do an immense deal towards setting you up again, while the heat in the plains is very trying, especially to those who are not in robust health, and are unaccustomed to a climate like this.”

“It is hot,” Frank said. “I started my journeys very early in the morning, and stopped for five or six hours in the middle of the day; but I think that, even in that way, the heat has taken a good deal more out of me than the fatigue of riding.”

“I have no doubt that is so; and I should recommend you, for the next week, to rise at daybreak, lie down, or at any rate keep within doors, between ten or eleven and five in the afternoon, and then take gentle exercise again, and enjoy yourself until eleven or twelve o’clock at night. Even the natives of the island keep indoors as far as possible during the heat of the day, at this time of year, and if they find it necessary, it is still more so for you. I suppose you came through Traina last night?”

“Yes, sir; and was very glad to find Rubini and my other two friends there.”

The next week passed pleasantly. Bixio himself was often away, making flying visits to the towns and villages where he had left detachments; but as there were several of the officers of the force at Bronte, who had crossed in the same ship with him from Genoa, and by whose side he had fought at Calatafimi and Palermo, Frank had very pleasant society. Indeed, as the majority of the force were men of good family and education, there was, when off duty, little distinction of rank, and with the tie of good comradeship, and of dangers and fatigues borne in common, there was none of the stiffness and exclusiveness that necessarily prevail in regular armies. All of the original thousand knew Frank well, had heard how largely the expedition was indebted for its success to the aid his mother had sent, and how he had distinguished himself in the fighting, and they welcomed him everywhere with the utmost cordiality.

Early in the morning he always went for a walk, and was usually accompanied by one or two of his acquaintances who happened to be off duty. After taking a meal, he generally spent the evening sitting in the open air in front of the principal café, eating ices, drinking coffee, and chatting with the officers who gathered there. At the end of a week he no longer felt even passing pains in his arm, and reported to Bixio that he was ready for work again.

“Not hard work,” the general said; “but I can give you employment that will suit you. I am calling in Rubini’s detachment from Traina, where things are settling down, and shall send fifty men under his command to the village of Latinano. It is some three thousand feet above the sea, and you will find it much more cool and pleasant there than it is here. Other villages, on about the same line, will also be occupied. The brigands have found that it is no longer safe to come down into the plains, and I am going to push them as far up the slopes as I can: possibly we may then be able to obtain some information from the peasants below that line as to the principal haunts of these fellows in the mountains. At present these villages that I am going to occupy are all used by the brigands, whom the people regard as good customers; and though they ill-treat and murder without mercy any they suspect of being hostile to them, it is of course to their interest to keep well with the majority, and to pay for what they want. Terror will do a good deal towards keeping men’s mouths shut; but anything like the general ill-treatment of the population would soon drive somebody to betray them.

“Of course, hitherto the brigands have had little fear of treachery. The commanders of the Bourbon troops had no disposition to enter upon toilsome expeditions, which offered small prospect of success, merely to avenge the wrongs of the peasants; but now matters have changed. We are not only willing, but eager, to suppress these bands; and, seeing that we are in earnest, some of the peasantry may pluck up heart enough to endeavour to get rid of those who at present hold them at their mercy.

“However, I own I have no very great hopes that it will be so. There exists, and has existed for many years, an association called the Mafia, which extends over the whole island. It comprises men of all classes, from the highest to the lowest, and exercises a terrible power. No one, save the leaders, know who are its members, and therefore each distrusts his neighbour. A murder is committed. Every one may be perfectly well aware who is its author, and yet no one dare say a word. If by some chance the carabinieri, knowing the assassin had a standing feud with the victim, lay hands upon him, the organisation sets to work. The judge himself may be a member; if not, he speedily receives an intimation that his own life will be forfeited if the murderer is condemned. But it is seldom that this is necessary. The jailors are bribed or terrorised, and when the time comes for him to be brought to trial, it is found that he has mysteriously escaped; and, in the few cases where a man is brought into court, no witnesses dare appear against him, and he is certain to be acquitted. It is a scandalous state of things, and one which, we may hope, will be changed when Italy is free, and able to attend to its domestic affairs. But at present the organisation is all-powerful, so that you see it is not only the vengeance of the brigands, but the power of the Mafia, which seals men’s mouths, and enables criminals to carry on their proceedings with but little fear of the arm of the law.”

“I am much obliged to you for sending me up with Rubini,” Frank said; “and I shall greatly enjoy the mountain air, but I hardly see that I can be of much service there.”

“Not much, perhaps; but it will fit you to do duty when we land in Calabria. Rubini’s corps is, like the rest, composed partly of men who have seen service before, with a few of the thousand; but with them are a large proportion of fresh arrivals, as brave, no doubt, as the others, but without their experience. He will at times make excursions if he can obtain news of a party of brigands being in the neighbourhood, in which case he will naturally take the men he can most rely upon; and I shall request him when he is away to intrust the command of those left in the village to you, who are one of the thousand. You are a captain, as I heard with much pleasure in a letter from Garibaldi, and on the general’s staff; and as you showed how stoutly you could defend a house against an overwhelming force, you could certainly hold a village with fifteen or twenty men against any number of brigands who might try to take advantage of the absence of a portion of the force to attack those that remained there. However, it is not likely that anything of the sort will take place: the brigands are not fond of fighting unless there is ample booty to be obtained, though they might endeavour to avenge the losses they have sustained by a sudden attack, if they thought they could take you wholly unawares. Rubini will arrive here with his corps to-morrow afternoon, and will start the next day with half his detachment; the other half will go to Malfi, a village ten miles from Latinano.”

“You are looking better,” Rubini said, as Frank met him, when the company piled arms in the principal square in the town. “You said you were all right when I saw you the other day, but you were not looking so.”

“No; I was feeling the ride, and my arm was hurting me a bit. However, ten days’ rest has set me all right again, and I am quite equal to moderate work. Do you know what you are going to do?”

“No, I have only orders to march in here to-day.”

“Well, I can tell you. Several detachments, of fifty men each, are going up to the villages some three thousand feet up the slopes of Etna. Your company is to be divided into two. You with half of them are to go to Latinano, and the other half to Malfi, a place ten miles from it. Your lieutenant, Pasco, will take the other wing to Malfi. I am going with you.”

“Well, in that case I shall not mind it, though it will not be lively there unless we have a brush with the brigands. It will at any rate be a great deal cooler than Traina, which was an oven for six hours every day. Are you going as second in command?”

“To a certain extent, yes. Bixio said that, as I should be no good for fighting at present, I was to take command of the village when you were away brigand-hunting. He said that naturally you would take your best men for that work, and leave some of those who have had as yet no experience in fighting to take care of the village.”

“Well, they could not be left in better hands than yours,” Rubini said heartily. “I shall be very glad to have you with me.”

At daybreak the next morning Rubini’s little column got into motion. Frank was the only mounted officer, and he took his place by the side of Bixio, who marched at the head of the column. The rise was steady, and though occasionally they came to steeper places, there was no pause, with the exception of a couple of halts for a few minutes, and they reached Latinano at eleven o’clock, having been nearly seven hours on the way. There was no demonstration of welcome when they arrived, nor did they expect it. Doubtless such of the villagers as felt glad to see them march in would be afraid to show it openly, as they would assuredly suffer, were they to do so, when the troop marched away again. Rubini at once quartered his men in twos and threes among the houses. He himself, with Frank as his lieutenant, accepted the invitation of the priest, whose house was the best in the village, to stay there.

“It is not like the Palazzo at Palermo, Percival,” Rubini laughed; “but you can scarcely expect that on Mount Etna; at any rate, it is a vast improvement on our camping ground on the plains.”

The priest set before them what provisions he had in the house, and assured them that he would provide better for them in the future. Rubini, however, knowing how poor were the priests of these mountain villages, told him that, although they thankfully accepted his hospitality on that occasion, they would in the future cater for themselves.

“We have,” he said, “two waggons following us; they will be up by the evening. We have no idea of imposing ourselves, or our men, upon the inhabitants of this village, who assuredly could hardly fill fifty additional mouths. We have brought with us flour, wine, and other necessaries, and no doubt we shall be able to purchase sheep and goats from your people, who, by the way, did not appear to be very much pleased at our arrival.”

“You must not blame them, signor. In the first place, they are poor; and once, when a detachment of Bourbon troops came up here, they devoured everything, and paid for nothing: happily they only stayed for a week, or the village would have been ruined. After the tales that have been spread of the lawlessness of Garibaldi’s troops, they must have feared that even worse than what before happened was about to befall them.”

“They do nothing but tell lies of us,” Rubini said angrily. “Never since we landed at Marsala have we taken a mouthful of food without paying for it, unless it has been spontaneously offered to us, as it was when we were fighting at Palermo.”

“I have no doubt that what you say is true, signor; but the poor people have been taught to believe otherwise, so they are hardly to blame if they did not evince any lively joy at your arrival. Moreover, they do not know how long you are going to stay here, and are well aware that any who show satisfaction at your coming, or who afford you any aid or hospitality beyond that which they dare not refuse, will be reported to the brigands, who will take a terrible revenge after you have left the village.”

“I can understand that their position is not a comfortable one,” Rubini said; “but the people of these districts have largely brought it upon themselves. I do not say that they are in a position to resist large parties of brigands, but their sympathy seems to be everywhere with these scoundrels; they afford them every information in their power, screen them in every way, give false information to the carabinieri, and hinder the course of justice. People who act thus must not be surprised if they are regarded as allies of these bands, and they must put up with the inconvenience of having troops quartered upon them, and may think themselves fortunate that the consequences are no worse. At present we are not here to act against the brigands alone, as that work must be postponed until other matters are settled, and the government has time to turn its attention to rooting out a state of things that is disgraceful to the country. We are here now as the agents of General Garibaldi, Dictator of Sicily, to suppress—not crime—but the stirring-up of insurrection and revolt against the existing government of the island.”

“I heartily wish that it could be rooted out,” the priest said. “I can assure you that we, whose work lies in these mountain villages, feel the evil consequences to the full as much as those who work in the towns and villages lying round the foot of the mountains. It is not that our people suffer so greatly in pocket—for the most part they are too poor to be robbed; the few that are better off pay a yearly contribution, and as long as they do so are left in peace, while the better class down in the plains are liable at any time to be seized and compelled to pay perhaps their all to save their lives. The harm is rather to their souls than to their bodies; as you say, their sympathies are wholly with the brigands, they come to regard them as heroes, and to think lightly of the terrible crimes they commit upon others; and not infrequently some young man more enterprising than the rest, or one who has perhaps stabbed a rival in love or has been drawn for service in the army, takes to the hills and joins them, and for so doing he incurs no reprobation whatever. It is a sad state of things, and I trust that when your general has settled all other matters in the island he will employ his whole force in a campaign against the brigands. It is not a work to be taken up by small parties; the evil has grown to such dimensions that nothing short of an army would root it out, and indeed it could only then be accomplished by months of patient work, so extensive are the forests, so great the facility for concealment.”

“It will fall to other hands than Garibaldi’s, father. His mission is to deliver Sicily and the mainland from the Bourbon rule, and then to hand them over to Victor Emmanuel, who, a free king over a free nation, will be able to remove all these abuses that have flourished under the Bourbons. As for us, we are soldiers without pay, fighting for love of our country. When we have done our work and freed it from its oppressors, we shall return to our homes, and leave it to the king, his parliament, and the regular army to put down such abuses as this brigandage. I suppose, father, it would hardly be fair to ask you if there are many of these fellows in the neighbourhood?”

The priest smiled. “I do not mind telling you that there was a band of some fifty of them within five miles of this place yesterday. This morning it was known that several detachments of troops would march from Bronte at daybreak, and that their destination was the mountains. I have no doubt whatever that the news was carried to the band half an hour later; and by this time they are probably twenty miles away up in the forests, but in which direction I have no idea, nor do I know what their plans are. It may be that so long as these villages are held they will move round to the other side of Etna. It may be that several of the bands will unite and attack one or other of your parties, not for what they think they would get, but as a lesson that it would be better to leave them alone. I should say that, except by pure accident, you are not likely to catch sight of a brigand—unless, indeed, one comes down here as a shepherd from the hills, to make some small purchases, and to gather news.”

“I think that is likely to be the result of our journey,” Rubini laughed; “but, nevertheless, our being here will have served its purpose. So long as we and the other detachments are up here, the brigands will not care to venture into the plain; nor will the agents of the revolution who are with them. If they do, they are not likely to get safely back again. I may tell you that signals have been arranged by which smoke from the hill-tops near Bronte will give us information that some of these bands have passed down the mountain, the direction in which they have gone, and that in which they are retiring; and I fancy they will hardly regain the mountains without being intercepted by one or other of our parties. It is true that we shall not remain here very long; but by the time we go, there will be a very different system established throughout the island; and they will find in future that they can no longer get friends and abettors among the local authorities, but will have to meet an active resistance, that plunder cannot be obtained without fighting, and that even when obtained it will not be carried off to the hills without a hot pursuit being maintained.”

“I shall be glad indeed if it is so,” the priest said. “If the people of the towns and villages will but combine, and are actively supported by small bodies of troops in all the towns, it will deal a far heavier blow to brigandage than can be effected by sending flying expeditions into the mountains.”

CHAPTER XI.

A HAZARDOUS EXPEDITION.

“I FANCY, Percival, that the brigands are far more likely to find us than we are to find them,” Rubini said on the following morning, when he and Frank strolled out into the village. “We can expect no information from these people; and as to marching about on the off chance of lighting upon them, it would be simply absurd. On the other hand, the brigands will know, by this time, where all our detachments are quartered, and what is their strength. They must be furious at the losses they have had down in the plains; some forty or fifty of them have been killed in fights, and over a hundred shot, at Bronte and other towns. They must be burning for vengeance. I cannot help thinking that some of these bands are likely to unite, and attack some of our posts. Even if they came a couple of hundred strong, we might feel pretty safe of beating them off if they ventured by daylight; but a sudden attack at night might be extremely serious.”

“Very serious indeed,” Frank agreed. “Scattered as the men are, through the village, they would be shot down as they came out of the houses.”

“It is an awkward position, certainly,” Rubini said, “and one that I don’t see my way out of.”

“I should say, Rubini, the best thing we could do would be to quarter ourselves in the church.”

“It would be a very serious step,” Rubini said gravely. “We know that one of the great weapons the Neapolitans have used against us is, that we are heretics and atheists; and were we to occupy the church, reports would circulate through the island that we were desecrators.”

“They spread that sort of reports, whether there is any foundation for it or not, Rubini; besides, at Palermo we used several of the churches as hospitals for the wounded. But there would be no occasion for us to live and take our meals in the church, or to interfere with the services. If we keep half a dozen sentries round the village, we need not fear any surprise during the daytime, but could go on as usual in the houses where we are quartered, taking our meals there, and so on; then at night we could retire to the church, and sleep there securely with a couple of sentries posted at the door.”

“I think that is a very good idea; at any rate, we will tell the priest when we go in to breakfast, and hear what he says. He is a good fellow, I think—though, of course, his hands are very much tied by the position he is placed in.”

After they had eaten their breakfast, Rubini went with Frank to the priest’s room.

“Padre,” he said, “we don’t like our position here. It is certain that the brigands have no reason to love us, and that after the numbers who have been put out of the way down below, they must be thirsting for revenge.”

“That is certainly to be expected,” the priest said gravely.

“Therefore we think it is by no means unlikely that several of these bands will unite in an attack on one of our posts.”

“I hinted as much as that to you last night.”

“You did, padre; and the more I think of it, the more probable it seems to me that this is what they will do. It may be this post, or another; but I feel that, although we could beat off any attack in the daytime, it would be most serious were they to fall upon us at night, when we are scattered throughout the village.”

“It would certainly be so, signor. The consequences would, I think, be most grave.”

“Therefore, padre, we intend to retire to the church every evening.”

“Between ourselves, Captain Rubini, I am not sorry that you have made that proposal, or rather, have announced to me your intention of doing so. You will understand that it was a suggestion that could not come from me, and that I bow to your decision, having no means of resisting it; that being understood, I can say, frankly, that I think the plan a wise one. I hope that you do not intend to occupy it during the day, nor to eat and drink there, but simply to pass the night in the shelter of its walls, and that at all other times our services can be held as usual?”

“Certainly; that is our intention. We wish to put the people to no inconvenience, and to abstain, as far as possible, from doing aught that would hurt their feelings, by, as they would consider it, desecrating the church. Things will simply go on as they do now in the daytime, but at nightfall we shall march into the church, and place two sentries at the door; and in the morning we shall leave it, after placing everything in order, as far as we can, at a quarter to six—so that you can hold your morning mass at the usual hour.”

“I am well pleased with the arrangement. Should my people or others complain of your thus using the church, I can say that it was no proposal of mine, and that you did not ask my opinion on the subject; but simply informed me of your intention, which, of course, I have no power to combat. I may tell you that I have no sure intelligence whatever that the brigands meditate such an attempt, either here or at other villages, where parties of your troops have gone; but knowing the people as I do, I think it very likely that such an attack may be made. I myself, a well-wisher of your general and of his great movement, am convinced that the people can never be raised from their present condition, so long as we are subject to the government of Naples. I believe that, with freedom, the island would advance, not only in prosperity, but in orderly life and all the blessings of civilisation; and none will hail more heartily than I the establishment of a constitutional government, such as is enjoyed by that portion of Italy under the rule of Victor Emmanuel. Still, so long as things exist as they do in the mountains, it would do more harm than good, were I to declare my feelings. I speak not of personal danger, but I should lose all power and influence over my flock; therefore, though heartily wishing you well, I cannot openly aid you. I shall on Sunday speak from the pulpit, pointing out that the conduct of your soldiers shows that the reports that have been circulated regarding them are untrue; that they come here with no evil intentions towards us, and that I trust when they retire they will carry with them the good wishes of all; that I hope above all things, nothing will occur that will cause trouble, still less evil to our guests, for not only have they given no occasion for animosity, but if any harm befall them here, we may be sure that their general at Bronte will send up a strong body of troops, who will probably burn the village to the ground, and shoot every man they catch. I should say, signor, that my words would be more likely to have effect were some of your soldiers, and perhaps one of yourselves, to attend mass daily; this would show that you were not, as they have been told, despisers of all religion, and go far to remove the unfavourable impression with which I cannot deny that you are regarded.”

“The suggestion is a good one, sir,” Rubini said, “and I will see that it is carried out. I will come each morning. Captain Percival is an Englishman, and what you would call a heretic, so he will, I know, undertake to be on duty about that hour.

“Then we quite understand each other, padre: openly you protest against our using the church, privately you approve of our doing so?”

“My protest will not be a strong one,” the priest said, with a smile; “indeed, I shall tell my people that, although I have thought it my duty to protest formally, I cannot but see that it is best that it should be so, as it will ensure peace and tranquillity in the village, and will do away with the risks of broils when men sit drinking after dark in wine-shops.”

When the church bell rang for the midday mass, the villagers were surprised to see Rubini enter the edifice, and that some twenty of his men straggled in, not as a body ordered to take part in a service, but as if it was their regular custom as individuals to attend service. Before the bell ceased ringing, Frank also went in, and sat down by Rubini; when they left together at the close of a short service Rubini said, “I did not expect to see you, Percival.”

“Why not?” Frank replied: “if there were a Protestant church, of course I should go to it, but as there is not, I come here. Surely it is better to say one’s prayers in a church of a religion that on all its main points differs but slightly from our own, than to abstain from going to church at all. And now, what are we to do with ourselves? I suppose we can hardly start for a long walk?”

“I should think not,” Rubini said grimly—“at least, not without taking twenty men with us. It is as likely as not that we are watched from the forest, and if we were to go out alone, we might be pounced upon by fellows lying in ambush for us, or at best get a bullet through our head.”

“At best?” Frank laughed.

“Certainly at best,” Rubini replied gravely. “It would be better to die with a bullet through one’s head than to fall into the hands of these vindictive scoundrels, who would certainly select some much slower and more painful way of putting an end to our existence. No, there must be no walking about beyond the edge of the village.”

“Then, in fact, Rubini, our journey up here is to be a mere useless promenade?”

“I am afraid so. There is only one hope. It may be taken as a fact that in every band of scoundrels—whether they are robbers or conspirators or bandits—there are sure to be one or two discontented spirits, men who think that they ought to have been chosen as chiefs, that their advice has been slighted, or that their share of the plunder is insufficient; and should an opportunity occur, men like these are always ready to turn traitors, if they think that they can do so with safety. I do not suppose that the bands in these mountains are any exception; indeed, the chances of dissent are larger than usual, for we may be sure that both the brigands and these men who have been sent over from the mainland to foment discontent and create a counter-revolution in favour of a republic are greatly dissatisfied with the result of their joint undertaking. The prompt step Garibaldi took in sending Bixio’s division here must have upset all their plans. The guerrillas, no doubt, have taken a considerable amount of booty; but this could have been done without the aid of the strangers. The latter counted on doing great things with the assistance of the brigands. They have failed altogether. A good many of both sections have been killed; and I should imagine, at the present time, that there is not much love lost between them.

“It is therefore quite possible that some of these men are perfectly ready to betray the rest; and I regard it as on the cards that I may get a message to the effect that one of them will, if promised a pardon and a handsome reward, conduct us to the rendezvous where the band is gathered. In that case we should not return empty-handed. In some respects it is better that we should get at them that way than in any other; for the knowledge that one of their bands had been destroyed by treachery on the part of a member would cause a feeling of distrust and uneasiness in every gang in the mountains. Every man would begin to suspect every other man of being a traitor; and although the fear of being either followed or killed, or of being denounced as a traitor and murdered, perhaps days, perhaps weeks, perhaps even months afterwards, but certainly some day or other, would keep the bands together, yet they would lose all heart in the business; quarrels would break out, desperate fights would take place, and many of their parties would finally break up; while the others would, for a considerable time at least, undertake no fresh enterprises.”

Four days passed without incident. An hour after sunset the men marched to the church, the muskets were piled inside, and they were then permitted to sit on the steps outside smoking and talking until nine o’clock, when sentries were posted, and the men lay down inside. Late on the following afternoon, as Rubini with a sergeant was at the end of the village, a woman, standing half-hidden in some bushes a short distance away, motioned to him that she wanted to speak to him.

“There might be half a dozen men hidden in that bush,” Rubini said. “Let us turn off and go to that shed, and beckon to her to come to us. If we stand close to it, no one will see her speaking to us.”

The woman hesitated for some time, evidently afraid to leave the shelter of the bushes. Then, making a sign to Rubini that she would join them presently, she went back into the wood. In a short time she came out on the other side and walked a couple of hundred yards away; then she turned and made a wide circuit, keeping as much as possible in shelter, and at last joined them. She was a wild-looking creature: her hair was in disorder; her face bore signs of tears; her clothes were torn in several places, as if she had run recklessly through a thick wood. She might have cried as she came; but at present her flushed face, her fierce eyes, her tightly compressed lips, and her quick breathing, spoke of passion rather than grief.

“What do you want with me?” Rubini asked.

“IN HER EXCITEMENT SHE FELL ON HER KNEES”

“I have come to ask for vengeance,” the woman panted. “Prato has this afternoon shot my husband, and for what? Merely because he said that if the band were not going to do anything, he would return home. That was all; and Prato drew his pistol and shot him. My Antonio! I cannot bring him to life again, but I can avenge him. Signor, the band of Prato, the most merciless and most famous of our chiefs, lies but five miles away; I will lead you to the place, but you must swear to me that you will show him no mercy. If you take him prisoner, he will escape: no judge in the island dare convict him, no jailor would dare keep his door shut. I must have his life-blood; unless you will swear this I will not take you to him. As for the others, I care not, but I should like them all to be killed, for they laughed when Prato shot my Antonio like a dog; but I bargain not for them. Do as you will with them, but Prato must die. I ask no reward—I would not touch blood money; I ask only for vengeance,” and in her excitement she fell on her knees, and waving her arms above her head, poured down a string of maledictions upon the brigand chief.

“I can promise you that he shall not be taken prisoner,” Rubini said. “The villain has committed a score of murders; but he might escape.”

“He will fight to the last,” the woman said; “he is a devil, but he is no coward. But he would find it difficult to escape. His fires are lit at the foot of a crag, and if you approach him on both sides and in front, he must fight.”

“How many men has he?”

“Thirty-seven, counting himself, signor; but you will take them by surprise, and can shoot down many before they can fire a shot.”

“What do you think, Zippo?” Rubini asked, drawing his comrade two or three paces aside. “The man is one of the most notorious brigands in the mountains. There has been a big reward offered for him, dead or alive, for years past; it would be a grand service if we could destroy him and his band, and we should earn the gratitude of all the towns and villages below there.”

“Yes, it would be a grand exploit,” the sergeant said eagerly, “for us to accomplish what the Neapolitan troops and carabinieri have so long failed to do. Per Baccho, ‘tis a glorious stroke of luck.”

“That is what I think,” Rubini said. Then he went to the woman. “We are ready to aid you to avenge your husband,” he said. “You know your way through the forest in the dark?”

“I know it well. Prato’s band has been in this neighbourhood for months past, and I have been in here scores of times to buy provisions. There are two or three paths by which you might go, and I know all of them; if you like you can carry a lantern until you are within half a mile of them. The forest goes well-nigh up to the cliff.”

“I will not start till nine o’clock,” Rubini said. “At that time my men withdraw into the church; but we can move out by the door of the vestry behind, and no one in the village will dream that any of us have left the place. Will you be at that door five minutes after the clock strikes?”

“I will be there,” the woman said fiercely, turning and shaking her fist in the direction from which she had come.

As Frank was strolling up the street he met the two friends, for Zippo was a cousin of the captain.

“I have some very important news to give you, Percival,” Rubini said, as they met him; “but I won’t tell you here, for the people loitering about might notice that I was talking seriously, and suspect that something out of the way had occurred. Let us walk down quietly to the other end of the village, and out of earshot of any of the houses; until we get there let us chat of other matters. Your arm still goes on well?”

“It could not be better. Five or six days of this mountain air has done me no end of good. I have not felt a single twinge in my arm, and I believe I could use it for all ordinary purposes now with perfect safety.”

“That is a pretty little child, isn’t she, if her face were but clean? I should doubt if it has ever been really washed. I should certainly say that her hair has never been combed. There: the little beggar knows we are speaking of her. Did you see how she scowled? She has evidently picked up the popular sentiment concerning us.”

When fairly beyond the village Rubini told his story. “It will be splendid,” he said. “Why, the capture of Prato would cause almost as much sensation in Sicily as the taking of Palermo!”

“Yes, it would be a grand thing,” Frank agreed; “but are you quite sure, Rubini, that her story is a true one, and not a feint to draw you into an ambush?”

“I am perfectly convinced of the woman’s earnestness, Percival, and so would you have been had you seen her. Do you not agree with me, Zippo?”

“Certainly. I have not the slightest doubt in my mind as to the fact that she was speaking the truth.”

“Well, if you are both perfectly satisfied,” Frank said, “there can be no doubt that it would be a great service to destroy this fellow’s band. How many men do you propose to take with you?”

“I should certainly take as strong a force as possible. These brigands are desperate fellows when cornered.”

“Well, there would be no occasion to leave many men with me,” Frank said; “as you would no doubt get away unnoticed, it would be supposed that the whole force is as usual in the church. If you leave me five good men I shall be quite satisfied, and when you have gone we will barricade the doors, and could hold out stoutly for a long time. There is very little woodwork about the place, and if we were driven into the belfry they could not burn us out. However, it might be a wise precaution if you were to tell three or four of your men to buy a couple of loaves apiece and a skin of wine; as it will be dusk before they go as usual to the church steps, they could bring these with them without being noticed.”

“I will do as you suggest, Percival, but I really think that you are carrying precaution beyond what is necessary.”

“It will not be an expensive precaution,” Frank replied, with a smile.

“Then you think five men would be sufficient?” Rubini asked.

“So far as I am concerned, I do not see why you should not take them all. I was ordered to assume the command of any men left here, but that did not imply that your force was always to be broken up; certainly I am willing to remain here by myself. I would infinitely rather go with you, but a night march through a dark forest would be more serious for me than going into a pitched battle, for if I were to trip and fall, I should certainly smash my arm again. I do not see why you should leave any here: five men or even ten would be of no great use, and for a business like yours every musket may be of advantage. I shall certainly feel very anxious about you while you are away. I can quite believe that, as you say, the woman was perfectly in earnest; but when she was missed from that camp, after the murder of her husband, the suspicion that she had come here to tell us where they were encamped might very well occur to them, and you might find them vigilant and prepared for you.”

“That may be so,” Rubini agreed. “Well, then, as the villagers here will not know that we have left until we are back again, I think I will take forty-five men and leave you with five. You shall pick the men.”

“I should like to have Sarto and Maffio, if you can spare them; as to the other three I leave it to you entirely.”

“Yes; you can have those two. They are both thoroughly good men, as well as good fellows; as for the others, I will pick you out three of the best of those who last joined us. I should like as many of the old hands with me as possible, for I know that they will keep their heads, whatever happens.”

It was not until the men were all gathered round the church door, as usual, that Rubini told them of the expedition on which they were about to start. The news excited general satisfaction. There had been little doing since Palermo was taken, and the old hands were all eager for the fray, while those who had more recently joined burned to show that they were worthy to be comrades of Garibaldi’s first followers.

At nine o’clock all came into the church as usual, and ten minutes later the detachment, with the exception of Frank’s little command, moved silently out through the vestry door.

“So we are to stay behind with you?” Sarto said, as he and Maffio joined Frank, who had taken a seat and was thinking over the course that should be pursued if Rubini’s enterprise turned out badly. “Rubini said that you specially asked for us, which was no doubt a compliment, but one which, if you don’t mind our saying so, we would gladly have dispensed with. It will be a nuisance indeed watching here all night, while the others are engaged in a business quite after our own heart.”

“I was sure that you would feel rather annoyed,” Frank said; “but I should not have liked to be here without at least two men on whom I know I can rely to the last.”

“But what can there be for us to do?” Sarto asked, in some surprise at the tone in which Frank spoke.

“I don’t know; that is just what I don’t know, Sarto. I acknowledge that I by no means like this expedition. Rubini and Zippo are both certain that this woman is acting in perfect good faith. I did not see her, and therefore I can only take their opinion, but she may have been only acting. You know how passionate these women are; and it seems to me possible that, thinking what she would have done had her husband been shot by Prato, she might have worked herself up into such a state that no one could doubt the reality of her story. Of course, I do not say that it was so—I only say that it was possible. In the next place, even if her story is perfectly true, she may have been seen to leave the camp, or, if she passed out unobserved by any of them, her absence would be noticed, and she might be followed and her interview with Rubini observed; and in that case the band may either have moved away when they got the news, or, what is more likely, be prepared to attack Rubini’s column on its way. I mentioned the possibility to Rubini that the woman’s absence might have been noticed and the band be uneasy in consequence, and on the look-out; and although it in no way shook his determination to take advantage of her offer, he would, I am sure, take every precaution in his power. Still, there is no saying how things will turn out. It may be that, if the brigands anticipate an attack, they may by this time have sent to another party to tell them that the greater part of our detachment will be away, and invite them to come and finish with the men left here, while they themselves tackle those who have gone out against them.”

“It certainly looks possible in the way you put it,” Maffio said, “though I hope it may not turn out so. However, I see that we shall, at any rate, have something to think about while they are away. So that is what that bread and wine you brought in was for? Rubini asked us, and two others, to bring in a couple of loaves each, and the other to bring in a skin of wine; of course, we thought that it was for the use of the expedition.”

“I asked him to do so, Maffio. He rather laughed at the idea, but it seemed to me possible that they might be of use here while he was away; and at any rate I will guarantee that the food shall not be wasted.”

“Six of us, including yourself, could not hold this church long?”

“Not against a great effort. But even if they should take advantage of the absence of part of our force to attack us, they would not know how strong a party had been left behind, and would be cautious for a bit; but I do not suppose that we should be able to resist a determined onslaught. I thought that we might take to the tower: we could hold that for hours.”

“Yes; we could do that,” Sarto said confidently. “Well, I don’t at all suppose that we are going to be disturbed, but it is a satisfaction to feel that we are not altogether out of the affair.”

As usual, a dozen candles had been lighted in different parts of the church as soon as it was dark. The three Genoese, who had joined the company after the capture of Palermo, looked sulky and downcast at being left behind, and Frank called to them.

“I have no doubt that you are disappointed, gentlemen,” he said; “but you should really take it as a compliment. I asked Captain Rubini to leave me, in addition to my two friends here, the three best men he could pick out from those who had not formed part of the original force, and I have no doubt that he has done so. I may tell you that I consider it possible, I do not say probable, that we may be attacked, and we will first see what steps should be taken in that case. I have not been up to the tower: have any of you?”

None of them had mounted there.

“Then let us investigate,” he said.

The campanile stood at the north-west corner of the church; it had an exterior door, and another opening into the church. Taking a couple of candles, they entered by the latter, and mounted a stone staircase leading to the lower story of the tower; beyond this a wooden staircase led to the rough wooden floor under the bells, and another to the flat terrace above.

“The first thing to do,” Frank said, “is to block up the outside door; at any rate, let us have a look at it.” It was roughly made, but very strong. “The door is well enough, but I doubt whether this lock would not give under heavy blows.”

“We might pile chairs behind it,” Sarto suggested.

“I would rather not do that, if we can help it,” Frank replied. “They may burn the door down, and the less combustibles there are the better; however, if we can find nothing else, we must use them.”

Nothing could be found, and Frank then said, “I think that we can manage with one chair.”

The others looked puzzled.

“We will cut up the legs and back into six-inch pieces, sharpen them into wedges, and drive them in all round the door: I think that would withstand any battering until the door itself splintered.”

They all fell to work at once, and in a quarter of an hour a score of wedges were driven in.

“Now we will do the same at the bottom of the church door itself, and put in a few as high as we can reach on each side; that will detain them some time before it yields.”

When this was done, Sarto said, “What next, Percival?”

“The only other thing to be done in the way of defence is to carry all the chairs upstairs to the first story of the tower, to make a barricade there,” Maffio remarked.

“Yes, we might make a barricade of them half way up the stairs, but my main object is to get rid of them here. If they found they could not storm the stairs, they might pile all the chairs in the middle of the church and set them on fire—they are the only things that will burn; and although the flames would scarcely mount to the roof, sparks would fly up, and as there is sure to be a lot of dust and soot on the beams there, which might catch fire, we should be burnt out.”

“Well, at any rate there will be no great trouble in doing that,” Sarto said; “though I should hardly think that they would attempt to burn the church down. The brigands have no respect for life, but they are not without their superstitions, and might be afraid to burn a church, though they would cut half a dozen throats without a scruple.”

“Yes; but a portion of the band are no doubt composed of revolutionists from the mainland—fellows who have no scruples of any sort, and who, as the men of the same kind did in Paris seventy years ago, would desecrate a church in every conceivable manner, for, as a rule, they hate religion as they hate authority.”

The chairs were accordingly carried up and stowed on the wooden floor beneath the bells.

“Now,” Frank said, “I should like to see how this ladder is fastened, and if we can move it.”

This, however, they found would be well-nigh impossible. It was over thirty feet from the stone floor to the next story, while that in which the bells hung was but some twenty feet. The ladder was very solid and heavy, and as only two could get at it from above, it could not be lifted up that way.

“We can manage it,” Frank said, after thinking for a minute. “We can pull the bell ropes up through their holes, and fasten them somewhere above the middle of the ladder; then, with three of us pulling on each, we could certainly raise it without much difficulty. We should not have to pull it very high—six feet would be ample. If they want to smoke us out, they must bring wood from outside, which will not be easy to do under our fire. Now we will leave one on watch above. He shall be relieved every hour. Do you take the first watch, Pedro. If you hear any stir in the village below, come down and tell us at once; but, above all, listen for distant firing. It is five miles to the spot where the bandits are, but on a still night like this it would certainly be heard here.”

He and the other four men then descended to the first floor. Here those who were to take the next turn of duty said, “If you do not want us further, captain, we will sit here and light our pipes, if you have no objection.”

“No objection at all. I don’t think that I should like to smoke myself in the church below, but that is a matter of opinion; but certainly no one could object to its being done in this detached tower.”

Then, with Sarto and Maffio, he went down into the church.

CHAPTER XII.

AN AMBUSCADE.

“THE others will have the laugh at us when they come back,” Sarto said.

“That will in no way trouble me,” Frank said. “It has given us a couple of hours’ work, and it has passed the time away. If all has gone well, we shall hear the firing very soon; we may be sure that they won’t be able to go fast through the wood, especially as they will have to be careful not to make any noise. Of course, it is all up hill too, and will be as dark as pitch under the trees; they will have almost to crawl along the last mile. I should not be surprised if it were another hour before they are in position to attack. And now that we are prepared to repel any attack upon us, and to hold out, if necessary, for three days or even more on the provisions we have got, we ought to consider another alternative.”

“What other alternative can there be?” Maffio asked.

“Let us suppose—and it is as well to suppose the worst—that Rubini falls into an ambush. It makes no difference whether the woman leads him into one, or whether she has been trapped and the ambush laid without her knowledge. Suppose that they are ambushed and that none of them get back here?”

An exclamation broke from the others.

“I said that we will suppose the worst,” Frank went on. “This man Prato, who is an old hand at such matters, would not improbably, if he expected that Rubini would come to attack him, have at once sent off to another band, or to men who sometimes act with him, and instead of their meeting thirty-eight men, they may meet sixty. In that case we might calculate that a third of Rubini’s force would fall at the first volley; there they would be in the forest, without a guide, in the dark, surrounded by twice their number of men well acquainted with the place, and accustomed to traversing it at night. Now I ask you frankly, do you think that many of them, or, indeed, any of them, would be likely to get back here? They might not all be killed; some might hide in the woods, and make their way down the mountain to-morrow, but the chance of any of them returning here seems to me to be small indeed, if things turn out as I have been saying.”

“But you don’t think, you can’t think, Percival——” Sarto said, in a tone of horror.

“I don’t say that I think so, Sarto. I only say that it seems to me to be possible; and, situated as we are, it is always as well to see what, if even the most unlikely thing takes place, could be done. Let us suppose that the detachment has been cut to pieces: what is our look-out here? We can defend the place, or rather we can defend ourselves, for three or four days; but what would be the benefit of that? If the news got down to Bronte, it would be necessary to send two or three companies up here to rescue us. If, as is very probable, no news got down there, we should have to surrender; and we know what that would mean, especially as, assuredly, we should have killed a good many of the brigands in the course of the fighting. Thus, then, nothing would be gained by our resistance. I was appointed to command that portion of troops left here, in case of Rubini going away in pursuit of brigands with the rest. I do not suppose that it was ever contemplated that only five men would be left behind, still that does not alter the case. The idea was, that the village might be attacked during the absence of part of the force, and that those here should maintain themselves until Rubini returned. But in the event of such a disaster as we are supposing, so far from there being any advantage in holding this church, it would be a serious disadvantage; for we should risk our lives without any point whatever in our doing so.”

“That is certainly true; but in that case, why should we have made these preparations for defence?”

“Simply because we hope, and have every reason to hope, that Rubini will return, and we are prepared to hold out until he does so. But, once assured that the detachment will not come back, the whole matter is changed.”

“But how are we to be assured?”

“Ah! that is a very difficult question to answer. As long as there is the slightest possibility of any part, however small, of the detachment returning, we are bound to hold on here. But, when can we feel certain that this will not be the case, our duty would be to consult our own safety by retreating if possible to Bronte.”

At this moment the sentry on the campanile ran in.

“I heard a sudden outburst of firing, Captain Percival, and it is continuing.”

Followed by all the others, Frank ran up to the top of the tower. There was no doubt that a tough fight was going on: the reports of the muskets came in quick succession; sometimes there would be a short pause, and then half a dozen shots would ring out close together.

For three or four minutes not a word was spoken; then, as the reports became less frequent, Sarto exclaimed, “It is nearly over: Rubini has done his work.”

Frank was silent, and Sarto added, “Do you not think so, Percival?”

“I hope so,” Frank replied, “but I am very much afraid that it is not so. Had Rubini taken the brigands completely by surprise, there would have been one crashing volley, then he would have rushed in with the bayonet, and it would have been all over in two minutes. Some of the brigands might have escaped, but there can have been no pursuit, for in the darkness in the forest there would have been no chance whatever of overtaking men perfectly familiar with it. No, I think that they have failed in taking them by surprise, and if they did fail to do so, the brigands would either have moved off, in which case there would have been no fight at all, or have laid an ambush for our party, which would account for the heavy firing we have heard. Whether the ambush was successful, or whether Rubini has beaten his assailants off, is uncertain.”

The others saw the justness of his reasoning, and remained silent. An occasional shot was still heard.

“What do you think that means?” Maffio asked—for both he and Sarto were beginning to feel a profound respect for the opinion of their companion.

“It means, of course, that one party or the other is pursuing fugitives, and I am afraid that it is a bad sign, for, as I have just said, our men would hardly try and chase these brigands through the wood they know very well.”

They waited another five minutes. Still shots were occasionally heard.

The conviction that Frank’s worst anticipations had been but too surely verified, forced itself upon the others.

“Will you stay here a short time longer?” Frank said to the others; “I will go down into the church. I should like to think over quietly what we had best do.”

He walked up and down the church. It was a tremendous responsibility for a lad not yet seventeen to bear. Some of Rubini’s party had escaped, and might be making their way back in hopes of finding shelter and safety. What would be their feelings if they arrived and found the party gone? On the other hand, defend themselves as well as they might, six men must finally succumb before a determined attack by a large party of ruffians exulting over their victory and thirsting for complete vengeance. But by the time his companions returned from above he had made up his mind as to the plan that had best be adopted.

“We will take a middle course,” he said. “We will leave the church, and conceal ourselves within a short distance of the door into the vestry. One of us must hide close to it, so that if any of our comrades come up and knock at the door for admission, he can bring them to us. We can then learn what has happened. If even eight or ten have escaped, we will return to the church and hold it; if only one or two, we will, when the brigands arrive and there is no chance of others coming, start for Bronte.”

“That is a capital plan,” Sarto exclaimed; and a murmur from the others showed that they too warmly approved.

“There is no hurry,” Frank went on. “We will eat a good meal before we start, then there will be no occasion to burden ourselves with provisions. Before leaving, we will light fresh candles: there are four or five pounds in the vestry. We will leave four alight in each floor of the tower, and the rest in different parts of the church, so that, when the brigands do arrive, they will think that we are watchful and well prepared for them. It is not likely they will know exactly what strength Rubini had with him, but will think that we have at least ten or twelve men with us, and will be sure to hesitate a little before they make an attack. They will take some little time to burst in the great doors; and even the door of the vestry is strong enough to bear a good deal of battering before they break that in, so that we shall get a good long start of them. Of course they may pursue, but we can keep on the road for the first half-mile, and then turn off and make our way through the forest. We can’t go very far wrong, as it is always a descent; besides, for aught they will know, we may have been gone a couple of hours before they get here. I think in that way we shall have done our duty to our comrades, and at the same time secured our own safety, for we have no right to throw away our lives when we can still do some work for Italy.”

“It could not be better,” Maffio said. “In that way we shall have the consolation of knowing that none of our friends, who have been wounded, have dragged themselves here after we had left only to find that they were deserted; while on the other hand it does away with the necessity of our throwing away our lives altogether uselessly. I revert to my former idea, Percival. If ever I have sons, I will send them to one of your great schools in England. It is clear that the life there and your rough games make men of you.”

They first sat down and ate a hearty meal of bread and wine, and then fresh candles were lighted and placed as Frank had directed. Then they left the church, locking the vestry door behind them. Sarto lay down behind a tombstone ten yards from the door, and the others took their places behind the low wall that ran round the church-yard. After waiting an hour Frank returned to Sarto.

“I am going,” he said, “to conceal myself at the end of the village, close enough to the road to hear anything that is said by people coming along. If, as I hope, they may be some of our men, I will join them and bring them on here, if not I will make my way here at once, and will give a low whistle. Directly you hear me, retire and join us. It will give us a few minutes’ extra time, for you may be sure that when they see the church lighted up, those who first arrive will wait for the rest before running the risk of a shot from the tower. When all are gathered no doubt there will be a good deal of talk as to how they had best attack it.”

Leaving Sarto, Frank made his way through the gardens until he arrived at the end of the village, and then sat down behind a low wall, close to the road. In half an hour he heard footsteps, and judged that six or eight men were coming from the forest.

“There is no doubt they are on the watch there,” one of them said; “the windows in the tower are lit up,—we shall have some work to do before we finish with them. They fought bravely—I will say that for them; and although half their number fell at our first volley, they killed eight or ten of our men, and wounded as many more, before, when there were only about half a dozen of them left, they broke through us and ran. It was lucky that Phillipo’s band arrived in time, for notwithstanding the surprise, I doubt whether we should have beaten them, had we been alone. It was a good thought of Prato to send young Vico to follow that woman, and that he saw her talking to the officer.”

Frank could hear no more, but rising quietly, he retraced his steps at a run, and as soon as he joined his companions gave a low whistle, which in a minute brought Sarto to his side.

“It is as I feared,” he said: “they laid an ambush for Rubini, and shot down half his men at once; the rest kept together and fought till all but six or seven were killed, and these burst through them and took to flight; and I am afraid that those shots we heard told that some even of these were overtaken and killed. Now let us be going; there were only about eight men in the party who first came along, and we may be sure that nothing will be attempted until the rest arrive. The men had noticed our lights in the tower, and evidently expected that we should sell our lives dearly; at any rate, we can calculate upon at least half an hour before they break into the church and find that we have left.”

They were obliged to go cautiously before they gained the road beyond the village, and then they broke into a trot.

“Half an hour will mean something like four miles,” Frank said; “and as it is not likely that they can run much faster than we are going, we may safely calculate that they will not overtake us for over an hour after they do start, and by that time we shall be well within five miles of Bronte. Indeed, with the slope in our favour, I am not sure that we may not calculate upon reaching the town itself; they certainly ought not to be able to run fifteen miles while we are running eleven.”

“If they do we should deserve to be caught,” Maffio said; “but I should think that they would not follow us far, as, for anything they can tell, we may have left the church a couple of hours ago.”

There were few words spoken as they ran steadily along. The thought of the slaughter of so many of their friends oppressed them all, and the fact that they had personally escaped was, at present, a small consolation. Frank had not been long enough with the company to make the acquaintance of many of the men, but he felt the loss of Rubini extremely. At Genoa, during the voyage, and on the march to Palermo, they had been constantly together, and the older man had treated him with as much cordiality and kindness as if he had been a young brother. Frank regretted now that he had not even more strongly urged his doubts as to the expediency of the expedition, though he felt that, even had he done so, his remonstrances would have been unavailing, so convinced were Rubini and Zippo of the sincerity and good faith of the woman. As it seemed, in this respect they had been right, and he had not pressed more strongly upon them the probability of her being followed when she left the brigands after the murder of her husband. It was so natural a thing that this should be so, that he wondered it had not struck him at once. Had he urged the point, Rubini might have listened to him, and his fatal expedition might not have taken place.

It seemed to him a heartbreaking affair, and as he ran he wiped away more than one tear that ran down his cheeks. After keeping on at the same speed for three or four miles, Frank heard, by the hard breathing of his companions, that their powers were failing; he himself was running quite easily, his school training being of good service to him, and after the long runs at hare and hounds across country, four miles down hill was a trifle to him. He had, too, the advantage of not having to carry a musket and ammunition.

“We had better walk for a few hundred yards and get our breath again,” he said. And the order was thankfully obeyed.

“Are you ready to trot on?” he asked, five minutes later; and on a general assent being given, they again broke into a run.

The more he thought of it, the more persuaded Frank was that no pursuit would be set on foot. Doubtless, the first step of the brigands would be to surround the church, and to place strong parties at both doors; they would therefore know that the church must have been deserted for at least half an hour before they obtained an entry, while possibly it might have been two or three hours before; so on finding the place empty their impulse would be to go to the wine-shops and celebrate their victory, rather than to start upon a pursuit which offered small prospects indeed of success. Every few minutes they halted for a moment to listen for the sound of pursuing feet, but everything was still and quiet; and so confident did they become as to their safety, that the last three or four miles down into Bronte were performed at a walk.

“I must go and report to Bixio,” Frank said, as they entered the town. “You had better find a shelter somewhere.”

“There is no occasion for that,” Maffio replied. “The sky has been getting lighter for some little time, and it must be nearly five o’clock. It was past two when we started.”

“I will wait for another half-hour,” Frank said, “before I rouse Bixio; he is always out by six, and bad news will keep.”

Shortly before that hour he went to the general’s quarters. The house was already astir.

“The general will be down in a few minutes, captain,” an orderly said. “I called him a quarter of an hour ago.”

In two or three minutes Bixio came down.

“Have you any news?” he asked hastily, when he saw Frank, whose downcast face struck him at once.

“Yes, general; and very bad news.”

“Come in here,” Bixio said, opening the door of a sitting-room. “Now, what is it?”

“I grieve to have to report, sir, that I have arrived here with only Sarto, Maffio, and three other men of the detachment, and that I fear Captain Rubini and the whole of the rest of the men have been killed.”

Bixio started. “All killed!” he repeated, almost incredulously. “I trust that you are mistaken. What has happened?”

Frank briefly related the circumstances.

“This is sad indeed—terrible,” the general said, when he had brought his story to a conclusion. “Rubini’s loss is a grievous one; he was a good officer, and was greatly liked and trusted by us all; there were good men, too, among his company. He had fifteen men of the thousand among them. And you say this woman did not betray them?”

“No; the men I overheard, distinctly said that she was a traitress, and as soon as she was missed by them she was followed, and her meeting with the officer observed.”

“But what took you out beyond the village, Captain Percival? You have told me the main facts of this most unfortunate expedition: please give me the full details of what you did after they had left, and how you came to escape.”

“I felt uneasy from the first,” Frank said. “Directly Rubini told me about the woman, I suggested that she might be merely acting a part, in order to lead them into an ambuscade; but both Rubini and Zippo, who was with him when he met her, were absolutely convinced of her good faith.

“I also suggested that, even if they were right, the woman might possibly have been followed. Her disappearance after the murder of her husband would be almost certain to excite suspicion that she intended to avenge herself by bringing our detachment down upon them. I communicated this suspicion to Sarto and Maffio, and we at once set to work to make the church defensible.”

He then related in detail the measures they had taken, and how he became convinced, by the sound of the distant conflict, that Rubini and his party had fallen into the ambuscade and been destroyed.

“For some time I could not make up my mind what course to adopt, sir: we might have defended the tower for two or three days; but it was by no means certain—in fact, it was very improbable—that anything of what was going on would reach your ears. On the other hand, I could not withdraw my little party, as, even if my worst suspicions were correct, some of Rubini’s men might have escaped and might make their way back to the church.” He then proceeded to explain the plan he had adopted, and how it had been carried out. “I do not know whether I have acted rightly,” he concluded. “It was a terrible responsibility, but I can only say that I consulted with Sarto and Maffio, who have had far more experience than I, and that they both approved of my plan. I hope, general, you do not think that I was wrong.”

“Certainly not—certainly not. Your position was a most difficult one, and your preparations for defence were excellent; the alternatives that you had to choose between when you became convinced that Rubini had been defeated were equally painful. If you stayed and defended the place, I may almost say you would have thrown away the lives of yourself and the five men with you. If you went, any wounded men straggling back from the forest would have found neither friends nor refuge. The middle course you adopted was admirable. You would at once have saved any poor fellows who might arrive, while you ensured the safety of your little party. By illuminating the church you secured for yourself a long start; and by going out so as to overhear the conversation of the first party of brigands who entered the village, you were able to assure yourself that it was useless staying longer in hopes of any survivors of the expedition coming in.

“I have received a message from Garibaldi, ordering me to move to Taormina, on the sea-coast. He has defeated Bosco at Milazzo; and the Neapolitan general and his troops have been permitted to take ship for Naples. He said that if I had not concluded my work here I could remain for another week, as it would probably be a considerable time before the preparations made for invading Calabria were completed. I was intending to send off some messengers this morning to recall all the outlying detachments. That I shall do still; but I shall certainly remain here three or four days longer, in the hope that some of Rubini’s party may have escaped. If I thought there was the smallest chance of laying hands on this scoundrel Prato and his band, I would march with a couple of hundred men into the mountains. But we may be sure that he did not stop more than an hour or two at the village, after he learned that your party had escaped; and by to-morrow morning they may be fifty miles away, on the other side of Etna. However, as soon as our affair is over, I shall urge upon Garibaldi the necessity for sending a strong force into the mountains to put down brigandage, and especially to destroy Prato’s band.”

The disaster that had befallen Rubini’s column cast a great gloom over the brigade: not a man but would gladly have undergone any amount of fatigue to avenge his comrades; but all felt the impossibility of searching the great tract of forest which extended over the larger part of the slopes of Etna. Bixio however, determined to send off a strong party to find and bury the dead, and two hours later a detachment a hundred strong left Bronte. Their orders were to attack the brigands if they found them in the village; if they had left, however, they were not to pursue. They were to sleep there, and in the morning to compel two or three of the villagers to guide them to the scene of conflict, where they were to find and bury the dead. Every precaution was to be observed, although it was regarded as certain that the brigands would not have remained so near the village, but would only stop there a few hours, and then place as great a distance as possible between it and them.

Frank had offered to accompany the party, but Bixio refused to allow him to do so.

“You have had a sleepless night, and the anxiety you have suffered is quite sufficient excitement for a convalescent. You could do no good by going there, and had best lie down and take a few hours’ sleep.”

Before the party started Frank asked the captain in command to see if his horse had been carried off. “It was in a shed adjoining the priest’s house,” he said; “and it may still be there. The brigands would not be likely to make many inquiries; and when they discovered that we had gone, probably made off directly they had eaten their supper; for had we, as might have been the case so far as they knew, started for Bronte soon after Rubini left, it would have been possible for reinforcements to reach the village within an hour of daybreak. Even if one of the villagers told them that the horse was there—which is not likely, for the whole place must have been in a ferment at the news—the brigands may not have cared to carry it off, as it would be useless to them in a journey over ground covered with forest and broken up by ravines and gorges.”

The detachment returned two days later, bringing with it, to Frank’s satisfaction, his horse and saddlery. They had been to the scene of the conflict, and had found and buried all the bodies with the exception of a few, who must either have escaped or have been killed at a considerable distance from the spot where they were attacked. The brigands had, as Frank had expected, left the village before daybreak. They had on arriving opened fire at the windows of the church; and a quarter of an hour later, finding that no reply was made, had endeavoured to force an entry. The great door, however, had defied their efforts, and when at last they obtained access by breaking in the door of the vestry, more than an hour had been wasted. The discovery that the church was untenanted had greatly disappointed and disquieted them, and after carousing for a short time they hastily left.

Early on the day after the return of Frank and his comrades, one of the missing party reached the town: he was utterly worn out and broken down, having apparently wandered for thirty-six hours in the forest in a state of semi-delirium. He had at last quite accidentally stumbled upon a small village, and after being fed and cared for, had been brought down to Bronte in a cart. He was, he said, convinced that he was the only survivor of the fight. The party had arrived within, as they believed, a quarter of a mile of the brigands’ lurking-place, when a whistle was heard, and from the trees on both sides of the narrow path a volley was fired, and half at least of the party dropped. Rubini, he believed, was among those who fell; at least he did not hear his voice afterwards. Zippo had rallied the men, who, gathering together, endeavoured to fight their way through their assailants.

What the effect of their fire was, he could not tell, but his comrades dropped fast, and when there were but a few left, they threw down their muskets and rushed headlong into the forest. They scattered in various directions, but were hotly pursued; several shots were fired at him, but they all missed. After running for half an hour he flung himself down in a clump of undergrowth. He had heard, as he ran, other shots, and had no doubt that his companions were all killed. He lay where he was until morning, and then tried to find his way down to Bronte, but he had no distinct recollection of what had happened after he left the bushes, until he found that wine was being poured down his throat, and that he was surrounded by a group of pitying women.

The fury of the Garibaldians, on their arrival from the various villages at which they had been posted, when they heard of the slaughter of their friends, was extreme; and many of the officers begged the general to allow them to make one effort to find and punish the brigands, but Bixio refused.

“We have a far greater business on our hands,” he said. “Italy has to be freed. The first blow has been struck, and must be followed up at once; brigandage can wait—it is an old sore, a disgrace to a civilised country; but Italy once freed, this can be taken in hand. We might spend weeks, or even months, before we could lay hands on Prato’s band; the villagers and woodmen would keep them informed of every movement we made, while not only should we gain no information, but all would be interested in putting us upon the wrong track. It is not to be thought of. Moreover, I have Garibaldi’s orders to march to Taormina, and if we had lost five hundred men instead of fifty, I should obey that order, much as I should regret being obliged to march away and leave the massacre unavenged.”

The day after the fugitive had arrived, the force left Bronte. The mountainous nature of the country to the north prevented a direct march towards Taormina. They therefore took the road round the foot of Etna, through Bandazza to Gairre, which lay nearly due east of Bronte, and then followed the line along the coast to Taormina. Here the troops were halted, while Bixio, with Frank and a small escort, rode on to Messina, as the general wished to confer with Garibaldi, and to ascertain how the preparations for the invasion of Calabria were proceeding.

CHAPTER XIII.

ACROSS THE STRAITS.

GARIBALDI had, on entering Messina, been received with tremendous enthusiasm, and at once, while waiting for the reinforcements now pouring in, set himself to work to improve the condition of affairs in the town. He had taken up his abode in the royal palace, where he retained all the servants of the former viceroy, considering that it would be unjust to dismiss them. He ordered, however, that his own dinner was to consist only of some soup, a plate of meat, and some vegetables. The large subscriptions that flowed in from Italy and other countries were entirely devoted to public service, as had been the money taken in the treasury at Palermo; the general allowed himself only, as pay, eight francs a day, and this was always spent before breakfast; for although at Messina, as at Palermo, he endeavoured to clear the streets of beggars, he himself was never able to resist an appeal, and no sooner had he sauntered out in the morning than his eight francs melted away among the children and infirm persons who flocked round him.

He received Frank on his arrival with real pleasure, and congratulated him upon having so completely recovered from the effects of his wound.

“There is plenty for you to do,” he said; “almost every hour ships bring me volunteers from all parts. Arrangements have to be made for bestowing and feeding these. We found a considerable supply of tents here, but they are now occupied, and all arrivals henceforth will have to be quartered on the citizens or in the villages near the town. A list will be given to you, every morning, of persons who are willing to receive them, and a mark will be made against the names of those of a better sort, among whom the officers will be quartered. I beg that you will act in concert with Concini and Peruzzi, and as the troops land give them their billets, and in the case of officers conduct them to the houses where they are to be lodged. Of course you yourself will take up your abode here; there is an abundance of room, and I will order the servants to set aside a comfortable chamber for you. All who are in the palace take their early breakfast here, the rest of their meals they take in the town. I have enemies enough, and I do not wish it to be said that we are spending the funds so generously subscribed for us in feasting in the palace. In the evening, you know, you will always be welcome here.”

It was, of course, too late in the day for Frank’s work to begin; but later on he again went to the room where Garibaldi was chatting with several of his staff.

“Bixio has been telling me of your adventure,” Garibaldi said: “it was a sad business. The death of Rubini is a grievous loss to me. He fought most gallantly in the Alps, and distinguished himself greatly since we landed here; he was a true patriot, and I shall miss him sorely. Others there were who died with him, whom I also greatly regret. The one redeeming point in the affair is, as Bixio has been telling me, the admirable way in which you succeeded in saving the little party of whom you were in command. He has detailed the matter in full to me, and the oldest head could not have made better preparations for defence, or better hit upon a plan by which you might at once save any stragglers of Rubini’s detachment who might return, and at the same time ensure the safety of the five men with you. There will be a steamer going to Marseilles in the morning, and it will be a pleasure to me to again write to your mother, saying how well you have done, and how completely you have recovered from your wound. The last time I wrote, although I had as warm a praise to give of your conduct, I abstained from telling her that you were seriously wounded. No doubt you would give her full particulars in your own letters.”

Frank’s duties, in the way of billeting the troops as they arrived, were of short duration. So rapidly did crowds of volunteers arrive from the north of Italy, that it was found impossible to house them in Messina. Many were sent off to outlying villages; thousands bivouacked on the sandy shore. Garibaldi himself went across to Sardinia, and returned with two thousand five hundred men who had been gathered there for a descent upon the coast of the Papal States. The Italian government had, however, vetoed this movement, and had promised that their own troops should, when the time came, perform this portion of the operations. The port was crowded with shipping. By the convention that had been agreed upon between Garibaldi on his entrance to Messina, and the Neapolitan general who commanded the force that occupied the citadel, it was arranged that the sea should be open to both parties; and the singular spectacle was presented of the Neapolitan navy looking quietly on while ships arrived loaded with troops for Garibaldi, while the Sardinian ships-of-war viewed with equal indifference the arrival of reinforcements to the garrison of the citadel.

Garibaldi’s force had now increased to over twenty-five thousand men; of these but five thousand were Sicilians, the rest, with the exception of a few French and English volunteers, coming from Northern Italy. Here the enthusiasm caused by the conquest of Sicily was unbounded. The universities had all closed their doors, the students having left in a body; and among the volunteers were hundreds of boys of from thirteen to fifteen years old. Garibaldi had, with the aid of the Municipality of Palermo, raised a loan of nearly three million pounds, and obtained, not only rifles for his own force, but a large number for distribution among the peasants of Calabria.

Five days after his arrival, Garibaldi sent for Frank, and said:

“I am going to bestow on you an honour which will, I am sure, be one after your own heart. I am going to send Missori with two hundred men across the straits; Nullo goes with him. They are to choose the men, and the competition for the honour of being among the first to set foot in Calabria will be a keen one indeed; I have spoken to Missori, and he will gladly take you as his staff officer. Of course it is not intended that he should fight. His mission will be to travel about the country, inciting the population of the Calabrian villages to prepare to join us when we land; to confuse the commanders of the Neapolitan troops by his rapid movements, and to cause alarm at Naples by the news that the invasion of Calabria has begun.”

“I should enjoy that greatly, general, and I feel very much obliged to you for your kindness in choosing me.”

As Major Missori had been on Garibaldi’s staff from the time Frank joined him at Genoa, he was well known to him; and when Frank visited him, and placed himself under his orders, he received him with great cordiality.

“The general could not have made a better choice,” he said. “It is a great satisfaction to have an officer with me on whose activity and energy I can so confidently rely. I have just got through the hardest, and I may say the most trying part of my work, for I have had to refuse the applications of scores of old comrades, who, almost with tears in their eyes, have begged me to enroll them among my party. But I am limited to two hundred, and when I had once selected that number I was obliged to say no to all others. I think that every man of my band is well suited for the work: all are young, active men, capable of long marches and the endurance of great fatigue; all are men of tried bravery, and should we have a brush with the Neapolitans can be trusted to hold their own. We hope to seize the fortress of Alta Fiumara; we have opened communication with some soldiers of the garrison, and have hopes that we may take it by surprise. If we can do so, it will greatly facilitate the passage of the army across the straits.

“Here is a list of the stores we are to take in the boats. Of course the men will each take eighty rounds of ammunition; we can carry no reserve, for if we have to take to the mountains it would be impossible to transport it. Therefore, you see, we practically take with us only a day’s provisions. These will be carried down before sunset to the boats, and I wish you would see them so divided that each man will carry approximately the same weight. Thus one can take four pounds of bread, another four pounds of meat, a third two bottles of wine and so on; once in the hills we can purchase what we require at the villages. There will, at any rate, be no difficulty in obtaining meat, nor, I should say, bread. Beyond that nothing is necessary.

“Three Calabrians, who know the country well, crossed yesterday, and will act as our guides. We shall probably have to maintain ourselves for a week or ten days before the main body crosses. A cart will go down at four o’clock with the stores. I will order six men to accompany it, and to place themselves under your orders. In the cart you will find two hundred haversacks, in which the provisions will be placed, after you have seen to their division, together with forty rounds of spare ammunition. By the way, you had better sell your horse. Across such a country as we shall have to traverse, it would be impossible to ride, and you will probably be able to buy another on the mainland for the sum that you will get for him here. There are a good many men on the staff of some of the late arrivals, who are on the look-out for horses.”

Frank, indeed, had several times been asked by officers if he could tell them where they could procure mounts; and, in the course of the day, he had no difficulty in disposing of his horse and saddlery, for the same amount as he had given for them at Marsala. He took with him only a spare shirt and pair of socks rolled up in a large blanket, that, with a hole cut in the middle, served as a cloak by day and a cover at night. Hitherto this had been strapped on his saddle; he now rolled it up in the fashion followed by most of the Garibaldians, so as to carry it slung over one shoulder. This, with his sword, a brace of pistols, and a small haversack, was his only encumbrance. At the appointed hour he went down with the cart and escort to the point, some two miles from the town, where the boats were lying. It took an hour to make the division of the stores, and then there was nothing to do until, at half-past nine o’clock in the evening, Missori with his two hundred men marched down.

There were fourteen boats, and as these were sufficient to carry the men in comfort, no time was lost in embarking. It was a long row, for although the water was perfectly calm there was a strong current through the straits, and they had to row head to this while crossing; but two hours after starting they landed at a short distance from the fort. They soon had evidence that the commandant here was watchful, for they had gone but a hundred yards when they suddenly came upon a small outlying picket, who, after challenging, fired, and then ran off towards the fort, where the beating of a drum showed that the garrison were already falling in to repel any attack. Their hopes of a surprise were therefore at an end, and as it was by surprise alone that the little force had the slightest chance of capturing so strong a fortress, orders were given, after a hasty consultation between Missori and Nullo, to turn off at once and make for the mountains, while the boats were directed to start back for Messina.

Headed by their guides, they mounted the slopes of Aspromonte. When they had gained a height of some four or five hundred feet, they came upon a wooden shed; this was hastily pulled down and a great bonfire lighted, to inform their friends on the other side of the straits that they had safely landed and were on their way to the hills. They had, as they ascended, heard a sharp fire break out at the water’s edge, and knew that a portion of the garrison of the fortress had sallied out and opened fire on the retreating boats.

The march was continued for some hours. The cannon of the fort had also opened fire—the object doubtless being to inform the large bodies of troops, gathered at various points along the coast to oppose the Garibaldians should they cross, that a force of the enemy had landed in the darkness. However, the little party made their way unobserved past the enemy’s outposts, who remained stationary, as the officers were ignorant of the strength of the force that had thus evaded the vigilance of the ships-of-war, and thought it probable that Garibaldi himself with some thousands of men might be at hand.

This portion of Calabria was admirably suited for guerilla warfare. The Garibaldians were received with enthusiasm at the first village at which they arrived. The news of the easy conquest of Sicily had at first filled all hearts with the hope that their day of liberation was at hand; but the concentration of troops in South Calabria had damped their spirits, for, accustomed for centuries to be treated like cattle by the soldiers of their oppressors, it seemed to them well-nigh impossible that Garibaldi would venture to set foot on the mainland in the face of so imposing a gathering. The presence, then, of this band of men in red shirts seemed to them almost miraculous. The inhabitants vied with each other in their hospitality, and the able-bodied men of the place declared their readiness to take up arms the moment that Garibaldi himself crossed the straits. Many of them, indeed, at once joined the party, while others started, some among the mountains and some by the roads leading to other villages, in order to bring in early news of the approach of any body of Neapolitan troops, and the Garibaldians were therefore able to lie down for a few hours’ sleep.

For the next week they continued their march, visiting village after village, gathering recruits as they went, crossing mountains, winding up ravines, and constantly changing their course so as to throw the Neapolitan troops off their track. Several times from lofty points they caught sight of considerable bodies of the enemy moving along the roads. Once a Neapolitan officer rode into a village where they were halting with a despatch from General Briganti, containing a demand for their surrender. Missori simply replied that they were ready to give battle whenever the supporters of tyranny chose to meet them; but, although he thus answered the summons, he had no idea of encountering an overwhelming force of Neapolitans. Failing the capture of the fortress on first landing, his mission was to arouse the population, not to fight; and he continued his work among the mountains in spite of the efforts of the enemy to surround him.

Cavalry were useless in so mountainous a country, and the Garibaldians, free from all weight of equipment, and unencumbered by baggage carts, were able to move with a rapidity that set at defiance the efforts of the soldiery hampered by knapsacks and belts, and with their movements restricted by their tightly-fitting uniforms. Although their course had been devious, the Garibaldians had been gradually working their way south, skirting the heights of Montalto. Before starting, Missori had been informed by Garibaldi that he intended to land near Reggio eight or nine days after he crossed, and that he was to place his band in that neighbourhood in order to join him in an attack on that town.

When he reached a point within ten miles of Reggio, Missori said to Frank, “I must keep moving about, and cannot leave my men; but I will send twenty of them under your command down to Melito. There are, as we have learnt from the peasants, none of the Neapolitan troops there; but at the same time do not on any account enter the town. Were you to do so, some of the inhabitants might send word to Reggio; and it might be suspected that you were there for some special purpose. Therefore hide yourself among the hills a short distance from the town; and after nightfall send one of your men in. He had better take one of the peasants’ cloaks and hats: it will be ample disguise for him. It will be his duty to watch on the shore; and then, if he sees two or three steamers—I cannot say what force Garibaldi will bring over—approach the shore, tell him to come up to you at once; and you can then lead your men down to cover, if necessary, the landing of the troops, and to give them any aid in your power. Tell the general that I have now eight hundred men with me, and am ready to move to any point he orders.”

These instructions Frank carried out, except that he obtained two peasants’ cloaks and hats instead of one. He halted late in the afternoon two miles behind the town, and when it became quite dark took down his men within a quarter of a mile of it; then, assuming one of the disguises, he proceeded with one of the party similarly habited into the town. He posted his follower by the shore, and then re-entered the place. A good many peasants in their high conical hats, with wide brims adorned with ribbons—a costume which is now generally associated with Italian brigands, and differs but slightly from that of the Savoyards—were wandering about the town. All sorts of rumours were current. It was reported that the Neapolitan war-ships were on the look-out for vessels in which it was said Garibaldi was about to cross from Messina and the Cape of Faro. Others reported that Garibaldi himself was with the small corps that had been, for the past week, pursued among the mountains, and whose ever-increasing numbers had been greatly exaggerated by rumour.

Frank seated himself in front of a wine-shop where several of these men were drinking. He could with difficulty understand their patois; but he gathered that all wished well to the expedition. An hour later he heard a tumult, and going to see what was the matter, he found that one of the police officers of the town had accosted the man he had left upon the sea-shore, and finding that he was ignorant of the patois of the country, had arrested him. Four or five other agents of the municipality, which consisted of creatures of the Neapolitan government, had gathered round the captive; and the inhabitants, although evidently favourably disposed towards the prisoner, were too much afraid of the vengeance of their masters to interfere. After hesitating a moment, Frank ran back to the wine-shop where he had been sitting. His great fear was that the Neapolitan agents would at once send news to Reggio that a spy had been taken, and that the garrison there would be put on their guard. He therefore entered, and throwing aside his cloak, addressed the eight or ten peasants present.

“My friends,” he said, “I am one of the officers of Garibaldi, who will soon come to free you from your tyrants. As true Italians, I doubt not that your hearts are with him; and you now have it in your power to do him a real service.”

All rose to their feet. “We are ready, signor. Tell us what we have to do, and you can rely upon us to do it.”

“I want you to post yourselves on the road to Reggio a hundred yards beyond the town, and to stop any one who may try to leave the place, no matter whether he be a police officer or the syndic. We have a large force near; but we do not wish to show ourselves till the proper moment. It is all-important that no news of our being in the neighbourhood should reach the commander of the troops at Reggio.”

“We will do it, signor; be assured that no one shall pass long.”

“Simply turn back the first that comes,” Frank said; “if more come, kill them; but I want these agents of your tyrant to know that the road is closed. I could place our own men to do this, but I do not wish it known that there are troops near.”

The men hurried away, and Frank went off and followed the little crowd that accompanied the prisoner and his captors to the house of the syndic. He watched them go in, and in a short time several of the police left the house, and ere long returned with some eight or ten persons whom Frank judged to be the municipal council. He waited for a minute or two, and then went to the door.

“Stand back,” he said, to two men who barred the entrance. “I am one of Garibaldi’s officers. I have hundreds of my peasants round the town, ready to lay it in ashes if I but give the word.”

They slipped back, confounded by the news; and entering, he went into a room of which the door was standing open. The man who had been left on watch was standing between four policemen; his cloak had been torn off, and he stood in the red shirt, blue breeches and gaiters, that had now become the uniform of the greater portion of Garibaldi’s followers. Some ten or twelve men were seated by a large table, and were talking eagerly. Frank again threw back his cloak, walked up and struck the table with his fist.

“‘SILENCE! SIGNORS,’ HE SAID IN A LOUD VOICE”

“Silence, signors!” he said in a loud voice. “I am the master of this town for the present: it is surrounded by armed peasants who are instructed to cut the throats of any one who attempts to leave it. I am an officer of Garibaldi, as you may see by my attire. I have but to give the word, and in ten minutes the whole of you will be strung up from the balcony of this house; therefore, if you value your lives, retire at once to your houses, and, agents though you be of the Neapolitan tyrant, no harm will befall you; but if one of you attempts to leave the town, or to send any one out with a message, his life will be forfeited. That will do, sirs: leave at once.”

The astounded men filed out from the room. When they had all left, Frank went out with the late prisoner, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

“Put on your hat and cloak again,” he said, “and go down to the road by the sea; watch if any one goes along, and stay a quarter of an hour to see if he returns.”

Then, without putting on his own disguise, he went to the spot where the townspeople, among whom the report of what had happened had spread rapidly, were assembled, and mounting on the steps of a large building there, addressed them.

“Calabrians,” he said, “the moment when your freedom will be attained is at hand. You have heard that a party of troops of that champion of freedom, General Garibaldi, has crossed to the mainland. The officer in command has sent me to tell you that they are everywhere joined by the brave Calabrians, and will speedily have a force capable of giving battle to the armies of your tyrants. It may be that before many days they will come down here from the mountains, and he hopes to find every man capable of bearing arms ready to join him; it will be a bad day for those who, in spite of the wishes of the people, and the certainty that Calabria will shortly be freed from the presence of the troops at Naples, strive to check the tide.

“For your own sakes watch the men who have acted as the agents of the government of Naples; station armed men on every road by which they could send a message to Reggio, for should they do so troops might be sent here, and then, when the soldiers of freedom come down from the hills, a battle will be fought in your streets, and many innocent persons might suffer. I do not ask any to come forward now, to declare himself for the cause of freedom; I only ask you to hold yourselves in readiness, so that when we come down from the hills you will welcome us, as men welcome those who come to strike the fetters from their limbs. It may be that you will not have long to wait, and that in eight-and-forty hours Missori with a portion of his army will be here. But this I do ask you: keep an eye on your syndic and his council, on the police, and all others who represent the authority of Naples, and see that no one on any pretence leaves the town for the next forty-eight hours.”

The town was a very small one, and a large portion of its population were fishermen; these latter shouted loud approval of Frank’s words, and declared themselves ready to carry out the instructions he had given them, but the trading class was silent. They had something to lose, and had been so long accustomed to the tyranny of the government that they feared to make any demonstration whatever of liberal opinions until they saw how matters went. It was upon them that the taxes pressed most heavily, and they had far more reason than the fishing class to hail a release from these exactions; but they had more to lose, and they felt that it was best to hold themselves aloof from any manifestation of their feelings. The fishermen, however, thronged round Frank, and announced themselves ready at once to obey his orders.

“Divide yourselves into four parties,” he went on; “let each choose a leader and take it in turn to watch the roads and see that none passes.”

At this moment Frank’s follower returned. “Two of the police went out along the road,” he said, “but have just come back.”

“I am not surprised at what I have just heard,” he went on, addressing the fishermen. “The police have already endeavoured to send word to Reggio that our friends from the hills are shortly coming here, but they have been stopped on the way by some brave peasants whom I stationed on the road for the purpose. How many police are there here?”

“Only eight, signor,” one of the men said.

“Come with me, and I will warn them that if any attempt is again made to send word of what is going on here they will be at once hanged.”

Followed by forty or fifty fishermen, he went at once to the police quarters. The sergeant who was in command came out with his detachment.

“Men,” Frank said, “we bear no ill-will to those who serve the Neapolitan government. It has been the government of this country, and none are to be blamed for taking service with it; and I doubt not that when, like Sicily, Calabria is free, those who have done their duty, without undue oppression and violence, will be confirmed in their appointments. But woe be to those who oppose the impulse of the country! There are thousands of peasants in the mountains already in arms. The Neapolitan soldiers, who were powerless to oppose the people of Sicily, will be equally powerless to oppose the people of Calabria, aided as these will be, when the time comes, by the great army from the other side of the straits. Already, as you know, sir,” he said to the officer, “the roads leading from here are guarded. You have made an effort, as was perhaps your duty, to send word to Reggio that the heart of the people here beats with those of their brethren among the hills. Let there be no further attempts of the sort, or it will be bad, alike for those who go and for those who stay, and when Colonel Missori arrives you will be treated as the enemies of freedom and punished accordingly.

“Already I have a detachment close at hand, and the sound of a gun will bring them here at once; but if all is quiet these will not enter the place until the main body arrives. I have come on before, to see whether the people here are to be regarded as friends or as enemies. I already know that they are friends; and in the name of Colonel Missori, and in the cause of freedom, I order you to remain quiet here, to take no steps either for or against us, and I doubt not that, when the time comes, you will be as ready as the brave fellows here to join the army of freedom. At present my orders are that you remain indoors. I will have no going out, no taking notes as to the names of those who join our cause. I do not order you to give up your arms; I hope that you will use them in the cause of freedom.”

“Your orders shall be obeyed, signor,” the sergeant said. “I am powerless to interfere one way or another here, but I promise that no further attempt shall be made to communicate with Reggio.”

“I accept your word, sergeant. And now you will send a man round to the houses of all the town council and all functionaries of the Neapolitan government, and state that, by the orders of the representative of Colonel Missori, they are none of them to leave their houses for the next forty-eight hours; and that they are not to attempt to communicate with each other, or to send any message elsewhere. Any attempt whatever to disobey this order will be punished by immediate death. Which man do you send?”

“Thomasso,” the sergeant said. “You have heard the order. Will you at once carry it round?”

“Let four of your men,” Frank said to the fishermen, “go with this policeman. See that he delivers this message, and that he enters into no communication whatever with those to whom he is sent, but simply repeats the order and then goes to the next house.”

Four men stepped forward, and at once started with the policeman. The sergeant and the others withdrew into the house.

“Now, my friends,” Frank went on to the fishermen, “do as I told you, and let the first party take up at once the duty of watching the roads, and remain there for six hours. It is now ten; at four the second party will relieve them, and so on at intervals of six hours. It will not be long ere the necessity for this will be at an end. Each party will detach eight men in pairs to patrol the streets till morning and arrest any one they find about, and conduct him to the hotel where I shall take up my quarters. Those not on duty had best retire quietly to their homes, as soon as it is settled to which section they are to belong. I shall not go to bed, and any question that may arise must at once be referred to me.”

The fishermen went off to the shore to choose their leaders.

“Rejoin your comrades,” Frank said to his follower. “Tell them that everything is going on well, and that while two of them are to come down at once to keep watch on the beach, the rest can wrap themselves in their cloaks and lie down until they receive orders from me.”

Frank now went to the one hotel in the town and ordered supper to be prepared for him. The landlord, who had been among the crowd when he addressed them, said humbly,—

“I have already ordered supper to be got ready, signor, thinking that when you had arranged matters you would yourself come here. Pray do not think that because many of us did not at once come forward and offer to join you, it was because we were indifferent to your news; but you see it is not with us as with the fishermen. If things go badly, they can embark their families and goods in their boats, cross the straits, and establish themselves in the villages there, and earn their living as before. But with us who have something to lose it is different. Our property would be confiscated, we should be driven from home, many of us would be shot, and others thrown into their dungeons.”

“I quite see that, landlord; and I can hardly blame you for hesitating a little, though you must remember that the men who have been the champions of freedom have been almost wholly men who have had much to lose, but have risked all for their principles, and that Garibaldi’s army is very largely composed of such men.”

“Ah, signor, but we have never seen any chance of success. When Garibaldi once lands, we shall not hang back; but at present it is but a revolt of the peasants. They tell us that France and other powers are endeavouring to prevent him from invading Calabria; and if he should not come, what can a few thousand peasants do against a hundred thousand trained troops?”

“Well, I do not think that Garibaldi will be restrained from crossing, whatever pressure is put upon him: they tried to prevent him from sailing from Genoa—now he is Dictator of Sicily; he will land somewhere on the coast, never fear.”

“In that case, signor, I shall shout as loud as any one, and I shall send my son to carry a musket in his ranks.”

Frank smiled.

“Well, landlord, let me have my supper; to-morrow we may talk over the affair again. Bring me a bottle of good wine, and when supper is served you can close the house for the night. I shall not require a bed, but shall remain here till morning. Do not fasten up the front door, as I shall have men call frequently. I hope there are plenty of provisions in the town in case three or four thousand men should march in here to-morrow.”

“For a day, signor, we might feed them; but I doubt if it would go beyond that.”

CHAPTER XIV.

A DISCOVERY.

AT one o’clock one of the men on the look-out brought to Frank the news that he could make out two steamers approaching. Frank ran down to the shore. The man’s eyesight had not deceived him: two steamers were certainly making their way towards Melito, and, from the direction of their course, they had almost certainly come from some port in Sicily, and did not belong to the Neapolitan squadron that were constantly parading the straits. These, indeed, were for the most part lying twenty miles away, while some were anchored off Reggio. Demonstrations had been made for some days both at Messina and the Cape of Faro, in order to attract their attention, and lead to the belief that it was intended to land near the spot where Missori had disembarked, or at some point north of the entrance to the straits.

Stores had been ostentatiously placed on board steamers at Messina and Faro; men had embarked in considerable numbers every evening, and smoke pouring from the funnels showed that steam was being got up. These preparations were keenly watched by the Neapolitans, and served their purpose by concentrating all their attention upon these points. Garibaldi, on arriving from Sardinia with the troops which had been collected there, had despatched the Torino and Franklin, carrying a thousand of these men, round the island with instructions to them to put in at Giardini, the port of Taormina. He himself proceeded to Messina, and then, after seeing that all was going on well there, rode down to the port, having previously sent forward seven hundred men.

This detachment was so small that its departure attracted little attention, and it was supposed that it had only gone down to reinforce Bixio’s brigade; thus Messina was as ignorant of the fact that an expedition was about to start from Giardini as were the Neapolitan commanders. On arrival at Giardini, on the evening of August 18th, Garibaldi found that Bixio had already embarked a thousand men on board the Torino, which was a steamer of seven hundred tons, and that he was prepared to send another thousand on board. The Franklin was a small paddle steamer of two hundred tons, and she was reported to be leaking so badly that no troops had been embarked on her. Garibaldi at once went on board with his staff, and found that she was making water fast. The leak could not be discovered, but Garibaldi, as an old sea captain, knew what should be done to check the inrush of water, at least for a time, as it was all-important that she should be able to carry her complement of men across the sixteen miles of water between Giardini and Melito. Several of his officers could swim, and he ordered these to dive overboard, and to find, if possible, the position of the leaks.

In the meantime, he sent ashore for a boat-load of a mixture of manure and chopped straw. When this arrived, lumps were thrust down at the end of poles, to the points where leaks had been discovered; particles of the composition were drawn into the leaks by the inrush of water, and in a short time the leakage almost entirely ceased, and the work of embarkation recommenced. Three thousand men were carried by the Torino, and twelve hundred on the Franklin, where Garibaldi himself took his place, while Bixio commanded on the Torino. Both vessels were crowded to a dangerous extent; men were packed on deck as closely as they could stand, and were even clustered on the shrouds. Had there been any wind, it would have been dangerous in the extreme to put to sea overloaded as they were, but fortunately there was not a breath of air, and the water was perfectly calm. At ten o’clock the two vessels started on their eventful voyage, but owing to the difficulties caused by the strong currents, they did not arrive off Melito until two in the morning.

As soon as Frank had assured himself that the approaching vessels were those he expected, he sent off one of his two men to fetch down the party that had for twelve hours been lying outside the place, while he despatched the other to the huts of the leaders of the three parties of fishermen not engaged in watching the roads, to tell them to call up all their men as quietly as possible and to get their boats in the water. In a short time, therefore, after the Franklin’s anchor had been dropped, Frank arrived alongside the Torino with half a dozen fishing boats: he had rowed to her both as being the larger craft and being nearest to the shore, and thought that Garibaldi would be on board her. On reaching her he found Bixio. Several lanterns had been placed near the gangway, and the general at once recognised him.

“Welcome, Captain Percival!” he said heartily, as he shook hands with him. “We were glad indeed when we saw the boats putting off, and knew that a detachment of Missori’s men must be there. Have you more boats coming out?”

“Yes, sir; there will be a dozen more off in a few minutes. I set off as soon as I had assembled a sufficient number of fishermen to man those alongside.”

“I am sorry to say,” Bixio said, “that we have run aground, and I fear badly. I have just sent a boat to the Franklin, where Garibaldi is, to tell him what has happened. You had better go at once and report to him. What force have you?”

“Only fifty men, sir. The colonel sent only a small party, as he was afraid that, were he to come with all his force, he would bring the enemy down here at once.”

“There is no fear of trouble in the town?”

“No, sir; I have arranged all that. You will be entirely unopposed; there are no Neapolitans nearer than Reggio, and they have no suspicions of our being here.”

Frank at once returned to the boat in which he had come off, and rowed to the Franklin.

“Ah, it is you, Percival!” Garibaldi exclaimed when he saw him. “Then all is well. We will begin to land at once, and you can tell me as we go ashore what Missori has been doing. How many boats have you with you?”

“I have brought six, sir; but there will be at least a dozen more in a few minutes.”

Garibaldi descended into the boat, and was followed by as many men as could be crowded into her.

“Now, first about the state of things here. Is there any chance of our being disturbed before the men are all ashore?”

“I should think not, sir. With the exception of the fishermen, whom I have roused to man the boats, no one in the place knows anything of what is going on. The great bulk of the people are in your favour. The syndic and all the authorities are prisoners in their houses, and even if they were conscious of your landing, they could not send the news to Reggio, as I have armed parties on all the roads. You have therefore certainly six or eight hours before there is any chance of interruption.”

“That is good news. Indeed, everything has gone well with us so far, except this misfortune of Bixio’s steamer running aground. Unless we can succeed in getting her off, I fear that the Neapolitans will capture her. However, that is a minor matter. Now, what can you tell me about the position of the enemy?”

“There are about thirty thousand men under General Viale in and around Monteleone; there are twelve thousand at Bagnara, and the towns between it and Reggio, where there are but fifteen hundred men under General Galotta; eighteen hundred men are in Aspromonte, in pursuit of Missori, who has now about eight hundred men with him.”

“They could hardly be disposed better for our purpose,” Garibaldi remarked. “We shall take Reggio before supports can arrive to the garrison, and our success there will be worth ten thousand men to us.”

Garibaldi remained on shore watching the disembarkation of the men. Every boatman in Melito was soon employed in the work, and, by four o’clock the whole of the troops were on the shore. While the disembarkation had been going on, Garibaldi had sent for the syndic and other authorities, and had informed them that they must now consider themselves under his authority, and obey promptly all orders that he gave them; that he should require bread, meat, and wine, for a day’s consumption for the whole of his force; that he was prepared to pay for the food, but that they must obtain it from the inhabitants.

Except among the fishermen, the arrival of the force was regarded with an appearance of apathy. The townspeople had been told by the authorities that there was no fear whatever of Garibaldi and his freebooters coming near them, and believing that he must speedily be crushed, they regarded his arrival with fear rather than pleasure. There were many there who were well-wishers of the cause, but they feared to exhibit any sign of their friendship, lest they should suffer terribly for it when he and his followers had been destroyed by the troops. In Sicily there had been previous insurrections and risings, and the people had long hoped that some day they would shake off the yoke of Naples; but no such hope had been entertained on the mainland, where the reign of oppression had been so long unbroken that no thought that it could ever be thrown off had entered the minds of the great majority of the ignorant people. At daybreak the war-vessels at Reggio could be seen getting up steam, and the greatest efforts were made to get the Torino afloat again.

Unfortunately the reduction effected in her draught of water by the removal of her passengers and a certain amount of stores had been counteracted by the force of the current, which, as fast as she was lightened, carried her up higher on the shoal. The little Franklin, which was an American vessel chartered for the occasion, hoisted the stars and stripes as soon as the Garibaldians had landed, and steamed across to the island. The Torino’s Italian flag remained flying until three Neapolitan steamers came up and opened fire upon the Garibaldians on shore. Three men were wounded by a shell; when the rest, forming up, marched out of the town, taking the path (it could scarcely be called a road) towards Reggio.

Four men had, soon after the landing had been effected, been sent to Missori with orders that he should join at Reggio. As soon as the Garibaldians were out of range, the Neapolitan commanders turned their guns on the Torino, and after keeping up a heavy fire upon her for some hours, they sent parties in boats to board her and set her on fire.

The first part of the march towards Reggio was an extremely toilsome one. For the first eight miles, from Melito to Cape D’Armi, the slopes of the mountains extend to the very edge of the water, and the troops were continually mounting the steep spurs or descending into ravines. They had with them four mountain guns, and as the path could only be traversed by the men in single file, the difficulty of taking the guns along was immense.

The men were in the highest spirits. The fact that, in case of disaster, the destruction of the Torino had cut off all means of return to Sicily, in no way troubled them. Similarly they had thrown themselves on shore at Marsala, and the ships in which they had come had been captured by the enemy. Their confidence in Garibaldi was absolute, and no thought of disaster was for a moment entertained. Once past the Cape, they halted. It was already evening, and although the distance in miles had been short, the fatigue had been very great, and none had closed an eye on the previous night. It was therefore impossible to go farther. They were received with enthusiasm by the people of the villages scattered here and there on the mountain-side. A Greek colony had very many years before settled there, and retained many of their own customs, and even their own language; but although conversation with the North Italian Garibaldians was difficult, and often impossible, there could be no mistake as to the heartiness of their welcome.

Everything in the way of provisions was given to the soldiers, and each cottage took in as many men as it could hold; and from the moment, indeed, when the Garibaldians set foot in Calabria, they met with a far deeper and heartier welcome than had been the case in Sicily. In the latter they had been joined by a comparatively small body of volunteers, and the people had contented themselves with shouting and cheering, but had given little else; and even in Messina the appeals of Garibaldi for aid in the hospitals, and lint and bandages for the wounded, had met with little response: the Sicilians had, in fact, fallen to the level of the Neapolitans. In Calabria, on the other hand, the population was manly, hardy, and hospitable—possessing the virtues of mountaineers in all countries; and as the news of Garibaldi’s landing spread, the whole population took up arms.

Here communications were received from Missori, who stated that he was pushing forward with all haste; but that, from the ruggedness of the mountains along which he was travelling, he could not hope to be at Reggio until late the following evening. The next day the Garibaldians advanced along the mountain-side; a detachment sent out from Reggio retiring along the road as they advanced. The force halted for the night six miles from the town. A messenger from Missori announced that, in spite of his efforts, he was still far distant; Garibaldi, therefore, determined to attack the next morning without waiting for him. Communications had been opened with the townsfolk, and a message was sent back that the national guard would support him.

Few towns are more beautifully situated than Reggio. It lies on the lowest slope of a spur of Aspromonte. Behind it rises the castle, with its guns commanding the town, whose scattered suburbs and gardens stretch far away up the mountain-side; while across the straits lies the Bay of Catania, with numerous towns and villages up the slopes of Etna, which forms a background, with wreaths of smoke ascending from the volcano on its summit. Away to the right lies Messina, and the coast stretching along to Cape Faro. The intervening strait is dotted with shipping: steamers on their way to the East, or returning to Italy and France; sailing-ships flying the flags of many nations, fishing-and rowing-boats.

It was settled that Bixio with his brigade was to enter the town by the main road, and effect a junction with the national guard in the piazza lying below the castle; and that, when the junction was made, a battalion was to descend to the shore and attack a small fort near the marina.

As soon as the news of Garibaldi’s landing had reached the town, the principal people and the officers of the national guard had called upon Gallotta, and begged him, if he intended to fight Garibaldi, to go outside the town to do so, and so save the place from the injury that would be effected by a desperate struggle in the streets. The request was a strange one; but the general, who no doubt considered that he would do better in a fight in the open than in the streets, where possibly the inhabitants might take part against him, agreed to do this, and on Garibaldi’s approach marched out of the fortress with eight hundred men in two detachments, one of which took post at the bridge just outside Reggio, while, strangely enough, the other four hundred men took up a position on the opposite side of the town.

In order to confuse the Italian troops, who would be marching from all the towns on the coast towards Reggio, Garibaldi had sent orders to Cosenz to cross during the night from Cape Faro with twelve hundred men in boats, and to land near Bagnara. Expecting some hard fighting, the Garibaldians moved on at midnight. When they approached the town the scouts went forward, and found to their surprise that the bridge was unoccupied. Bixio at once crossed it; and, reaching the piazza, joined the national guard there without a shot having been fired. Similarly, Garibaldi with the rest of the force entered the suburbs. They came upon a small outpost, which was at once driven back; and Gallotta, who, not dreaming of a night attack, had withdrawn most of his troops into the castle, now beat a hasty retreat with the remainder, and a cannonade was at once opened by its guns upon the town.

The Neapolitan force on the other side of Reggio retreated at once, fearing that they would not be able to enter the castle, and retired along the road, hoping to meet General Braganti, who was advancing with a column to reinforce the garrison. Bixio’s battalion took the little fort on the marina without difficulty. Barricades were at once thrown up across all the streets leading to the castle, in order to prevent the garrison from making a sortie, or any relieving force reaching it. It was daylight now, and Missori and his column arrived, as arranged, upon the hill-side above the castle, and at once opened so heavy a musketry fire upon its defenders, that the artillery were unable to serve the guns. Feeling that the castle could not hold out long, Garibaldi despatched a battalion to hold the relieving column in check; but Braganti had already heard from the fugitives that the town and seaside fort were in the hands of the Garibaldians, and the castle invested upon all sides: he therefore fell back to await further reinforcements, being ignorant of the force under Garibaldi’s command.

At twelve o’clock a loud cheer broke from the Garibaldians round the castle, for the white flag of surrender was hoisted. The general granted the same terms that were given to Bosco’s force at Milazzo—namely, that the garrison might march down to the shore, and there embark on board the Neapolitan war-ships for conveyance to Naples, leaving all munitions of war, money, and all prisoners who might be confined there, behind them. Thus, with the loss of only seven men killed and wounded, a castle which had been considered capable of resisting a long siege was captured, and the first blow struck at the Bourbon dynasty of Naples. The success in itself was a striking one; its consequences were far-reaching. The news that Reggio had been captured by the Garibaldians, almost without fighting, spread like wild-fire. Cosenz’s landing had also been successful; and this, added to the news that all southern Calabria had risen in arms, created such consternation among the commanders of the various bodies of troops in the towns facing the straits, that all prepared to march at once to join the main force at Monteleone.

As soon as the castle surrendered, Garibaldi despatched boats across the straits, with orders to the troops at Messina and Cape Faro to cross at once in any craft they could get hold of. No advance from Reggio was made that afternoon, as the troops required some rest after their exertions. As evening came on the scene was a striking one; every town and village on the other side of the straits from Cape Faro to Giardini being illuminated. The lights twinkled, and bonfires blazed, far up the sides of Etna.

As soon as Garibaldi had entered the castle, he said to Frank, who had been near him all day: “Take ten men and search the castle thoroughly, and release all political prisoners. There are sure to be many here.”

Frank obeyed the order eagerly. At Palermo he had not expected to find any prisoners from the mainland; and he had read through the list of those found and released at Messina without emotion—for there, as at Palermo, all were men, for the most part of good family, belonging to the city; but now he was on the mainland, and prisoners taken in any part of the Neapolitan dominions might be found here. First he obtained the list of those detained from the officer in special charge of them. No familiar name met his eye as he glanced hastily down it.

“You are sure that this is the entire list?” he asked the officer.

“There are none others,” the latter replied; “but if you are searching for a friend you may find him here, though bearing another name. The majority of the prisoners are registered under their real names, but in some cases, where there are particular reasons for secrecy, another name is given when they are brought here, and I myself am ignorant of what their real designations may be.”

“You had better accompany me round, sir,” Frank said, “and see that the jailors open all the doors and give me every facility.”

The officer willingly assented: he felt that his appointment under the Neapolitan government was at an end, and was anxious to please those who were likely to be his masters in the future. As a rule some fifteen or twenty men were confined together; these were first visited, but no familiar face was found among them.

“Those you have seen,” the officer said, “are, I believe, all confined here under their own names; as you see, a number are kept together. All are allowed at certain hours of the day to go out into the courtyard and to converse with each other freely. There are four prisoners who are kept apart from the rest, and each other; these are the four who bear, I believe, other names than those given on the list. They go out for four or five hours at a time on to the walls, but each has his separate place for exercise, and they can hold no communication with each other, or with the rest of the prisoners. In all other respects they have the same food and treatment.”

The scene in each of the rooms that he had hitherto entered had been very painful; the prisoners had heard the sound of firing, but were in ignorance of what it meant. No news from the outside world ever reached them; they had heard nothing of the events in Sicily, and the only explanation that they could imagine for the firing was that there had been a revolution in the province, and that the castle had been attacked by a party of insurgents. Their hopes had fallen when the firing ceased; and during the hour that had passed while the negotiations were being carried on, had altogether faded away. They had heard no cannon from without; and that a body of insurgents should have captured the fortress seemed out of the question. There had been an attack, but the assailants had evidently fallen back. When, therefore, Frank entered, attended by their chief and followed by eight men in red shirts, broad-brimmed hats, and carrying muskets, they were too astonished even to guess at the truth until Frank said:

“Gentlemen, in the name of General Garibaldi, who has captured this castle, I have the pleasure to announce to you that from this moment you are free men.”

For the most part the announcement was received in silence. They could scarce believe the possibility of what he said. The name of Garibaldi was known to all. It was he who had commanded at the defence of Rome; it was he who, as those who had been longest there had learned from comparatively late comers, had done such signal service in the Alps with his volunteers, when, by the aid of France, Milan and part of Lombardy was wrested from the Austrians. They looked at one another almost incredulously; then, as the meaning of Frank’s words dawned upon them, some fell into each others’ arms, murmuring incoherent words, others burst into tears, while some again dropped on their knees to thank God for their deliverance. Frank had to wait for a few minutes in each room until they had recovered themselves a little, and then sent out each batch with two of his soldiers to see for themselves that they were really free, and to thank Garibaldi for their rescue.

“Now, signor,” the officer said, when they had left the last of the large rooms, “there are only the four special prisoners to visit.”

The first of these was a man in the prime of life, although with long unkempt hair and beard. As Frank repeated the words he had used before, the man looked at him with an unmeaning smile. Again and again he spoke to him, but a low childish laugh was the only answer. Frank turned angrily to the officer.

“The poor fellow’s mind has gone,” he said. “How long has he been a prisoner here?”

“About eight years, signor; for some time his mind has been getting weaker.”

“The brutes!” Frank exclaimed passionately. “Here, men, take this poor fellow out to the courtyard, and remain with him: I will ask the general presently what had best be done with him. Are the others like this?” he asked the officer, with a thrill of fear that overpowered the hope that he had lately been feeling.

“One of them is silent, and seldom speaks, but he is, I believe, quite sensible; the other two are well. The man we shall next see is perfectly so; he never speaks to us, but when alone here, or when upon the wall for exercise, he talks incessantly to himself: sometimes in Italian; sometimes, as one of the officers who understands that language says, in English; sometimes in what I have heard our priests say is Latin; sometimes in other languages.”

“Before you open the door, tell me what age he is,” Frank asked, in a low strained voice.

“I should say that he was about sixty, signor; he has been here nearly three years,” the man said.

“Now open the door.”

Frank entered almost timidly. A tall man rose from a palette, which was the sole article of furniture in the room.

“Is it treason, lieutenant,” he asked quietly, “to ask what has been going on?”

Frank with an exclamation of joy stepped forward: “Grandfather,” he said, “thank God I have found you!”

The prisoner started, looked at him searchingly, and exclaimed, “Frank! yes, it is Frank: is this a miracle, or am I dreaming?”

“Neither, grandfather. Garibaldi has landed; we have taken the castle, and, thank God, you are free.”

The professor sank back on his bed and sat for a minute or two with his face buried in his hands; then he rose, put his hands upon Frank’s shoulders, and then clasped him in his arms, bursting as he did so into tears, while Frank’s own cheeks were wet. The professor was the first to recover himself.

“I had fancied, Frank,” he said, “that I was a philosopher, but I see I am not; I thought that all emotion for me was over, but I feel now like a child. And can I really go out?”

“Yes,” Frank said; “but I have two more doors to open, and then I will go with you.”

“I will wait here for you, Frank: I shall be glad to be for a few minutes alone, to persuade myself that this is not a dream, and to thank God for His mercy. One moment, though, before you leave me: is my wife alive and well, and my daughter?”

“Both are well,” Frank said; “it is five months since I saw them, but I had letters from both four days ago.” Then he left the cell.

“This is the silent man,” the officer said, as he opened the next door. Frank repeated his usual speech to the dark-bearded man who faced him when he entered.

“You are young to lie, sir,” the man said sternly. “This, I suppose, is a fresh trick to see whether I still hate the accursed government that has sent me here.”

“It is no lie, signor,” Frank said quietly. “I am an officer of General Garibaldi’s. He has conquered all Sicily, and with some four thousand men crossed the straits three days ago to Melito, and has now captured this place.”

The man burst into a wild fit of laughter, and then, with another cry of “You lie!” he sprang upon Frank, and had it not been for the officer and the two Garibaldian soldiers, who still accompanied them, would assuredly have strangled him; for, strong as he was, Frank was but an infant in the man’s hands. After a desperate struggle, he was pulled off, and forced down on his bed.

“Leave him,” Frank said: “he will be quiet now.—Signor, I can understand your feelings; you think what I have said is impossible. You will soon see that it is not. As soon as you calm yourself, one of my men will accompany you to the courtyard, which is, you will find, full of Garibaldians; and the general himself will assure you that you are a free man, and can, if you choose, quit this place immediately.”

The man’s mood changed. “I am calm,” he said, rising to his feet. “Perhaps this man will take me out to execution, but it will be welcome to me. I have prayed for death so long that I can only rejoice if it has come.” Then he quietly walked out of the cell, followed by one of the soldiers, who, being by no means satisfied that the prisoner had ceased to be dangerous, slipped his bayonet on to his musket before following him.

The fourth prisoner was very feeble, but he received the news with tranquillity. “It does not make much difference to me now,” he said; “but it will be some satisfaction to know that I shall be buried outside the prison.”

“You must not look at it in that light, signor,” Frank said. “No doubt you will pick up health and strength when you rejoin your friends, and find that the tyranny and oppression you struggled against are at an end.”

Leaving the last of his men to give the poor fellow his arm and lead him out, Frank returned to Professor Forli. The latter rose briskly as he came in.

“I am myself again,” he said. “Your coming here so strangely, and the news you brought, were so great a surprise, that everything seemed confused, and I was unable to grasp the fact. I have heard that a good swimmer, if he falls suddenly into deep water, behaves for a few moments like one who is ignorant of the art, striking out wildly, swallowing much water before he fairly grasps the situation and his skill returns to him. So it was with me: my equanimity has never been shaken since I was first seized. I perceived at once that what was to come was inevitable. I reflected that I was vastly better off than most; that my mind was stored with knowledge accumulated by the great thinkers of all ages, and that, so fortified, I could afford to be indifferent to imprisonment or persecution. But you see the suddenness of the knowledge that I was free, did what captivity, even as hopeless as mine, had failed to do. Now, Frank, let us go out: you shall take me down to the sea-shore, and then tell me by what marvel you come to be here. If it had been your father, I should not have been so surprised; but that you, whom I had thought of as a boy at Harrow, should throw open my prison-door, is past my understanding at present. Of course, your father is here with you?”

“I am sorry to say that he is not,” Frank said quietly; “but I will tell you all about it when we get down to the shore. I must, before we start, tell the general that all the prisoners have been freed, and that I have found you, and ask if he will require me just at present.”

Going into the courtyard, Frank left his grandfather to look on at a scene so novel to him, and went into the room where Garibaldi and Bixio were examining, with the syndic, a map of the district. He stood at the door till the general looked round.

“Pardon me, sir, for interrupting you, but I wish to report to you that among the other prisoners I have found Signor Forli, and that he is in good health.”

Garibaldi rose from his seat, and holding out both hands grasped those of Frank.

“I am glad—I am glad indeed, lad,” he said with deep feeling, “that my old friend is rescued; glad that the sacrifice that your mother made in parting with you has not been in vain, and that your own bravery and good conduct have been thus rewarded. I pray God that that other that you are seeking for, still nearer and more loved, may also be found.”

“Excuse me,” he said to Bixio and the syndic: “I must shake Signor Forli by the hand before I go farther into this.”

As he hurried out, Frank said,—“I have not told him about my father yet, sir. He suggested himself that we should go down together to the sea-shore, where we could talk matters over quietly; and I came in partly to ask you if you would require my services for the next hour or two?”

“Certainly not, Percival. Yes, I will be careful; it would be a shock to him to be told suddenly that your father had lost his life in his search for him.”

Led by Frank, he hurried to the spot where the professor was standing, quietly regarding the Garibaldians laughing and chatting, and the groups of the Neapolitan troops, who, now disarmed, were standing talking together with disheartened and sombre faces.

“Ah, professor,” he exclaimed, as he came up to him; “glad indeed am I that you have been found and rescued. Your friends were right in not despairing of you. It seems an age since we parted twelve years ago at Rome. You are little changed. I feared that if found you would be like so many of the others whose prison doors we have opened—mere wrecks of themselves.”

“Nor have you changed much,” Signor Forli said, as he stood holding the general’s hand; “a line or two on the forehead, but that is all. And so you have taken up again the work that seemed postponed for another century at Rome?”

“Yes; and this time I hope that all Italy will be freed. Now, old friend, you must excuse me for the present—I am full of business; this evening we must have a long talk together; much has happened in the three years that have passed since you disappeared. You can keep this youngster with you. He has well earned a day’s holiday.” So saying, Garibaldi hurried off.

CHAPTER XV.

THE ADVANCE FROM REGGIO.

PROFESSOR FORLI was silent until he and Frank had passed out through the gate of the castle, then he took a long breath.

“The air of freedom,” he said, “is no different from that I have breathed daily on the walls there, for well-nigh three years, and yet it seems different. It is a comfort that my prison lay in this fair spot, and not in some place where I could see but little beyond the walls. Often and often have I thanked God that it was so, and that, even as a free man and with the world before me, I could see no more lovely scene than this. There was change, too: there was the passage of the ships; I used to wonder where each was sailing; and about the passengers, and how hopefully many of these were going abroad to strange countries in search of fortunes, and how few were returning with their hopes fully satisfied. I smiled sometimes to think of the struggle for wealth and advancement going on in the world round me, while I had no need to think of the future; but my needs, always, as you know, few and simple, were ministered to; and though cut off from converse with all around me, I had the best company in the world in my cell. How thankful I was that my memory was so good—that I could discourse with the great men of the world, could talk with Plato and argue with Demosthenes; could discuss old age with Cicero, or travel with either Homer or Virgil; visit the Inferno with Dante, or the Heavens with Milton; knew by heart many of the masterpieces of Shakespeare and Goethe, and could laugh over the fun of Terence and Plutarch: it was a grand company.”

So the professor continued to talk until they reached the shore. Frank was not called upon to speak. The professor was talking to himself rather than to him, continuing the habit of which the officer of the prison had spoken. As yet his brain was working in its old groove. Once on the strand, he stood silently gazing for two or three minutes, then he passed his hand across his forehead, and with an evident effort broke the chain of his thoughts and turned to Frank.

“Strange talk, no doubt you are thinking, Frank, for a man so suddenly and unexpectedly released from a living grave; but you see, lad, that the body can be emancipated more quickly than the mind from its bonds, and I am as one awaking from a deep sleep and still wondering whether it is I myself, and how I came to be here, and what has happened to me. I fear that it will be some time before I can quite shake off my dreams. Now, lad, once more tell me about my wife and your mother. But no, you have told me that they are well. You have said naught of your father, save that he is not here. Where is he? and how is he?”

“I can answer neither question, grandfather. He, like you, has been lost to us; he disappeared a few months after you did, and we were led to believe that he was killed.”

The professor was himself again in an instant. The mood that had dominated him was shaken off, and he was keen, sharp, and alert again, as Frank remembered him.

“He is lost?” he repeated: “you heard that he was killed? How was it? tell me everything. In the early days of my imprisonment, when I thought of many things outside the walls of my gaol, one thing troubled me more than others. My wife had her daughter; no harm would come to her, save the first grief at my loss and the slow process of hope dying out. My daughter had everything that a woman could wish to make her happy; but your father, I knew him so well, he would not rest when the days passed and no news of me came—he would move heaven and earth to find me; and a man in this country who dares to enquire after a political prisoner incurs no small danger. Is it so that he was missing? Tell me all, and spare no detail; we have the rest of the day before us. We will sit down on this seat. Now begin.”

Frank told, at length, how, on the news of the professor’s disappearance, his father had interested the English government in the matter, and how to all enquiries made the government of Naples had replied that they knew nothing whatever concerning his disappearance; and how, at last, he himself started with an order obtained from Naples for him to search all the prisons of southern Italy.

“It was just like him; it was noble and chivalrous,” the professor said; “but he should have known better. An Englishman unacquainted with Italy might have believed that with such an order he might safely search for one who he suspected was lying in a Neapolitan prison, but your father should have known better. Notice would assuredly be sent before he arrived; and had he come here, for example, I should a week before have been carried away up into the mountains, till he had gone. He would have been shown the register of prisoners, he would not have found my name among them, he would have been told that no such person as he described had ever been confined here,—it was hopeless. But go on with your story.”

Frank told how his father had visited several prisons, and how he wrote letters, exposing their horrors, that had appeared in the English papers, and had created an immense impression throughout the country.

“It was mad of him,” the professor murmured; “noble, but mad.”

Then Frank told how the news came of his being carried off by brigands, of the steps that had been taken, of the evidence of the courier who saw him fall, and of some of his effects being found in the hut on the mountain when this was captured and the brigand chief killed, of the report given by one of the prisoners that his father had died and been buried shortly after he was taken there, and of the vain search that had been made for his body.

“And was this tale believed?” Signor Forli exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “No Italian would for a moment have thought it true—at least, none who had the misfortune to be born under the Neapolitan rule. Surely my wife never believed it?”

“In her heart I know now that she did not,” Frank said, “but she kept her doubts to herself for the sake of my mother. She thought that it was far better that she should believe that father was dead than that she should believe him buried in one of the foul prisons he had described.”

“She was right—she was right,” the professor said: “it was certainly better. And your mother—did she lose hope?”

“She told me that she would not allow herself to believe that he might still be alive, and I believe that she and the signora never said one word on the subject to each other until just before I started.” He then related how the courier had been brought over, how he had been installed in the house in Cadogan Place, and how no suspicion of his being a spy had been entertained until after the receipt of Garibaldi’s letter, and how they were convinced at last that he had overheard all the arrangements made for his leaving for Italy.

“And you are alive, Frank, to tell me this! By what miracle did you escape from the net that was thrown around you?”

This part of the story was also told.

“It was well arranged and bravely carried through, Frank. So you took up the mission which had cost your father either his life or his liberty? It was a great undertaking for a lad, and I wonder indeed that your mother, after the losses she had suffered, permitted you to enter upon it. Well, contrary to all human anticipations, you have succeeded in one half of it, and you will, I trust, succeed in the other. What seemed hardly possible—that you should enter the castle of Reggio as one of its conquerors, and so have free access to the secrets of its prison—has been accomplished; and if Garibaldi succeeds in carrying his arms farther, and other prison doors are opened, we may yet find your father. What you have told me has explained what has hitherto been a puzzle to me: why I should have been treated as a special prisoner, and kept in solitary confinement. Now I understand it. England had taken the matter up; and as the government of Naples had denied all knowledge of me, it was necessary that neither any prisoner, who, perhaps, some day might be liberated, nor any prison official should know me, and be able to report my existence to the British representative. You may be sure that, had your father come here, and examined every prisoner and official, privately, he would have obtained no intelligence of me. Giuseppe Borani would not have been here, he would have been removed, and none would dream that he was the prisoner for whom search was made. And now tell me briefly about this expedition of Garibaldi. Is all Europe at war, that he has managed to bring an army here?”

“First of all, grandfather, I must tell you what happened last year.”

He then related the incidents of the war of 1859, whereby France and Sardinia united and wrested Milan and Lombardy from the Austrians; the brilliant achievements of the Garibaldians; the disappointment felt by Italy at Nice and a part of Savoy being handed over to Napoleon as the price of the services that he had rendered; how Bologna and Florence, Palma, Ferrara, Forli, and Ravenna, had all expelled their rulers and united themselves with Sardinia; and how, Garibaldi having been badly treated and his volunteers disbanded, he himself had retired disappointed and hurt to Caprera.

Then he related briefly the secret gathering of the expedition; the obstacles thrown in its way; its successful landing in Sicily, and the events that had terminated with the expulsion of the Neapolitan forces from the island.

“Garibaldi began with but a thousand men,” he said in conclusion. “He is now at the head of twenty thousand, and it will grow every hour; for we have news of risings throughout southern Calabria. If a thousand sufficed for the conquest of Sicily, twenty thousand will surely be sufficient for that of the mainland. The easy capture of this place will strike terror into the enemy, and raise the enthusiasm of the troops and the Calabrians to the utmost. Garibaldi has but four thousand men with him now; but by this time to-morrow ten thousand at least will have crossed, and I think it is possible that we shall reach Naples without having to fight another battle. At any rate, one pitched battle should be enough to free all Southern Italy. The Papal States will come next, and then, as Garibaldi hopes, Venice; though this will be a far more serious affair, for the Austrians are very different foes from the Neapolitans, and have the advantage of tremendously strong fortifications, which could only be taken by siege operations with heavy artillery, and certainly could not be accomplished by troops like Garibaldi’s.

“Now about my father. Supposing him to be alive, where do you think he would most probably be imprisoned?”

“There is no saying. That he is alive, I feel confident—unless, indeed, he died in prison from the effect of the wound given him when he was captured. That he did not die when in the hands of the brigands, we may take to be certain, for his grave must in that case have been discovered. He must have been handed over to a party of police sent to fetch him by previous agreement with the brigands, and would have been confined in some place considered especially secure from search. I should fancy that he is probably in Naples itself,—there are several large prisons there. Then there would be the advantage that, if the British government had insisted upon a commission of their own officers searching these prisons, he could be removed secretly from one to another, so that before the one in which he was confined could be examined, he would have been taken to another, which had been previously searched.

“His case was a more serious one than mine. Although I was a naturalised British subject, I had gone of my own free will to Italy, in the vain belief that I should be unmolested after so long an absence; and probably there would have been no stir in the matter had not your father taken it up so hotly, and by the influence he possessed obtained permission to search the dungeons. But, as I said, his case was a far more serious one. He went out backed by the influence of the British government; he was assisted by the British legation; he held the order of the Neapolitan government for admission to all prisons. Thus, had it been found that he had, in spite of their own so-called safe-conduct, been seized and imprisoned, the British fleet would have been in the Bay of Naples in a very short time—especially as his letters, as you tell me, created so much feeling throughout the country. Therefore it would be an almost vital question for the government to maintain the story they had framed, and to conceal the fact that, all the time they were asserting that he had been captured and killed by the brigands, he was in one of their own prisons.

“I may say frankly that they would unhesitatingly have had him killed, perhaps starved to death in a cell, were it not that they would have put it in the power of some official or other to betray them: a discovery that would have meant the fall of the government, possibly the dethronement of the king. Had he been an Italian, he would assuredly have been murdered, for it would not have paid any prison official to betray them; whereas, being an Englishman of distinction, in whose fate the British government had actively interested itself, any man who knew the facts could have obtained a reward of a very large amount indeed for giving information. That is the sole reason, Frank, that leads me to believe that he may still be alive. He was doubtless imprisoned under another name, just as I was; but at least it would be known to the men that attended upon him that he was an Englishman, and these could scarcely have avoided suspecting that he was the man about whom such a stir had taken place. The government had already incurred a tremendous risk by his seizure; but this would have been far greater had foul means been used to get rid of him in prison.

“In the former case, should by any extraordinary chance his existence have become known to the British legation, they would have framed some deliberate lie to account for their ignorance of his being Captain Percival. They might, for instance, assert that he had been taken prisoner in the mountains, with a party of brigands; that his assertions that he was an Englishman had been wholly disbelieved, for he would naturally have spoken in Italian, and his Italian was so good that any assertions he made that he was an Englishman would have been wholly discredited. That is merely a rough guess at the story they might have invented, for probably it would have been much more plausible; but, however plausible, it would not have received the slightest credit had it been found that he had been foully done to death.

“It is difficult, Frank, when one is discussing the probable actions of men without heart, honour, or principle, and in deadly fear of discovery, to determine what course they would be likely to take in any particular circumstances. Now, the first thing that I have to do is to cross to Messina, and to telegraph and afterwards to write to my wife. Can I telegraph?”

“Yes, but not direct: the regular line is that which crosses the straits to this town and then goes up through Italy. That, of course, we have not been able to use, and could not use it now. All messages have been sent by the line from Cape Passaro to Malta, and thence through Sardinia and Corsica to Spezzia. You can send a message by that. There will be no difficulty in getting a boat across the straits. You see the war-ships have steamed away. As soon as the castle was taken they found that their anchorage was within range of its guns. They fired a few shots into the town when the castle was bombarding it, and then retired. I believe that all through the men of the navy have been very reluctant to act against us, except, of course, at Palermo.”

“Then I will go at once. It is strange to me to be able to say I will go.”

“Very well, grandfather. Of course you have no money, but I can supply you with as much as you like. I have plenty of funds. I can’t say where you will find me when you come back, but you will only have to enquire where Garibaldi himself is: I am sure to be with him.”

“I shall stay a couple of days there. After that hard pallet and prison fare I cannot resist the temptation of a comfortable bed, a well-furnished room, and a civilised meal, especially as I am not likely to find any of these things on the way to Naples.”

“By the way, I should think you could telegraph from here,” Frank said. “Garibaldi sent off a message to Messina directly the castle was taken.”

“Then let us do so by all means.”

They went at once to the telegraph office, and from there the professor sent the following message: “Dearest wife, Frank has found and released me. Am well and in good health. Shall write fully this evening. Shall accompany him and aid in his search for Leonard. Love to Muriel.—FORLI.”

Having handed this in, they went down to the shore again, and had no difficulty in hiring a boat. Frank took twenty sovereigns from his belt.

“You will want all this, grandfather, for indeed you must have an entirely new fit-out.”

“I suppose I must. There has not been much wear-and-tear in clothes, but three years is a long time for a single suit to last, and I have lately had some uneasiness as to what I should do when these things no longer hung together; and I certainly felt a repugnance to asking for a prison suit. I must decidedly go and get some clothes fit to be seen in before I present myself at an hotel. No respectable house would take me in as I am.”

“Will you have more, sir? I can let you have fifty if you would like it.”

“No, my boy, I don’t want to be encumbered with luggage. A suit besides that I shall wear, and a change of underclothes, will suffice. These can be carried in a small hand-bag, and whether we walk, or ride, I can take it with me.”

After seeing Signor Forli off, Frank returned to the castle.

“Where is the professor?” Garibaldi asked, when he reported himself as ready for duty.

“I have just seen him off to Messina, general. He is sorely in need of clothes, and he wants to write a long letter home, and he could scarcely find a quiet room where he could do so in Reggio. He will rejoin us as we advance.”

“That is the wisest thing he could do; for although he looks wonderfully well, he can hardly be capable of standing much fatigue after taking no exercise for three years. He will have a great deal to learn as to what has taken place since he has been here, for I don’t suppose the prisoners heard a whisper of the great changes in Northern Italy.”

“I told him in a few words, sir, but I had no time to give him any details.”

At Reggio twenty-six guns, five hundred muskets, and a large quantity of coal, ammunition, provisions, horses, and mules were captured. On the following morning, Major Nullo and the Guides with a battalion were thrown out towards San Giovanni. There was no other forward movement. The general was occupied in receiving deputations from many towns and villages, and there were arrangements to be made for the transport of such stores and ammunition as were likely to be required. The Garibaldians had crossed in large numbers. Cosenz and Medici, with a considerable portion of their commands, were already over, and the former had gone up into the hills. The next morning Garibaldi with two thousand men and six captured field-pieces moved forward. It was possible that they would meet with opposition at San Giovanni, and they had scarcely started when a messenger arrived from Nullo. Believing from the reports of the countrymen that the Neapolitans were retiring, he had ridden on with six of the Guides, till to his astonishment, at a bridge crossing a ravine close to that town, he came upon two squadrons of Neapolitan Lancers. With great presence of mind, he and his men had drawn their revolvers and summoned the officers in command to surrender.

“Surrender to whom?” the latter asked.

“To Garibaldi: he is ready to attack at once, if you refuse.”

“I will take you to the general,” the officer said.

To him Nullo repeated his command.

“I have no objection to confer with Garibaldi himself,” the general said, “and will go with you to him.”

“I cannot take you,” Nullo said: “my instructions are simply to demand your surrender; but I will go myself and inform him of your readiness to meet him. In the meantime, I demand that you withdraw your lancers from the bridge, which must be considered as the boundary between the two forces. You can leave two men on your side, and I will leave two on mine.”

To this the general agreed; and posting two of his men at the bridge, another was sent back to beg Garibaldi to hurry up the troops. Messengers went backward and forward between General Melendis and Garibaldi, who was marching forward with all haste. But, as the terms the latter laid down were that the troops should give up their arms and then be allowed to march away, no agreement was arrived at, and the Neapolitans evacuated the town and took up a very strong position on the hill-side above it. They were two thousand five hundred strong, with five guns. In the evening Garibaldi with two thousand men arrived near the place, and sending forward two companies to the bridge, made a circuit through the hills, and took up a position above and somewhat in rear of the Neapolitans. A messenger was sent to Cosenz, who was seventeen miles away, ordering him to start at once, and, if possible, arrive in the morning. A body of Calabrian peasantry undertook to watch the enemy, and the Garibaldians, wrapping themselves in their blankets, lay down for the night.

Before daybreak they were on their feet, and moved down the hill. The enemy opened fire with shell, but only two or three men fell, and the fire was not returned. On arrival at a spot where they were sheltered from the fire, Garibaldi sent in a messenger with a flag of truce, renewing the offer of terms. The Neapolitans shot the bearer of the flag as he approached them, but afterwards offered to treat. Garibaldi, however, greatly angered at this violation of the laws of war, replied at first that he would now accept nothing but unconditional surrender. An armistice was however granted, to enable the general to communicate with General Braganti. This afforded time, too, for Cosenz to arrive from Salerno, and for Bixio, whose brigade had remained at Reggio, to bring up some guns; these were posted so as to entirely cut the Neapolitan line of retreat.

At five o’clock Garibaldi sent an order to the Neapolitans to lay down their arms within a quarter of an hour, or he would advance. Their general, seeing that he could not now hope to be reinforced, and that he was completely surrounded, assented to the demand. His soldiers piled their arms and soon fraternised with the Garibaldians, many of them showing unconcealed pleasure that they had not been called upon to oppose those who had come to free their country. The greater portion of them threw away their accoutrements, and even their caps, and then dispersed, a few starting to join the main force under Viarli, the greater portion scattering to their homes. The fort by the water’s edge below the town had also surrendered.

This was an important capture, as it possessed several heavy guns; and these, with those of Faro on the opposite shore, commanded the Straits, consequently the Neapolitan ships could not pass on their way up towards Naples, but were forced to retire through the other end and to make their way entirely round the island, thus leaving the passage between Messina and the mainland entirely open. At daybreak Garibaldi started at the head of Cosenz’s column for Alta-fiumara, which the first party of Garibaldians that landed had failed to capture. This, after a short parley, surrendered on the same terms as those granted the day before, and the men, throwing away their shakoes and knapsacks, started for their various homes. Three miles farther, the castle of Scylla surrendered, the national guard of the town having taken up arms and declared for Garibaldi as soon as they heard that he was coming. Bagnara had also been evacuated, Viarli having withdrawn with his force and marched to Monteleone.

A halt was made here. The strictest orders had been given by Garibaldi against plundering or in any way giving cause for hostility among the peasantry. Sentries were posted, and one of the soldiers found stealing grapes was shot—an example which prevented any repetition of the offence.

That evening Frank, who was down on the shore, watching the men from Messina being landed from several steamers, saw Signor Forli.

“It is lucky indeed that I was down here,” he said, “for every house in the town is full of troops, and you might have searched all night without finding me. It is quite useless to look for a bed now, and, indeed, the houses are so crowded that I had made up my mind to sleep here, and I should recommend you to do the same. I see you have got a blanket with you. It will be much cooler and more pleasant than indoors.”

“I will do so gladly, Frank. It will be a fresh luxury for me to see the stars overhead as I lie, and the sand is quite as soft as any of these Italians beds are likely to be.”

Frank had indeed slept out every night since the Garibaldians first landed. It saved the trouble of endeavouring to find accommodation, and enabled him to have a swim every morning to refresh him for his day’s work.

Day after day the Garibaldians marched on without encountering resistance. It was indeed a procession rather than a military advance. The country was lovely, the weather superb. At each village they were saluted by numbers of the country people, who had come down to greet them. They were all armed, and numbers of them joined the Garibaldians. They were, for the most part, of fine physique, with handsome faces, and the women of this coast were famous for their beauty. The Greek element was still predominant, and in many of the villages no other language was spoken. In the towns, the national guard were drawn up to receive their deliverers with all honour, and the inhabitants of all classes vied with each other in their hospitality. Frank had been unable to buy a horse, but had succeeded in purchasing a donkey, on which the professor sat placidly smoking as they went along, with one marching column or another. Cosenz’s division generally led the way, followed by those of Medici and Ebers, while Bixio followed in the rear, his division having already had their share of glory in Sicily and at Reggio.

The main Neapolitan army, retiring from Monteleone, passed through each town only a few hours ahead of the Garibaldians. The people reported that great insubordination existed among them. General Braganti had been shot by his own men at Bagnara; the other generals were accused by their men of treachery, and great numbers of these had deserted; and the Garibaldians felt that if they could but overtake the retreating foe victory was certain. Orders had been sent round by Garibaldi to all the villagers that the men were to meet him at Maida; and leaving the army at two o’clock in the morning, he, with a few of his staff, rode across the mountain to that town. The Calabrians, eager to fight, had obeyed the order, but with some disappointment; for had they been left to themselves they would have occupied the terrible gorges through which the retreating Neapolitans would have to pass, and taking their posts among inaccessible hills, would have almost annihilated them. But Garibaldi was on all occasions most anxious to prevent bloodshed, and would never fight unless his foes forced him to do so; and it was for this reason that he had ordered the Calabrians to meet him at Maida, thereby preventing them from occupying the pass.

Frank, as one of his aides-de-camp, rode with him, the professor preferring to move forward at the more comfortable pace of the marching column. Ordering the Calabrians to follow, Garibaldi went on from Maida to Tyrola, situated on the backbone of the Apennines, and commanding a view of the sea on either hand. Arriving there, he found that the Neapolitans were but a mile ahead. He therefore halted for an hour, and then rode seven miles farther to Samprotro, where he saw the rearguard of the enemy not more than half a mile ahead. Leaving a few armed peasants to watch them, Garibaldi and his staff went quietly to bed. In the morning they again started in pursuit, at the head of two thousand Calabrians. The peasants brought in news that the enemy had halted at a village seven miles ahead, and were endeavouring to obtain food. The Calabrians, when they approached the place, were sent forward as skirmishers; the head of Cosenz’s column was now but a short distance in the rear. Colonel Peard, who had ridden with Garibaldi, was in advance, with three Calabrians, when, at a turn of the road, he came upon seven thousand infantry, cavalry, and artillery, huddled together without any appearance of regularity.

He rode up at once to the nearest officers, and called upon them to surrender. They took him to Ghio, their general, who, saying to Peard that it was not customary to talk so loud before the soldiers, asked him to step aside; and on being told that he was surrounded, and had no choice between surrendering and being annihilated, he agreed at once to send an officer to Garibaldi. While the officer was absent, the disposition of the troops manifested itself: many of them at once threw down their arms and accoutrements and started on the road, or made their way up the hill. In a few minutes the officer returned with Garibaldi’s conditions, which were surrender and disarmament, when the troops would be allowed to leave, on their promise not to serve again. In an hour there was not a Neapolitan left in the place; and the Garibaldians, who had marched thirty miles that day, halted to allow the rest of the troops to come up.

There was, indeed, no further occasion for haste. It was morally certain that no battle would be fought before they reached Naples. The Neapolitan troops were hopelessly dispirited, and the greater part would gladly have thrown away their arms and returned to their homes; the minority, who were still faithful to their oath, were bitterly humiliated at the manner in which large bodies of men had surrendered without striking a blow, and at the way in which the main force fled, as hastily as if it had suffered a disgraceful defeat, at the approach of the Garibaldians. Already Naples was almost in a state of insurrection; and in the other towns the whole populace had risen, and the Neapolitan authorities were powerless.

“It is wonderful,” Signor Forli, who arrived on the following morning, said to Frank, “that the Calabrians should have remained passive for a couple of centuries under the rule of a people so much inferior to themselves. That Sicily should do so, I am not surprised. Its population is not to be compared in physique with these grand fellows. Among the mountains of Sicily, no doubt, there may be a finer type of people than those of the plains and sea-coast; but, as you have told me, although as pleased as a crowd of children at a new game, they did little to aid Garibaldi to free them, and Messina once taken, the number that enlisted with him was small indeed. Here the population have joined to a man; and what splendid men they are! Had they all risen together before, there would have been no need for a Garibaldi. What could an army, however numerous, of the frivolous population of Naples have done against them?

“There are hundreds of passes and ravines. We have ourselves marched through a score that might have been held by a handful of determined men against an army. I believe that it is the fear of cannon rather than of soldiers that has enabled a decaying power, like that of Naples, to maintain its hold. Cannon would be useful in a mountainous country for those who have to defend the passes, but it is of little avail to an invader: it is notorious that, even on the plains, vastly more men are killed by bullets than by shell. One thing that no doubt has kept the Calabrians from rising, as a body, is that blood feuds exist among them, as in Corsica. The number of crosses that you have seen by the roadside mark the number of the victims of these quarrels. Each little village stands apart from the rest, and there has been no centre round which the country could gather. There has been, in fact, a community of interest, but no community of feeling; and the consequence is, risings have been always partial, and there has been nothing like one determined effort by all Calabria to win its freedom.”

CHAPTER XVI.

NAPLES.

THE resemblance between Colonel Peard and Garibaldi was so great that, being similarly dressed, the Englishman, pushing on so far in advance, was everywhere taken for the general, and he utilised this likeness to the utmost. The news of his rapid approach hastened the retreat of the Neapolitans. He sent fictitious telegrams to their generals as from private friends, magnifying Garibaldi’s forces, and representing that he was taking a line that would cut them off from Naples, and so sent them hurrying away at full speed and adding to the alarm and confusion of the government.

“I suppose we had better push on with Garibaldi, grandfather?” Frank said one day, as they finished an unusually long march.

“Certainly, Frank,” Signor Forli said, somewhat surprised; “we shall be in Naples in another three or four days. I am sure Garibaldi will not wait for his troops; he was saying to me yesterday that he was most anxious to enter the city, as he had notice from a friend that Cavour’s party were hard at work trying to organise a general rising of the city before he arrives, and the issue of a manifesto declaring Victor Emmanuel king of Italy and inviting him to come at once. This Garibaldi is determined not to allow. He has from the first always declared that he came in the name of the king, and that when his work was done he would hand over Southern Italy to him. You know his loyalty and absolute disinterestedness; and the idea that he would endeavour to obtain any advantage for himself is absurd.

“If he had chosen, instead of accepting the dictatorship of Sicily he could have been elected king; and assuredly it is the same thing here. He is the people’s hero and saviour; the very name of the King of Sardinia is scarcely known in Sicily, and excites no interest whatever. It is the same thing in Calabria: the enthusiasm is all for Garibaldi, and had he consented to accept the crown he would have been elected unanimously. His wish and hope is to present to Victor Emmanuel Southern Italy cleared of all enemies, complete and undivided; and yet, rather than so receive it, Cavour, Farina, and the rest of them are intriguing at Naples, as they intrigued in Sicily, in order that the king should appear to take this wide accession of territory as the expression of the will of the people, and not from the hand of Garibaldi.

“It is pitiful to see such mean jealousy. In time, no doubt, even had there not been a Garibaldi, this would have come about, but it might have been fifteen or twenty years hence; and had it been done by means of a royal army, France and Austria would probably both have interfered and demanded compensation, and so left Italy still incomplete. It is the speed with which the change has been effected, and I may say the admiration with which Europe has viewed it, and the assurance of the government at Turin that it has had no hand in this business, but has taken all means in its power to prevent it, that has paralysed opposition. I trust that all these intrigues will fail, and that Garibaldi may have the sole honour that he craves—namely, that of presenting the kingdom of the two Sicilies to Victor Emmanuel. Should Cavour’s intrigues succeed, and Garibaldi be slighted, it will be the blackest piece of ingratitude history has ever recorded. However, why do you ask ‘shall we go on to Naples?’ I thought that you were burning to get there.”

“I am; but you see we are passing, without time for making any investigations, many places where my father, if alive, may be in prison. At Potenza, for example, I know that a large number of political prisoners are confined, and doubtless it is the same at many other towns. I cannot bear to think of the possibility that he may be in one of these, and that we have passed him by.”

“I can quite understand your feelings, Frank; but you know we are agreed that it is at Naples we shall most probably find him, if he is still alive. Bad as the prisons may be in other places, they are more loosely managed; there would be fewer conveniences for keeping one prisoner apart from the others, while there are ample opportunities in those of Naples for many to be kept in secret confinement. Certainly I was so kept myself at Reggio; but that was a royal fortress, and though used as a prison for political offenders, there were no malefactors there. In the jails in the provincial towns this could not be so, and I know that prisoners are all mixed up together, save those who can afford to pay, who can live in comparative comfort, while the rest are herded together anyhow, and can scarcely exist upon the rations allowed to them. The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that it is at Naples that we must look for your father. Now that we have arrived at Salerno, and that, as we hear, the Neapolitan troops are falling back from the capital, and taking up their position round Capua and Gaeta, there can be little doubt that Garibaldi will, in a day or two, go forward. There is, indeed, nothing to prevent you and me from going by train there to-morrow, if you lay aside that red shirt and scarf, and dress in clothes that will attract no attention. But I do not see that anything would be gained by it; you will still have to wait until Garibaldi is supreme there, and his orders are respected, and you may be sure that, as soon as he is in power, his first step will be to throw open the prisons and release all who are charged with political offences, to order these hideous dungeons to be permanently closed, and to thoroughly reorganise the system. You have told me that he did this at Palermo, and he will certainly do the same at Naples.”

Four days later the king issued a farewell notice to the people, and left Naples for Gaeta; and three hours afterwards Romano, his minister, who had drawn up his farewell, addressed the following telegram to Garibaldi:—

“To the Invincible Dictator of the two Sicilies.—Naples expects you with anxiety to confide to you her future destiny.—Entirely yours, LIBORIO ROMANO.”

A subsequent letter informed him that at a meeting of the ministers it had been decided that the Prince of Alessandria, Syndic of Naples, should go to Salerno, with the commander of the national guard, to make the arrangements for his entry into the capital. Garibaldi, however, did not wait. Were he to arrive at the head of his troops, the Neapolitan garrisons of the castle and other strong places in the city might oppose him by force; and, as ever, wishing to avoid bloodshed, he determined to rely solely upon the populace of Naples. He at once ordered a small special train to be prepared.

“I am only taking with me,” he said to Frank, “a few of my staff. You will be one of the number: you have a right to it, not only as the representative of your mother, to whose aid we are largely indebted for our being now here, but for your own personal services. Signor Forli shall also go: he stood by me on the walls of Rome twelve years ago, he has suffered much for his principles, he is your mother’s father, therefore he too shall come.”

There were but four carriages on the little train that left at nine o’clock in the morning on the 7th of September for Naples. Cosenz, and thirteen members of the staff, represented the national army; the remaining seats being occupied by various personal friends and two or three newspaper correspondents.

“‘Tis an affair not without risk,” Signor Forli said to Frank, as they walked towards the station. “That the people will receive Garibaldi with enthusiasm is certain, but the attitude of the troops is very doubtful. Certainly the flower of the Neapolitan army will have been left in garrison at Naples; and if but a score of these remain faithful to the Bourbons, Garibaldi’s life may be sacrificed. However, I cannot believe that Providence will permit one who has done so great and mighty a work to perish, just at the moment of the completion of his enterprise.”

The station-master at Salerno, as soon as the train had started, flashed the news to the various stations on the road; and the consequence was, that at every village the people assembled, and when half the journey was done the crowds were so vast, that they overflowed on to the line, and the train was brought to a standstill. National guards climbed on to the roofs of the carriages, and decorated them with flags and evergreens. At Torre del Greco, Resina, and Portici, progress became almost impossible, and the train had to proceed at a snail’s pace to Naples. Here the authorities had prevented all access to the station, but outside the scene was an extraordinary one: horses and carriages, men and women of the highest and of the lowest classes; national guards and gendarmes, members of Bertani’s and the Cavourian committees, were all crowded in confusion together. The houses were decorated with flags and tapestry, and thronged with eager spectators from basement to roof; and as Missori and three others rode out from the station on horseback, followed by Garibaldi in an open carriage with Cosenz, and by a dozen other carriages containing his staff and those who had arrived with him, the roar of welcome was overpowering.

It was with the greatest difficulty that the horsemen cleared the way; for all along the road the crowd was as great as at the station. The attitude of the troops, however, at the various points where they were massed, was sullen and threatening. At Castel Nuovo the guns were pointed on the road; the troops stood ready to fire. One shot, and the course of history might have been changed. Garibaldi ordered his coachman to drive slower, and sat in his carriage calmly, with his eyes fixed upon the troops. One officer gave the order to fire; but he was not obeyed. The calmness and daring of the lion-like face filled the soldiers with such admiration that, for the moment, their hostility evaporated; and while some of them saluted as if to a royal personage, others took off their hats and burst into a cheer. Garibaldi acknowledged it by lifting his hat, and by a cheery wave of his hand, and drove on as calmly as before.

In the carriages behind, all had held their breath at the critical moment.

“What an escape! What an escape!” Signor Forli murmured to Frank, who was sitting next to him. “Had but one musket been fired, we should all have been dead men in a minute or two; and, what is of more consequence, the freeing of Italy must have been postponed for twenty years.”

“It was horribly close,” Frank said. “I would rather go through ten hand-to-hand fights, than another time like the last three minutes; it has made me feel quite queer, and I own that what you say about putting back Italian freedom for twenty years never entered my mind. The one thought I had was, that we were all going to be smashed up without having the chance of striking a single blow. I went through some pretty sharp fighting at Palermo, but I was always doing something then, and did not think of the danger. I don’t mind saying that I was in a blue funk just now.”

Garibaldi drove straight, as was the custom of kings on first entering Naples, to the palace of the archbishop. Here the Te Deum was sung; and he then went on to the palace of Angri, where he and his staff took up their quarters. Vast crowds assembled outside the palace, and the general had to appear again and again on the balcony in reply to the roars of acclamation from the enthusiastic population. General Cosenz, who was himself a Neapolitan, was appointed to organise a government. This he did to the general satisfaction—moderate men only being chosen. Garibaldi requested Admiral Persano in the name of Victor Emmanuel to take command of the Neapolitan navy, decreeing that it should form part of the Sardinian squadron; and appointed to the pro-dictatorship the Marquis of Pallavicini, a staunch friend of the king. He had offered Signor Forli an apartment in the palace, and as soon as the first excitement had ceased the latter said to Frank, who had at Salerno received the portmanteau he had left at Genoa:—

“Let us go out and see the state of the city. But before we do so, you had best put on your ordinary clothes: we should simply be mobbed if you were to go out as one of Garibaldi’s officers.”

“Yes; we have had quite enough of that as we came along,” Frank said. “It will really be a comfort to go about for once in peace and quiet.”

They started in a few minutes, leaving the palace by one of the side entrances, and soon mingled in the crowd. The people seemed half mad with delight. As soon as the news of Garibaldi’s arrival spread through the town every house was decorated, and the whole population poured out into the streets. Among the better classes the joy that the government of the Bourbons had come to an end, and that the constitutional government, which had done so much for Northern Italy, would succeed the despotism which had pressed so heavily on all with anything to lose, was deep and sincere. Among the lower classes the enthusiasm manifested was but the excitement of some few minutes, and had Francesco returned a month later, at the head of his victorious troops, they would have shouted as lustily.

It was a fête, a special fête, and it mattered but little to the fickle and excitable population what was its cause. But here, as on all occasions when Italian people give way to bursts of enthusiasm, foreigners were struck with the perfect good-temper, the orderly behaviour, and the entire absence of drunkenness, among the population. In Paris the first step of people excited by a change of government would have been to fall upon those whom they considered to be the agents of their oppressors. The gendarmes, who had so long been feared, would not have dared show themselves in the streets; the emblems of royalty would have been torn down in the public buildings; the members of the last government would have been forced to fly for their lives. There was a little of this in Naples, but, as in Venice, six years later, this feeling of animosity for the past speedily passed away.

But how faint was the feeling of real patriotism in the minds of the Neapolitans is shown by the fact that only one inhabitant of the city joined Garibaldi’s army; that not a single house was open for the reception of his officers or soldiers; that after the battle of Volturno hundreds of wounded men were left lying all day on the pavements without aid or nourishment, without a single mattress being found for them to lie upon, by the inhabitants. Never, except by the King of Italy and the civil and military authorities of Piedmont to Garibaldi and his followers, who had won a kingdom for them, was such national ingratitude displayed as by the people of Naples.

“It is pleasant to see,” Signor Forli said, as he and Frank wandered about; “but it would be far more pleasant if one did not know that it means absolutely nothing. You have told me that it was the same thing at Messina: that, in spite of Garibaldi’s appeal to the ladies of the place, they did nothing whatever to aid the wounded in the hospitals—never contributed so much as a piece of lint or material for bandages; and, frivolous as the people there are, these in Naples are worse. If all Italy were like the Neapolitans, the country would not be worth shedding a drop of blood for. However, one must make some allowances for them. For centuries they have been slaves rather than free people; they have had no voice as to their own disposal, they could not express even an opinion on public affairs, without risking imprisonment or death; there has been nothing left for them but to amuse themselves; they have been treated like children at school, and they have become children. We can only hope that in time, under a free government, they will grow worthy of freedom, worthy of forming a part of an Italy to which the Lombards, the Piedmontese, and the Calabrians belong.”

It was already late in the afternoon, and until some of the troops arrived it would be impossible to take any steps with relation to public buildings. The castle of St. Elmo, and the prison of Santa Maria, with many other places, were still in the hands of the Neapolitan soldiers, whose attitude continued to be hostile, and until these retired nothing could be done; and it was by no means certain that the guns at St. Elmo, which completely commanded the town, might not at any moment open fire.

“I can well understand your impatience to get rid of these troops from the city,” Garibaldi said the next morning. “I do not forget, Percival, the main object that you had in view, and I too long for the time when I may clasp the hand of my old comrade of South America and Rome. I promise you that the moment the prisons are evacuated you shall go with the party who will search them, and search them strictly. You know what these jailors are: they are the creatures of the worst men of Francesco’s government. By years of cruelty and oppression they have earned for themselves the hatred of every one within the walls of the prisons and of their friends and relatives. Our victory means their dismissal—that is, as soon as the prisons are cleaned from the lowest dungeons to the roofs. That they shall superintend: it is they who are responsible for it, and they themselves shall be engaged in the work of purification. It may well be that they will try to hide the lowest and worst dungeons from our search, partly from fear that the natural and righteous indignation excited by the discoveries may end in their being promptly punished with death for their accumulated crimes, partly in hopes that the royal troops may yet overcome us and restore Francesco to his throne; in which case they would receive approval for still retaining some of the worst victims of the tyranny of his government.”

“You may be sure that I shall search them thoroughly, general.”

On going out, they found the streets were still thronged by an almost frenzied populace. These invaded the hotels and cafés, and pressed all they could lay hands on to join in the demonstrations. A few murders were perpetrated; the state of things prevailing affording an excellent opportunity for satisfying private revenge, as it needed only a cry that the victim was a spy of the government to justify it in the eyes of the bystanders.

In the quarter nearest to St. Elmo the enthusiasm had a good deal cooled down, as the fear that the guns of the castle might at any moment open fire for the time dissipated any desire for marching about and acclaiming Garibaldi. At four o’clock, however, it was known that two officers of the castle had gone down to the palace, and at six the welcome news spread that the garrison had capitulated, and would march out on the following morning.

Frank had little sleep that night. All along his hopes had been high that he should find his father here; but now that the question would be so soon decided, his fears were in the ascendant. He remembered that the evidence in favour of his father’s death was extremely strong, the only hopeful fact being that his body had not been discovered. So slight did even his mother and Signora Forli deem the chance of his being alive, that for two years neither had breathed a word to the other as to the existence of a possibility that he might be still living. Undoubtedly the release of his grandfather had increased his own hope, but he felt now that there was but small ground for the feeling. Had his father been hidden away in a fortress, he might also have survived; but the probabilities seemed altogether against this. It was not until midday that St. Elmo was evacuated, and several companies of the national guard marched in. A colonel of the staff had, with Frank, been charged with the duty of searching the dungeons. They had brought with them fifty lazzaroni, who had been engaged for this repulsive work. A dozen of the Garibaldian troops were to accompany them; the prison officials were all ordered to go with the party, and they, as well as the lazzaroni, were told to bring pails and brooms.

The castle of St. Elmo covers an area of no less than four acres; it was cut out of the solid rock, and is surrounded by a sunken ditch, sixty or seventy feet deep, and fifty wide. This great mass of stone is honeycombed in every direction with a network of corridors and subterranean apartments, and there is ample space to hold several thousand prisoners. The upper tiers of chambers were fairly clean; these were, in fact, the barracks of the troops. The guns looked out from embrasures. Several batteries of field artillery, with waggons and all fittings, still remained there, and the chambers were littered with rubbish of all kinds, discarded by the troops before leaving. It was not here that prisoners were to be found. The national guard had already opened the doors of the cells and chambers in the stage below, and had liberated those confined there; the work of searching those still lower began at once. The extent was so vast and the windings were so intricate that the work seemed interminable. In order to make sure that each passage had been searched, a pail of whitewash was sent for, and a splash made at each turning. Each story was darker, and the air more stifling, than that above it, for they were now far below the level of the castle itself.

Frank had taken the advice of Signor Forli, and had bought several bundles of the strongest cigars; and he and the officer in command, the officer of the national guard who attended them and the soldiers all smoked incessantly. At the worst places the lazzaroni and turnkeys were set to work with their buckets and brooms. It was not until late in the evening that they came to the conclusion that every cell and chamber had been searched. About a hundred and fifty prisoners had been found and released, but among them Frank looked in vain for his father. The lowest dungeons of all had been found empty; and this, and the solemn assurances of all the prison officials, who had been threatened with instant death should further search discover any prisoners, convinced him that at any rate his father was not there.

The next day the neighbouring prison of Santa Maria was searched. It had formerly been a monastery, and the upper cells were lofty and capacious. The jailors declared, indeed, that these were the only cells, but a careful search showed a door in the rock. This was burst open, and a series of subterranean passages was discovered. The jailors declared that these had never been used in their time, and, they believed, never before. That they had been used, however, was evident, from the marks where lamps had been hung on the walls, and by many other signs. No prisoners were found here, all having been released directly it was known that the garrison of the castle had capitulated. The search occupied the whole day, so extensive were the underground galleries; and a passage was discovered that evidently at one time formed a communication between St. Elmo and this prison. As he came out into daylight, Frank staggered, and would have fallen had not one of the soldiers caught him. He had been ill the night before; and the effects of the close air, noxious smells, and the work, which had been even more trying than on the previous day, and his bitter disappointment, had now completely overcome him. After some water had been dashed in his face and he had taken a draught of some wine which one of the prison officials fetched, he partially recovered. He was assisted by two of the Garibaldians down the road to the town, and then, obtaining a vehicle, was driven to the palace, and managed with assistance to get up to his apartment. A minute or two later Signor Forli joined him, one of the attendants having summoned him as soon as Frank arrived.

“Do not trouble to speak, my dear boy,” he said. Frank was lying on the bed sobbing convulsively. “You have failed—that I can well understand; but you must not altogether lose heart. We had thought this the most likely place; but there are still other prisons, and we will not give up hope until every one of these has been ransacked. I am sorry now that I did not accompany you, but I am afraid, after what I have gone through myself, that only a few minutes in one of those places would overpower me; and I wonder how you, young and strong as you are, were able to spend two days in such an atmosphere.”

“I shall be better to-morrow,” Frank said. “That last place was awful; but I think that it was as much the strong tobacco, as those horrible stinks, which upset me. It was a choice of two evils; but I would smoke even worse tobacco if I could get it, if I had to go through it again.”

“I will get you a glass of brandy and water, Frank; that will do you more good than anything.”

The next morning Frank was still too unwell to be able to get up; his failure had completely broken him down, and he felt indisposed to make the slightest exertion. At twelve o’clock, however, Signor Forli came in.

“I have a piece of news to give you,” he said, “news which affords us some shadow of hope that you have not failed altogether. Last night I was talking with the general and one or two of his staff. Garibaldi is, as you know, intensely interested in your search, and sympathises with you most warmly. Suddenly he said, ‘Is it not possible that he may have been removed before the king and his court retired?’ Had Percival been found in the prisons, it would have rendered the bad faith and mendacity of the government more glaring than ever, and would have deprived it of any little sympathy that was felt for it in England. Therefore, feeling sure that the prisons would be searched as soon as I entered, Percival, had he been here, may, with other special prisoners, have been sent to Capua, which is so strongly fortified a place that they may well believe it to be impregnable to anything but a long siege by troops possessing a battering train.”

“IT WAS NOT UNTIL NULLO ORDERED FOUR MEN TO LOAD ... THAT HE WOULD ANSWER”

Frank sat up. “That is indeed a good idea,” he exclaimed. “How stupid of me not to have thought of questioning the prison people! Yes; it is quite likely that if any of the prisoners were removed, he would be one of them.”

“I have no doubt you would have thought of it, Frank, if it had not been that you were completely upset by that strong tobacco. Mind, I don’t blame you for taking it: it is better to be poisoned with nicotine than by the stenches of a Neapolitan prison. The thought only struck Garibaldi after we had chatted over the matter for some time. I went over there this morning with Colonel Nullo. Although the officials at first asserted that no prisoners had been taken away, they soon recovered their memories when he said that he would interrogate every one of the warders separately, and if he found that any prisoners had been sent away he would have them taken out into the courtyard and shot for lying to him. They then remembered that four prisoners had been taken away, but all declared with adjurations to all the saints that they did not know who they were: they were delivered over to them under numbers only. One had been there seven years, and two had been there five years, and one two years. Again threatening to examine all the turnkeys, he learned that the last prisoner received had been confined in one of the lower dungeons, where they yesterday asserted that no one had for years been imprisoned; the other three were also kept in the most rigid seclusion, but in the upper cells.

“I insisted on seeing the man who had attended on the prisoner kept in the lower cell. He was a surly ruffian, and it was not until Nullo ordered four men to load, and to put the fellow with his back to the wall, that he would answer my questions. He said then that the prisoner was, he should say, between forty and fifty, but it was not easy to judge of age after a man had been below there for a few months. He had never said more than a few words to him, and it had never struck him that he was not an Italian. I questioned him more closely as to this, and he admitted that he had sometimes, when he went down, heard the prisoner singing. He had listened, but could not understand the words, and they might have been in a foreign language. He had no more interest in that prisoner than in any other. He supposed, by his being sent down below there, that it was hoped he would die off as soon as possible. They seldom lived many months in those dungeons, but this man seemed tougher than usual, though his strength had failed a good deal lately. He was able to walk up from his cell to the carriage when he was taken away. Now we mustn’t feel too sanguine, Frank, but although there is no proof that this prisoner is your father, the evidence, so far as it goes, is rather in favour of such a supposition than against it.”

“It is indeed,” Frank said eagerly. “The fact that they put him down into the cells where, as the man says, it was almost certain he would soon die, and that when it was found that he had not done so, he was at the last moment taken away, shows that there was some very strong motive for preventing the fact that he was a prisoner becoming public; and we know that they had the very strongest reason in the case of my father. The age would be about right, and the fact that he was singing would show, at any rate, that it was some one who was determined not to give in, but to keep up his spirits till the very last, and I am sure my father would have done that. Well, I will get up now. I could not lie here quietly; it would be impossible, after what you have been telling me.”

“I think you are right, Frank. I will have a basin of soup sent in for you. When you have eaten that, and dressed, we will take a carriage and go for a long drive by the road along the shore to Pompeii. The sea-breeze will do you more good than anything, and the lovely view, and a stroll through Pompeii itself, will distract your thoughts. There is nothing to be done until Capua is taken, which may not be for a long time yet. However, events are moving. We hear that Victor Emmanuel and his government, alarmed at the success of Garibaldi, and feeling that if they are to have any voice in the matter they must not be content to rest passive while he is carrying all before him, have resolved upon taking some part in the affair. Under the pretext that in order to restore peace and order it is necessary that they should interfere, they are about to despatch an army to Ancona by sea; and, landing there, will advance into Central Italy, and act, as they say, as circumstances may demand. All of which means, that now Garibaldi has pulled the chestnuts out of the fire for them they will proceed to appropriate them.”

“It is too bad!” Frank exclaimed angrily.

“No doubt it is mean and ungracious in the extreme, but Garibaldi will not feel it as other men would; he is human, and therefore he would like to present the Kingdom of Naples and the States of Rome, free from the foreigner, to Victor Emmanuel. But that feeling, natural as it is, is but secondary to his loyalty to Italy. He desires to see her one under Victor Emmanuel, and so long as that end is achieved he cares comparatively little how it comes about. Moreover, he cannot but see that, though he has accomplished marvels, that which remains to be done would tax the power of his army to the utmost. The Neapolitans have still some seventy thousand men, who are encouraged by their king being among them. They have in Capua a most formidable fortress, which could defy the efforts of irregular troops, wholly unskilled in sieges and deficient in heavy guns, for many months. Moreover, it would no longer be mountain warfare, but we should have to fight in plains where the enemy’s cavalry would give them an enormous advantage. There is another thing: the intrigues of Cavour’s agents here are already giving him very serious trouble, and this will doubtless increase; therefore I can well understand that he will be glad rather than otherwise that Sardinia at last should do her part towards the freeing of Italy, from which she will benefit so vastly.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BATTLE OF THE VOLTURNO.

BEFORE starting for his drive Frank telegraphed to his mother: “Have not found him here. I do not yet despair. Have a faint clue that may lead to something.”

That evening he wrote a long letter, acknowledging that he had been bitterly disappointed, but saying that Signor Forli had found out that some of the prisoners had been sent away to Capua before Garibaldi entered the town, and that he still hoped his father might be among the number. He gave no detail as to these prisoners, for he was anxious not to raise hopes that might not be fulfilled; indeed, he had in all his letters said little on the subject. He knew his mother had refused to allow herself to cherish any hope, and he had written almost entirely of matters concerning the events of the march, the country through which he had travelled, and the scenes in which he had taken a part. He and Signor Forli had at Salerno received long letters from home full of the delight which the news of the discovery and release of the latter had given them. His mother had said:—

“This is a joy indeed, my boy—one that I had never expected, or even hoped for. But do not let yourself anticipate for a moment that because this unlooked-for happiness has been given to us our other dear lost one will similarly be recovered. That my father had been thrown into a Neapolitan prison we never doubted for a moment; and I believed that, should he have survived, Garibaldi’s success would open his prison doors. But it is not so in the case of your father. The evidence is almost overwhelming that he died in the hands of the brigands who carried him off, and nothing short of knowing that he is alive will induce me to abandon the conviction I have all along felt that this was so. I pray you not to indulge in any false hopes, which can but end in bitter disappointment. You will, of course, search until absolutely convinced that he is not in any of the prisons of the country. The search will at least have been useful, for it will remove the last dread which, in spite of myself, I have occasionally felt ever since he has been missing, that he has been wearing his life out in one of these horrible dungeons.”

The next ten days passed slowly. Frank and the other members of the staff had bought fresh horses a few days after the capture of Reggio; and he was now constantly in the saddle, carrying messages between Garibaldi’s headquarters and the army. Garibaldi himself had been distracted by the intrigues going on around him, and had been obliged to go to Sicily. Depretis, who had been appointed head of the government there, was inclined to the annexational policy, which was opposed by Crispi and the other Garibaldians, and the consequence was that an alarming state of affairs existed there. Garibaldi was therefore obliged to hurry over there himself, and having appointed Mordeni, a determined partisan of his own, pro-dictator, and arranged affairs generally, he returned to Naples, where his presence was urgently required.

The Neapolitan army at Capua had been very largely reinforced, and had taken post along the river Volturno. Turr, who was in command of the Garibaldian army, had in consequence, taken up a defensive position at Madelone, Caserta and Aversa, thereby barring any advance on the part of the royal army. The latter’s position was an extremely formidable one: its right rested on Gaeta near the sea, and forty thousand men were massed on the right bank of the Volturno, a river which was here from fifty to a hundred yards in width, their left was at Cajazzo, in the mountains of the Abruzzi, where the inhabitants were favourable to the royal cause.

Capua itself, on the left bank of the river, afforded them a means of moving forward to the attack of the Garibaldians. Three sides of its fortifications were surrounded by the river, which here makes a great loop, and around the town twenty thousand men were massed, one half of whom were in position in front of it. The only bridge across the river was at Capua, but there was a ferry near Caserta. The position was so threatening that Turr, who had under him about seventeen thousand men, pushed a force up to the town of Santa Maria and the heights of Sant’Angelo, both of which points were occupied after a skirmish.

On the 17th, six hundred men were sent off to march far up the river, to cross it, and to throw themselves into the mountains above Cajazzo, which was occupied by two thousand two hundred men with four guns. Garibaldi arrived at Caserta on the night of the 18th, but did not interfere with Turr’s command. In order to attract the attention of the enemy, and keep them from sending reinforcements to Cajazzo, it was arranged that a feint should be made against Capua: two battalions were to advance from Aversa to menace the southwest of that town, six battalions were to advance directly against it from Santa Maria, and Ebor’s brigade was to march to Sant’Angelo, and then to drive the Neapolitans on their left into Capua, and to extend on the right along the hills as far as the road to Cajazzo.

The movement was completely successful. Cajazzo was captured, and the force in front of Capua obliged to retire under the guns of the citadel. Some loss, however, was sustained, owing to the division from Santa Maria, instead of returning as soon as the work was done, being kept for four hours under the fire of the guns of the fortress, owing to a misconception of orders. The positions now taken were occupied in strength. The next day, six hundred and fifty men were sent off to Cajazzo to strengthen the small force of three hundred there, as the place was attacked by no fewer than twelve thousand Neapolitan troops. Although without artillery, the town was desperately defended for four hours. The barricades at the end of the main streets were held, in spite of repeated attacks and the fire from eight guns. Not until two hundred of the little force had fallen, did the Garibaldians fall back, and they succeeded in crossing the river at the ferry, covered by two companies and a couple of guns, which had been posted at that point to prevent the Neapolitans from crossing.

There was an interval now: the Garibaldians were far too weak to attack their numerous enemy, posted in an almost impregnable position. Garibaldi was so much harassed by the political intriguers, that he left Caserta every morning long before daybreak, and remained the whole day at a cottage on the heights of San Antonio. He had already done all in his power to satisfy the royal party that he had no intention of favouring a republic. Bertram, who had done so much for him as chief organiser and agent, was requested to leave Rome. Mazzini also was sent away, and other appointments were made, showing how bent he was on handing over his conquest to Victor Emmanuel. There can be no doubt now that it would have been far better had he from the first abandoned his wish not to present his conquests to the king until they were completed. Had he, on his arrival at Messina, at once declared Victor Emmanuel king of the island, and requested him to take possession, he would have allayed the jealousy and suspicion with which his movements were viewed by Cavour and the Piedmontese ministry.

A similar course, as soon as Naples was occupied, would have had a still greater effect, and both Garibaldi himself and his brave followers would have been spared the bitter humiliations and the gross display of ingratitude, which, however, disgraced those who inflicted them far more than those so undeservedly treated.

Turr remained idle during the next six days, and beyond throwing up two or three small intrenchments, did nothing to strengthen the position. In fact, it was daily becoming more probable that there would be no further fighting. Cialdini’s division had landed near Alcona, had defeated the army of Lamoriciere, and was advancing westwards without opposition. Fanti, with another army, had crossed the northern frontier of the Neapolitan territory, and was marching south. Thus, in a short time, the Neapolitans would be surrounded by three armies, and would be forced to lay down their arms.

On the 29th it became evident that a considerable movement was in progress on the other side of the river and fort. Forty thousand men were being concentrated at Capua and Cajazzo.

Garibaldi’s force, available in case of attack, was about twenty-four thousand men, of whom thirteen thousand were Northern Italians, eleven thousand Calabrians and Sicilians, and one inhabitant of Naples. Of these, two thousand five hundred were with Conti at Aversa, and over seven thousand at Caserta; the remainder being at Santa Maria, Sant’Angelo, the village of Santa Lucia, and Madalone. The position occupied was nearly thirty miles long, but the reserves at Caserta and Madalone, lying behind the centre, could be despatched speedily to any point required. Frank had come out with Garibaldi to Caserta, and spent the whole of his time riding between the different points occupied, with communications from Garibaldi to his generals.

At three o’clock on the morning of October 1st, Garibaldi started as usual for the front. Frank, with two or three of the younger staff-officers, rode, and three carriages carried the general and the older members of the staff. They had scarcely left the town when a scattered fire of musketry was heard near Santa Maria. This rapidly increased in volume; and soon afterwards the guns at Sant’Angelo opened vigorously. When approaching the town, a mounted soldier, riding at a furious gallop, overtook them. He was the bearer of a message that a telegram had just been received from Bixio, who was in command at Madalone, saying that he was being assailed in great force. This was even more serious than the attack in front, for, if successful, it would have cut the communication between the Garibaldians and Naples.

Galloping on to Santa Maria, Garibaldi sent a telegram to Sartori, who commanded at Caserta, to tell him to hold a brigade in readiness to support Bixio if the latter was pressed; and that Turr, with the rest of the reserves, was to hold himself in readiness to move to the front, but was only to send forward a single brigade, till quite assured of Bixio’s success. At Santa Maria were the greater part of the old cacciatori, with four thousand other good troops, and Garibaldi felt confident that the town was in no danger of being taken. He accordingly started at once for Sant’Angelo, which was the key of his position. Morning had broken now, but a heavy mist, rising from the low ground near the river, rendered it impossible to see more than a few yards. The din of conflict was prodigious. The Garibaldian guns at Santa Maria kept up a desultory fire, answered by those of the Neapolitans, and the rattle of musketry was incessant ahead, and, as it seemed, the fight was raging all round; but it was impossible to tell whether Santa Lucia and other posts to the right were also attacked. Suddenly a volley was fired from an invisible enemy within a hundred yards. The balls whistled overhead.

“This is uncomfortable,” Frank said to the officer riding next to him. “They have evidently broken through our line connecting Sant’Angelo with Santa Maria. If we had had a few earthworks thrown up this would not have happened. Now they will be able to take Sant’Angelo in rear; and, what is much more important, we may at any moment run right into the middle of them, and the loss of Garibaldi would be more serious than that of all our positions put together.”

The Neapolitans had indeed issued out in three columns. One of them, pushing out under cover of the deep water-courses, had broken through the weak line, had captured a battery of four guns and a barricade, and had then mounted one of the spurs of Tifata and taken Sant’Angelo in rear; while a second column, attacking it in front, had captured another four-gun battery and a barricade two hundred and fifty yards below the village on the Capua road, and had taken two or three hundred prisoners, the rest of Medici’s division taking up their position in and around the abbey, which stood on the hillside above the village.

Three of the guides, who had accompanied Garibaldi to carry messages, and the three mounted staff officers, took their place in front of the carriages in readiness to charge should they come suddenly upon the enemy, and so give time to their occupants to escape. The horses were all galloping at full speed; and though occasionally caught sight of by the enemy, and exposed to a fire, not only of musketry but of round shot, they remained uninjured until two-thirds of the distance to Sant’Angelo, which Garibaldi believed to be still in possession of his troops, had been covered. Presently, however, they saw, but sixty or seventy yards away, a strong body of Neapolitans on the road.

“Turn off to the right!” Garibaldi shouted. As the carriage left the road a round shot struck one of the horses. Garibaldi and the other occupants at once jumped out, and shouting to the carriages behind to follow them, ran across the fields. Fortunately there was a deep watercourse close by; and the others, leaving their carriages, all ran down into this. The mist was too thick for the movement to be observed, and the Neapolitans kept up a heavy fire in the direction in which they had seen the carriages through the mist. As soon as they entered the watercourse Garibaldi told Frank and his companions to dismount, as, although the bank was high enough to conceal the men on foot, those on horseback could be seen above it. All ran along at the top of their speed. As they did so, Frank told his companions and the guides, if they came upon any force of the enemy, to throw themselves into their saddles again and charge, so as to give time to the general to turn off and escape.

They had gone but a few hundred yards when a party of the enemy, who were standing on the left bank of the watercourse, ran suddenly down into it. Frank and the others sprang into their saddles, and with a shout rode at them; there was a hurried discharge of musketry, and then they were in the midst of the Neapolitans. These were but some twenty in number. They had already emptied their muskets, but for a minute there was a hand-to-hand contest. The horsemen first used their revolvers with deadly effect, and then fell on with their swords so fiercely that the survivors of their opponents scrambled out of the watercourse and fled, just as Garibaldi and his staff ran up to take part in the conflict. It was well for the general that he had found the road to the village blocked, for, had he ridden straight on, he must have been captured by the enemy, who were already in full possession of it, with the exception of the abbey church and a few houses round it, and the slope of the hill.

Two of the mounted party were missing. One of the guides had fallen when the Neapolitans fired, and an officer had been killed by the thrust of a bayonet. One of Garibaldi’s party was also missing; but whether he had been killed by a chance shot or had fallen behind and been taken prisoner none knew. As they ascended the slope of the hill they got above the mist, and could now see what had happened. A part of the column that had broken through the line of outposts had pressed on some distance, and then moved to its left, until in the rear of Sant’Angelo, where its attack had taken the defenders wholly by surprise. The force had then mounted the hill, and from there opened fire upon the defenders of the abbey and the houses round it.

These were stoutly held. The houses were solidly-built structures in which resided the priests and servitors of the church, and the only road leading up from the village to it was swept by two twenty-four-pounders, while from the windows of the houses and from the roof of the abbey a steady musketry fire was maintained. Garibaldi ordered Frank to gallop to the pass, a short distance behind the village, where two companies of Genoese carbineers and two mountain howitzers were posted, and to direct them to mount the hill and take up a position on the heights above that occupied by the enemy. With a cheer the men ran forward as soon as they received the order. Ignorant of what was taking place in front, but certain from the roar of battle that it was raging round the village, they had been eager to advance to take part in the struggle; but their orders to hold the pass had been imperative, as their presence here was indispensable to cover the retreat of the Garibaldians in Sant’Angelo, and to check pursuit until reinforcements came up from the rear.

The movement was unobserved by the enemy, who were fully occupied in their attempts to capture the abbey; and it was not until the two companies were established on a ridge well above that occupied by the Neapolitans, and opened a heavy musketry fire, aided by their two guns, that the latter were aware that they had been taken in rear. Their position was altogether untenable, as they were unable to reply effectively to the fire of their opponents, and, descending the slopes, they joined their comrades in the village. Several desperate attacks were made upon the abbey, but each was repulsed with heavy loss; and as the carbineers had now moved lower down, and their guns commanded the village, the Neapolitans lost heart and fell back.

A battalion of Garibaldi’s bersaglieri now came up. They were commanded by Colonel Wyndham, and occupied the village as the Neapolitans fell back, quickened their retreat, and then, descending to the four-gun battery that had first been taken, turned the guns, which the enemy had forgotten to spike, upon them.

In the meantime the fighting had been fierce round Santa Maria. At first the Garibaldians had been hard pressed, and the Neapolitans had carried all before them, until they came under the fire of the batteries placed on the railway and in front of the gate facing Capua. These were well served, and although the assailants several times advanced with both cavalry and infantry, they never succeeded in getting within a hundred yards of the guns. The left wing, however, swept round the town, and captured all the out-buildings, except a farmhouse, which was gallantly defended by a company of Frenchmen.

On the right the Neapolitans fared still more badly, for when their attack upon the battery failed, the Garibaldian force at San Tamaro, nearly three thousand five hundred strong, advanced and took them in flank, and drove them back with heavy loss. By eight o’clock the attack had ceased all along the line; but as the enemy, while falling back, preserved good order, no attempt was made to follow them.

The battle had lasted four hours, and the Garibaldians were now strengthened by the arrival of a brigade with four guns from Caserta, where the news had just arrived that Bixio was confident of being able to hold his ground at Madalone. Two of the newly-arrived regiments were ordered to endeavour to reopen communications with Sant’Angelo, and fighting went on with the force still threatening Santa Maria; these, after suffering heavy loss, the Garibaldians, at ten o’clock, drove some distance back, and captured three guns and many prisoners.

At eleven a fresh attack was made, Count Trani, one of the King’s brothers, having brought some fresh battalions from the town. This attack was also repulsed, the Garibaldians maintaining their strong positions. But the Neapolitan troops were still full of spirit, and at a quarter-past one made another determined effort: their field batteries advanced within three hundred yards of the town, and their cavalry charged almost up to the railway battery, but were received with so heavy an infantry fire by the troops protecting the guns, that they were forced to fall back. The infantry, however, pressed on, covered by a storm of fire from their field artillery, while the guns of Capua aided them by firing shell into the town. The Garibaldians serving the guns at the gate and at the railway suffered very heavily, but volunteers from the infantry regiments took their place, although at one time their fire was arrested by the explosion of a magazine which killed many of the men, and dismounted two or three of the guns.

All this time, fighting was going on fiercely round Sant’Angelo. The two regiments that had been sent out from Santa Maria to open communications with the village had been unable to effect their object, the enemy’s force being too strong for them to move far from the town. At eleven o’clock, the Neapolitans being largely reinforced, made a fresh attack on the battery and barricades in front of Sant’Angelo, and an obstinate struggle took place here; but superior force triumphed, and the royal troops again captured the battery, killing or taking prisoners almost the whole of the force that defended it.

Infantry and cavalry then advanced against the village; but the Garibaldians, having their leader among them, fought with extraordinary bravery, and for three hours maintained themselves, as did those in the abbey, although the enemy brought up their cannon and rocket batteries to within a short distance of it. The walls of the abbey were, however, so massive that even the artillery failed to make much impression upon them. Seeing that the assault upon Santa Maria had been repulsed, Garibaldi sallied out with his entire force, retook the houses that had been captured by the enemy, drove them back to the battery, and at last captured this also. Knowing that some of the reserve would soon be up, Garibaldi at half-past two rode out from the rear of Sant’Angelo, and making a wide détour, entered Santa Maria, and at once ordered a general advance. Ebor’s brigade sallied out by the Capua gate, and advanced against the Carthusian convent and cemetery on the Capuan road, while a brigade moved out to endeavour once more to clear the way to Sant’Angelo.

The former attack was successful. A small squadron of Hungarian hussars charged three squadrons of the enemy’s dragoons, defeated them, and captured the two guns that accompanied them. The infantry went on at a run, but it required an hour’s hard fighting to gain possession of the convent and cemetery. By this time five thousand men with thirteen guns had arrived from Caserta, and the advance became general. Medici issued out from Sant’Angelo, and the whole force from Santa Maria advanced, the Neapolitans falling back from all points; and by five o’clock the whole had re-entered Capua, abandoning all their positions outside it, and the Garibaldian sentries were posted along the edge of a wood half a mile from the ramparts. Until the arrival of the five thousand men of the reserve, the Garibaldians had throughout the day, although but nine thousand five hundred strong, maintained themselves successfully against thirty thousand men supported by a powerful artillery.

At Madalone Bixio had routed seven thousand men who had advanced against his position, and had captured four guns. The only reverse sustained was at Castel Morone, which was garrisoned by only two hundred and twenty-seven men of one of Garibaldi’s bersaglieri regiments. They held out for some hours against a Neapolitan column three thousand strong, and then, having expended all their ammunition, were obliged to surrender. The battle of the Volturno cost the Garibaldians one thousand two hundred and eighty killed and wounded, and seven hundred taken prisoners, while the enemy lost about two thousand five hundred killed and wounded, five hundred prisoners, and nine guns. At two o’clock a detachment of Sardinian artillery, which, with a regiment of bersaglieri, had been landed a few days before at Garibaldi’s request, had arrived at Santa Maria, and did good service by taking the places of the gunners who had been almost annihilated by the enemy’s fire. The bersaglieri did not arrive at Caserta till the battle was over. Wearied by the day’s fight, the Garibaldians, as soon as the long work of searching for and bringing in the wounded was over, lay down to sleep.

Frank and the two other aides-de-camp of Garibaldi were, however, aroused, within an hour of their lying down. The news had arrived that the Neapolitan column, which had captured Castel Morone had suddenly appeared on the heights above Caserta: their number was estimated at three thousand. Orders were sent to Bixio to occupy a strong position. Columns were directed to start from Sant’Angelo and Santa Maria for Caserta, while another brigade was to reinforce the garrison of Santa Lucia. At two in the morning Garibaldi himself started for Caserta, and moved out with two thousand five hundred Calabrians and four companies of Piedmontese bersaglieri. The latter soon found themselves obliged to take off their knapsacks, hats, and useless accoutrements, finding themselves, picked men as they were, unable to keep up with the Garibaldians, clad only in shirt and trousers, and carrying nothing but ninety rounds of ammunition.

There was but little fighting. The Garibaldians lost but seven or eight men, among whom were three Piedmontese, who were the first men of the Sardinian army to shed their blood for the emancipation of Naples. By evening over two thousand five hundred prisoners were taken, and this number was doubled in the course of the next few days by the capture of a large portion of the force which, after being defeated by Bixio in their attempt to seize Madalone, had scattered over the country pillaging and burning. Thus, including the fugitives who escaped, the Neapolitan army was weakened by the loss of nearly ten thousand men. The explanation of the singular attack upon Caserta, after the defeat of the Neapolitan army, was that, after capturing Castel Morone, their commander had received a despatch stating that a complete defeat had been inflicted on Garibaldi, and urging him to cut off the retreat of the fugitives by occupying Caserta.

Now that the work was over, and that there was nothing to be done until the royal army advanced from Ancona, and, brushing aside all opposition, arrived to undertake the siege of Capua, Frank broke down. He had not fully recovered from the effects of the two long days spent in the pestilential atmosphere of the prisons; but had stuck to his work until the Neapolitans surrendered; then he rode up to Garibaldi, and said,—

“General, I must ask you to spare me from my duties, for I feel so strangely giddy that I can scarce keep my seat.”

“You look ill, lad. Hand your horse over to one of the guides. I have sent for my carriage; it will be up in a few minutes. Sit down in the shade of that tree. I will take you down to Caserta with me, and one of Bixio’s doctors shall see you at once.”

On arriving at Caserta, the doctor at once pronounced that it was a case of malarial fever, the result of the miasma from the low ground, increased, no doubt, by over-fatigue. Garibaldi immediately ordered another carriage to be brought round, instructed two of his men to take their places in it with Frank, and despatched a telegram to Professor Forli at Naples, telling him to have four men in readiness to carry him up to his room as soon as he reached the palace, and to have a doctor in waiting. Frank was almost unconscious by the time he arrived at the city. Everything was ready, and he was soon undressed and in bed, ice applied to his head, and a draught of medicine poured down his throat. In a week the fever left him, but he was so much weakened that it was another fortnight before he could move about again unassisted.

“You have lost nothing: things have been very quiet,” his grandfather said. “To-day the voting takes place. Of course that is a mere farce, and the country will declare for Victor Emmanuel by a thousand votes to one. Medici has been occupied in putting down an insurrection in the mountains, and Cialdini has won two battles on his way west; and a large Piedmontese force has landed here, and undertaken the work of the garrison.”

“How long will it be before Cialdini arrives with his army before Capua?”

“I should think that it would be another week.”

“I must be able to go forward again by that time,” Frank said. “I must be at Capua when it is taken.”

“I quite understand your feelings, and I am eager to be there myself; but we must have patience. The Neapolitans have withdrawn their forces from Cajazzo, and the country round, into the town. There are now some nine thousand men there, and if the commander is obstinate he ought to be able to defend the place for some months. Still I grant that obstinacy has not been the strong point of the Neapolitan generals hitherto; though it must be said that their troops fought gallantly the other day, coming back again and again to the attack. But the commander of the town, however brave he may be, must see that even if he can hold out for the next ten years he would not benefit Francesco. The game is already hopelessly lost. The Garibaldians, single-handed, have proved themselves capable of defeating the Neapolitan troops; and with the army that Cialdini has brought from Ancona, and that which has marched down from the north, the cause is beyond hope. The army now in Gaeta and the garrison of Capua alone remain in arms; and I should say that, ere another fortnight has passed, Francesco is likely to have left this country for ever.”

“Quite so, grandfather,” Frank replied; “that is what I have been thinking for the last week, and that is why I am so anxious to go forward again as soon as possible.”

“That you shall certainly do; at any rate you have a few more days to stay here, then we will get a carriage and go to Santa Lucia, lying high in the mountains. The change to the splendid air there will benefit you, while a stay at Santa Maria or Caserta would at once throw you back.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

CAPUA.

GARIBALDI had been remaining quietly at Caserta when, on the 24th, he received a message from Cialdini inviting him to cross the river and be in readiness to co-operate in a general action, which might possibly be brought on the next day. A bridge had to be thrown over the Volturno, but at five the following morning he crossed with five thousand men. He found that a strong Neapolitan force had fallen back, in the direction of Gaeta, on the previous evening. Missori was sent on with the guides to reconnoitre, and at Teano found the escort of the Neapolitan general, who had gone on to hold a conference with Cialdini. At five in the evening Garibaldi advanced eight miles farther in that direction, and bivouacked in the open air for the night. Scarcely had he resumed his march, at daybreak the next morning, when he met the advance-guard of the Piedmontese. The force marched off the road and encamped while Garibaldi and his staff rode on to meet the king and his general.

The latter was first encountered, and the heartiest greeting was exchanged between him and Garibaldi, for they were old friends. They then rode together to meet Victor Emmanuel, whose greeting with Garibaldi was extremely cordial. They rode together till the afternoon; Garibaldi went with his column to Calvi, and on the 28th retired to Caserta. On the news reaching Naples, Frank, who by this time had almost recovered, drove to Santa Lucia. The Piedmontese and Garibaldians had now taken up their position on the south side of Capua, the former occupying their old positions at Santa Maria and Sant’Angelo, while the Piedmontese occupied the ground between the former town and La Forresta; the Piedmontese general, Delia Rocca, being in command of the whole. The troops were at once set to work to construct batteries, and a strong chain of outposts was pushed forward to within five hundred yards of the fortifications, to check the frequent sorties made by the Neapolitans. The latter were still resolute, and several fierce fights took place. At four o’clock in the afternoon of November 1st the batteries opened fire, and the guns of the fortress replied vigorously, the bombardment being maintained until dark. Preparations were made for an assault on the following morning. In the evening, however, the Swiss general, Du Cornet, sent in to capitulate, and his surrender was accepted on the condition that he and his garrison should be allowed to march out with the honours of war. Frank and the professor had driven early that morning from Santa Lucia, and had taken up their post high up on Mount Tifata, whence they could obtain a view of the city and surrounding country.

They drove back when the bombardment ceased. Early the next morning they set out again, and, meeting an officer, were informed that Capua had surrendered. Signor Forli had two days previously gone down to Caserta and seen Garibaldi, and had asked him to give Frank a letter of introduction to General Cialdini, requesting him to allow him to enter with the first party to search the prisons of Capua.

“That I will do right willingly,” Garibaldi said. “Indeed, as I rode with him two days ago, we naturally talked over the past; and I mentioned to him that I in no small degree owed the success of my expedition to the large sum of money sent to me by Madame Percival, the wife of the gentleman whose murder by brigands had created so much stir two and a half years ago. He remembered the circumstances perfectly; and I told him that her son had accompanied me throughout, and had greatly distinguished himself, even among the gallant men who accompanied me. I mentioned to him that he had still hopes that his father had not been murdered, and might be found in a Neapolitan prison, and gave him his reason for hoping that he might yet be found in Capua. I need not, therefore, write a long letter.”

The general at once sat down and wrote a note to Cialdini, introducing Frank to him, and asking that he might be nominated to accompany the officer charged with the duty of examining the prisons of Capua. As soon, therefore, as they learned that the garrison had capitulated, Signor Forli and Frank drove to La Fortuna, where Cialdini’s headquarters were. Frank sent in his card and Garibaldi’s letter, and after waiting a few minutes was shown into his room.

“I am glad to see you, Captain Percival,” the governor said warmly. “Garibaldi was speaking to me of you in the highest terms, and interested me much in the quest you are making for your father. A party of our troops will enter the town to take possession of the magazines, and see that order is maintained until the evacuation of the town by the garrison, which will indeed commence this afternoon. I shall myself be entering in a couple of hours’ time; and the best way will be for you to ride in with me. I will provide you with a horse; and it will save time and relieve you of your anxiety if I send an officer with you to the prisons, ordering that you shall at once have every facility given you for ascertaining whether your father is among those confined there.”

“I thank you greatly, general,” Frank said. “I will not trouble you about the horse, but will, with your permission, drive in in the carriage I have outside. My mother’s father, whom I found in prison at Reggio, is with me; and should I be happy enough to find my father, we can then take him away at once.”

“Very well, we will arrange it so. Colonel Pasta, please write out an order to the governor of the state prisons in Capua to offer every facility to Captain Percival to visit the jails and inspect the prisoners, with power to liberate his father at once should he find him there. It will save trouble altogether if, when we enter the town, you at once ride with his carriage to the prisons, and see that this order is complied with. You will also, before you set out, give orders to the officer commanding the escort to allow the carriage to follow him.

“I heartily wish you success in your search,” he said, turning to Frank, and again shook him warmly by the hand.

Signor Forli was much pleased when Frank told him the result of his interview. “However, my dear Frank,” he said, “I pray you not to allow yourself to be buoyed up with any strong hope: if you do you may only be bitterly disappointed. You must remember, too, that even should we not find him here, we may discover him at Gaeta.”

“I will try not to let myself hope too much,” Frank replied; “but at the same time I own that the description you obtained of one of the prisoners sent on here from Naples has given me a strong hope that it is my father. Should it not be so, I will not despair altogether, but will look forward to the search at Gaeta. If that does not succeed I fear that it will be no good to hope any longer, for all the prisons south of Naples have been opened long before now, and had my father been confined in one of them, I feel sure that, if able, he would at once have made his way to Naples to see Garibaldi, and obtain from him funds to enable him to return home.”

Leaving the carriage, they endeavoured to obtain some food, for they had only taken some coffee and milk and a piece of bread before starting. They found it, however, almost impossible to do so—everything in the place had been eaten up; but after some search they succeeded in getting a bottle of wine and a small piece of bread at one of the cafés. Having taken this, they went back to the carriage, and sat there until they saw the general and his staff come out from headquarters and mount. Just as they were starting, an officer rode up to the carriage.

“I have orders, sir, to permit you to follow in rear of the escort, and to enter the city with them. Will you please drive on at once?”

An hour later they entered Capua. Shortly before an Italian brigade had marched in, placed guards at the gates and all the public buildings, and relieved the Neapolitan sentries on the ramparts. Cialdini dismounted at the palace of the governor, and ten minutes later Colonel Pasto rode up to the carriage. He was accompanied by a gentleman on foot, who introduced himself to Signor Forli as a member of the Municipal body, and, taking a seat, directed the driver to the state prison, Colonel Pasto riding by the side of the carriage. When they arrived at the gate, where two of the bersaglieri were on guard, they alighted, and Colonel Pasto knocked at the gate, which was at once opened.

“I wish to see the governor of the jail,” he said.

The warder at once led the way to the governor’s residence, followed by the colonel, Frank, and Signor Forli. The governor bowed, with evident trouble in his face, as they entered.

“This officer,” the colonel said, “is the bearer of an order from General Cialdini, to search the prison thoroughly for the person of Captain Percival, a British subject, believed to be confined here, and to free him at once if he is so. I also require a full list of all prisoners confined here, with a statement of the charges on which they have been imprisoned. To-morrow the place will be searched from top to bottom, and all prisoners—I believe that no criminals are confined here—will be released.”

“I have no such person as Captain Percival here,” the official said humbly.

“Not under that name, perhaps,” Frank said. “I demand, sir, in the first place, to see the four prisoners who were brought here from Naples on the 5th or 6th of September. If Captain Percival is not one of the four, though I am convinced that he is so, I will postpone a general search until I make it with the Royal officials to-morrow.”

The governor looked somewhat surprised at the knowledge possessed by the young officer; however, he only said, “I will take you to them at once, sir; they are together, and, as you will see, comfortably lodged.”

“I can believe that they are so at present,” Frank said sternly, “and have been, perhaps, for the past twenty-four hours”; for he felt sure that as soon as it was known that the general was about to capitulate, all the prisoners from the lower dungeons would be hastily removed to better quarters.

“I will accompany you so far, Captain Percival,” Colonel Pasto said, “in order that I may inform General Cialdini if you have met with success in your search.”

Led by the governor, they left the apartment, entered the prison itself, and followed him down several corridors. One of the warders, by his orders, followed him with a bunch of keys. Frank was very pale, his face was set, and he was evidently trying to nerve himself to bear disappointment. Signor Forli walked with his hand on his shoulder, as if to assure him of his sympathy, and to aid him to support joy or disappointment. Colonel Pasto, deeply interested in the drama, walked a pace or two behind them. At last the turnkey stopped before a door, inserted a key in the lock, and opened it. The governor entered, with the words, “These are the four prisoners, sir.”

Frank paused for a moment, took a long breath, and then entered. Three men were lying on pallet-beds; the fourth, who had been seated, rose as they entered. It was on him that Frank’s eyes first fell, and then paused in doubt: the man’s hair was long and streaked with grey, he wore long whiskers, beard and moustache, his face was very white and his figure somewhat bent. He was very thin, and his eyes seemed unnaturally large in the drawn, haggard face. As his eyes fell upon the uniforms of the Piedmontese and Garibaldian officers, he held out his arms and cried hoarsely: “I was right, then; we heard the firing yesterday, and knew that the town was attacked, and when we were taken from our foul dungeons and brought up here, I felt sure that deliverance was at hand. Ah, Forli,” he broke off, as his eyes fell on the professor, “this is all that was wanted to complete my joy. You too are rescued!” and bursting into tears he sank back upon his pallet and covered his face with his thin hands.

“HE WENT UP TO PERCIVAL AND PUT HIS HAND ON HIS SHOULDER”

The professor laid his hand on Frank’s shoulder, as the latter was about to dart forward.

“Stay a minute or two, lad,” he whispered—“it may be too much for him,” and he went up to Percival and put his hand on his shoulder. “It is a joyful occasion indeed, Leonard,” he said. “You are free. Save for the Papal States and Venice, all Italy is free. I have other good news for you. Muriel, your boy and my wife are all well, and will soon be able to rejoin you.”

“A minute, Forli—give me a minute,” Captain Percival said, in a low voice. “I should not have broken down thus. It is almost too much, coming all at once, after so long a time of waiting.”

Two of the other prisoners had half risen at Signor Forli’s words; the other was too weak to do more than turn his face towards them.

“The news is true, gentlemen,” Colonel Pasto said. “To-morrow, you and all within this prison will be free men. Capua has surrendered, and we have but just entered the town. As there are still nine thousand of the Neapolitan troops here, there are many arrangements to be made, and we must find some place for you all until you can be sent to your homes. It is impossible to search the jails until to-morrow, but you need not regard yourselves any longer as prisoners. I have orders from General Cialdini to the governor here, that you shall in the meantime be well and plentifully fed, so as to prepare you for leaving this place.

“You hear, sir,” he said, turning to the governor. “You will procure, regardless of expense, every luxury possible, with a proper supply of good wine; and see that all have a thoroughly good meal this afternoon, and another this evening. I request that you will, without delay, have every prisoner informed of what has happened, and that he will to-morrow be released.”

“I will see that it is done, colonel,” the governor said. “I will at once give the necessary orders.

“Perhaps it will be better, sir,” he went on, speaking to Signor Forli, “that your friend should take something before he leaves. I have pleasure in placing my private room at your disposal, and will order some refreshment to be served there immediately.”

Captain Percival now rose to his feet with an effort. “I am afraid I shall have to be carried, Forli,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “I was able to walk across the room this morning, but your news has, for the present, demolished what little strength I had left.”

“You had better sit down, Captain Percival,” the colonel said. “The governor will doubtless send some men with a stretcher at once, and I need hardly assure you how great a pleasure it has been to me to be employed on so successful a mission. I shall tell General Cialdini that you have been found.” And so saying, after shaking hands with Captain Percival and the other prisoners, he left the room with the governor.

Frank also went outside, as, seeing how weak his father was, he quite recognised the wisdom of Signor Forli’s advice that he should not be told too much at once; and, indeed, he felt that he could no longer suppress his own emotions. Leaning against the wall in the passage, he cried like a child.

Assisted by Signor Forli, Percival went round and shook hands with the other three prisoners.

“I was right, you see,” he said: “I told you last night, when we were all brought up here, that our deliverance was at hand, but I hardly thought that it could be so near. Soon you too will see your friends, from whom you have been kept a much longer time than I have.

“We have only met once before,” he said to the professor, “when nearly two months ago we were all brought out and placed in a vehicle together, and driven here. On the way we told each other what our real names were, and the addresses of our friends, so that if by some miracle one of us should issue alive from our horrible dungeons, we might let the friends of the others know how and where they had died. Thank God, we shall now all be bearers of good news.”

“I fear that I shall never be so,” the weakest of them said, feebly.

“Do not think that,” Signor Forli said cheerfully: “good food, fresh air, and, more than all, freedom, will do wonders for you. I, like yourselves, have been a special prisoner in a fortress for upwards of three years, and you see me now as strong and as well as I was when I entered it. Make up your mind that you will get well and cheat these tyrants, who had thought to kill you by inches.”

Four of the jailors now entered; one of them carried a stretcher, another had a bottle of excellent wine and four large glasses, which he filled and handed to the prisoners.

“This is the first taste of freedom,” one said, as he emptied his glass. “There, friend,” he went on, as one of the jailors partly lifted the sick man and placed the glass to his lips, “that is your first step towards health and strength. I can feel it already tingling in my veins, which years ago a glass of pure spirit would hardly have done. No, we will take no more now,” he said, as one of the men was about to refill his glass. “Leave it here; another glass now would intoxicate me, after five years on water alone and starvation diet.”

Captain Percival was now placed on the stretcher and carried out; Frank fell in with Signor Forli as he followed the party. “Unless you are going to tell him soon,” he said, “I must go; I cannot stand it, being so close to him.”

“I will tell him as soon as we are alone,” the professor said: “he has calmed down, and that glass of wine will do him a world of good.”

On arriving at the governor’s room, Captain Percival was placed in an easy chair, and the jailors left. Frank went to the window and looked out.

“I can hardly believe that it is not all a dream, Forli. The strangest part is that, while I had hoped to open your prison doors, you have opened mine.”

“You are wrong, Leonard: the same person who opened my doors has opened yours; as you set out to find me, so another set out to find us both.”

Captain Percival looked at him wonderingly.

“Of whom are you speaking, Forli? My head is not very clear at present. But who could have been looking for us both? You don’t mean Garibaldi?”

“No, no, Leonard; truly he has opened the doors to all prisoners, but he was not searching for any one in particular. When I tell you that Muriel sent out to Garibaldi the sum that you had put aside for that purpose, and that she and my wife had never altogether lost hope that you and I were both still alive, whom should she send out with it, and to search for you, but——”

“You don’t mean Frank? You cannot mean him: he is only a boy at school.”

“He is nearly seventeen now, and there are hundreds of younger lads who, like him, have done their duty as men. Yes, it is Frank. I would not tell you at first; one shock was enough at a time. Frank, my boy, you have your reward at last.”

Frank turned and ran towards his father. The latter rose from his seat.

“My boy, my dear lad!” he cried, as he held out his arms, “this is too much happiness!”

It was some minutes before either father or son could speak coherently; and fortunately, just as Frank placed his father in the chair, one of the attendants brought in a basin of clear soup, two cutlets, an omelette, and a bottle of wine, saying that the governor had sent them from his own table, with his compliments.

Captain Percival smiled faintly when the man left the room.

“It is my last meal in prison, and if it had been sent to me a week ago I should have declined to eat it, for I should have made sure that it was poisoned; however, as it is, I will take it with thankfulness.”

“Yes, and you must eat as much as you can,” Forli said. “You have got a drive before you: we shall take you straight up to Santa Lucia, where we have rooms; the mountain air has done wonders for Frank, who has had a touch of these marsh fevers. It would be difficult to find a place in Capua now, so the sooner you are out of it the better.”

Captain Percival took a mouthful or two of soup and then stopped.

“That won’t do, Leonard—that won’t do; you really must make an effort. Do it in Italian fashion: pour a glass of wine into it; if you will take that, I will let you off the meat.”

“I could not touch it whether you let me off or not. I have not touched meat for two years and a half, and I shall be some time taking to it again.”

He finished the soup, and then, upon the insistence of Signor Forli, took some of the omelette.

“Now,” the latter said, “we will be off. When we came in here, we told the driver to find some place where he could take the horses out and feed them, and then come here and wait for us. I suppose we must get somebody to let us out of the prison.”

Frank rang the bell. When the attendant came in, he said, “Please tell the governor that we are now leaving, and that we shall be obliged if he would send down an official to the gate to let us out.”

The governor himself came in two minutes later; the gate was close by the entrance to his house; and Signor Forli said,—“I will go out first, sir, and fetch our carriage round, if you will be good enough to give orders that the gate is to be kept open until I return, and to order the warder there to allow Captain Percival to pass out with us.” Ten minutes later they were on their way. Captain Percival would not be laid on a stretcher again, but leaning upon his father-in-law and son, was able to walk to the carriage.

“I have a flask of brandy-and-water in my pocket, Leonard, and if you feel faint you must take a little.”

Very few words were spoken on the journey. Frank sat by the side of his father and held his hand in his own, and it was not long before Captain Percival fell asleep. The excitement of the past thirty-six hours had for a time given him a fictitious strength; and now the sense of happiness and of freedom, aided, no doubt, by the unaccustomed meal and the wine he had taken, took the natural effect, and after trying in vain to question Frank as to what had taken place, he dozed off.

“That is the best thing for him,” Signor Forli said in low tones, when he saw that Captain Percival was asleep, “I hope he will not wake up till we arrive at Santa Lucia. He has borne it better than I expected. It has, of course, pulled him down a great deal more than it did me. A strong and active man must naturally feel solitary confinement much more than one who seldom takes any exercise beyond half an hour’s walk in the streets of London; who is, moreover, something of a philosopher, and who can conjure up at will from his brain many of his intimate friends. I have no doubt he will sleep soundly to-night, and I trust—though of this I do not feel quite sure—that he will be a different man in the morning. Of course it may be the other way, and that when the effect of the excitement has passed off he will need a great deal of careful nursing before he begins to gain strength. At any rate, I shall go into Naples to-morrow and send a telegram to your mother, and tell her to come over with my wife at once. It would be of no use going down to Caserta; the wires will be so fully occupied by the military and royal telegrams that there will be little chance of a private message getting through. They are sure to start directly they get my message, and may be here in three or four days. I shall advise them to come viâ Marseilles; for, as the train service is sure to be upset, they might be a good deal longer coming by land, besides the annoyance of long detentions and crowded trains; for you may be sure that there will be a rush from the north to come down to witness the king’s entrance into Naples.”

“I think that will be a very good plan indeed,” Frank agreed; “and the knowledge that they are coming will, I should think, do a great deal of good to my father.”

Darkness had fallen long before they reached Santa Lucia. The village was still full of soldiers. As he leapt out from the carriage Frank called to four of them standing near to help in carrying his father upstairs; and so soundly was Captain Percival sleeping, that this was managed and he was laid on the bed without his fairly waking, though he half opened his eyes and murmured something that Frank could not catch.

“We will not try to take his things off,” Signor Forli said, “but just throw a blanket lightly over him now. I will remain here while you go down and get some supper. You had better stay in the room with him all night; there is no getting hold of another bed, but——”

“I shall do just as well without a bed,” Frank said; “since I landed at Marsala I have hardly slept in one; besides, I don’t fancy that I shall sleep much, anyhow. I have plenty to think about and to thank God for, and if my father moves I shall be at his bedside in a moment. It is likely enough that he will not have the least idea where he is.”

“Quite so, Frank. When you come up from supper bring an extra candle with you: you had better keep a light burning all night.”

Captain Percival, however, did not wake up until it was broad daylight. He looked round in a bewildered way until his eyes rested upon Frank, who was seated close to his bedside.

“That settles it,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand to him. “I could not make out where I was. I remember leaving Capua in a carriage, and nothing more; I must have slept like a log, as you got me out of the carriage and up here without my waking.”

“I think it was the professor’s fault chiefly, father, in making you take that second glass of wine in your soup. You see you were altogether unaccustomed to it, and being so weak, that and all the excitement naturally overpowered you. However, I think it a capital thing that it did. You had twelve hours’ good sleep, and you look all the better for it. I will tell Signor Forli you are awake. He has peeped in three or four times to see how you are going on.”

He went out for a minute, and a little later the professor came in with a large cup of hot milk.

“You are looking fifty per cent. better, Leonard,” he said. “You had better begin by drinking this, and then I should recommend you to get rid of those rags you have on, and to have a good wash. I am going into Naples, and will bring you some clothes. You certainly could not get into my coat, but I will lend you a shirt, and that is all that you will want, for you had better lie in bed to-day and listen to Frank’s account of his adventures, having a nap occasionally when you feel tired, and taking as much soup as you can get down, with perhaps a slice of chicken.”

“What are you going to Naples for?”

“I am going to send the good news to Muriel, and to tell her and my wife to come over at once and help you to build up your strength again. I won’t say come over to nurse you, for I think you can do without that,—all you want is building up.”

Before he started the professor showed them the telegram he had written out.

“It is rather long,” he said, “but a pound or two one way or the other makes little difference.” It ran: “Prepare yourself for good news, and don’t read farther till you have done so. Thank God, Frank’s search has been successful. I dared not tell you when I last wrote that I had found a clue, lest it should only give rise to false hopes. However, it led us to our goal. Leonard is recovered and free. He is weak, but needs nothing but good food and your presence. Start with Annetta at once; come straight to Marseilles and take the first steamer to Naples. You will find us at the Hotel d’Italie, where I shall have rooms ready for you.”

After Signor Forli left, Frank told the story of his adventures bit by bit, insisting upon his father taking rest and food three or four times.

The professor returned late in the evening. “I have got rooms at the hotel,” he said; “and it is lucky that I did not put off going down till to-morrow, for telegrams are coming in from all parts of Italy to secure accommodation. However, fortunately there were still some good rooms left when I arrived there, and I need not say that I did not haggle over terms, outrageous as they were on the strength of the coming crowd. Your father is going on all right, I hope?”

“Very well indeed, I think. I only talked for about half an hour at a time; he has slept a good deal, and he has eaten well, his voice is stronger, and there is a little colour in his cheeks; he was terribly white before.”

“That was from being kept in the dark, Frank, as much as from illness.”

They went upstairs together. “I hear a good account of you, Leonard,” the professor said, “so I will give you what I have in my pocket, which I should otherwise have kept till to-morrow morning.” He took out a piece of thin paper, handed it to Captain Percival, and held the candle close, so that he should read the contents. It was but a few words, but it took some time in the reading, for the invalid’s eyes were blinded with tears. When he had read it, he dropped it on the coverlet and put his hands over his face, while the bed shook with his deep sobs. Frank took up the paper and ran his eye over it.

“The good God be praised for all His mercies! Oh, my husband, I can say no more now. Mother and I start to-night for Marseilles.—Your most happy and loving wife.”

Two days later the party left for Naples. That morning Garibaldi, to whom Frank had sent a message on the morning after his return from Capua, drove up to Santa Lucia to see his old friend.

“I am almost as pleased, Percival,” he said, after a silent hand-grip had been exchanged, “to have freed you as I am to have freed Italy, a matter in which the money your wife sent me in your name had no slight share. You have reason to be proud of your son: he has shown throughout the expedition a courage and coolness equal to that of any of my veterans. He captured the first Neapolitan standard that was taken, and has rendered me innumerable services as my aide-de-camp. You are looking better than I expected.”

“I should be an ungrateful brute, if I were not getting better, after all my son has gone through to rescue me, and the feeding up that I have had since I came here.”

“You must have suffered intensely, Percival?”

“It has been pretty hard. I have all the time been in solitary confinement in filthy holes, where scarce a ray of daylight penetrated. I have had nothing but either the blackest of bread or roasted maize to eat, but I have been kept up throughout by the conviction that ere very long there must be an upheaval: things could not go on as they were. I knew that my own letters had excited a general feeling of horror at the accounts of the dungeons in which political prisoners were confined, and I determined to make the best of matters. A year ago—at least, I suppose that it is about a year, for I have lost count of time—a fresh hope was given me, when one of my jailors, who was at heart a good fellow, and occasionally ventured to say a few words to me, told me that the Sardinians, with the help of France, had recovered Lombardy from Austria, and that Tuscany and other Papal States had all revolted and joined Sardinia. That gave me fresh hope and courage. I felt that things could not long remain so, and that the south would soon follow the example of the north. I felt sure that you had borne your part in the struggle with the Austrians, and that, just as you headed the Roman insurrection, you would certainly throw yourself heart and soul into a rising in the south. I hear now, from my son, that in fact the whole has been entirely your work.”

“I have done what I could,” Garibaldi said, “and well have I been rewarded by the gratitude of the people. But I see already that the jealousy of the Piedmontese is carrying them beyond all bounds, and that I shall soon be back in Caprera. But that matters not: I shall be happy in the thought that I have earned the gratitude of all Italy, and that the work I have done can never be undone. The king is a brave and gallant gentleman, but he is prejudiced by the lies of the men round him, who cannot forgive me for having done what should have been their work. It is a pity, but it matters but little. I fought for the cause and not for myself, and my only regret is that my brave companions should suffer by the jealousy and ill-humour of a handful of miserables. I shall be in Naples in a few days, and hope to find a still further improvement in your condition.”

The long drive to Naples had no ill effect whatever, and Captain Percival was able to walk from the carriage up to his room, leaning upon Frank’s arm. They learned that it would be two days before the next steamer from Marseilles arrived, and these were passed by Captain Percival in the carriage, driving slowly backwards and forwards along the promenade by the sea, sometimes halting for an hour or two, while he got out and walked for a time, and then sat down on a seat, enjoying intensely the balmy air and the lovely view. He was now able to dispense altogether with Frank’s assistance. His hair had been cut short, and his face clean-shaved with the exception of his moustache, for, as he said, “he hardly knew his own face with all that hair on, and he wanted his wife to see him again as he was when he left her.” His cheeks were still very thin and hollow, but the sun and sea air had removed the deadly pallor, and the five days of good feeding had already softened the sharpness of the outlines of his face.

On the day when the steamer was due he remained down at the sea until she was sighted. Then he returned to the hotel with Signor Forli, leaving Frank to meet the ladies when they landed and to bring them up to the hotel. Garibaldi had run down to Naples on the previous day, and spent some hours in endeavouring to smooth matters between the contending factions, and had given Frank an order to the officers of the custom-house to pass the baggage of Signora Forli and Mrs. Percival unopened. The greeting between Frank and his mother and the Signora was a rapturous one. Not many words were spoken, for both ladies were so greatly affected that they hurried at once into the carriage. Frank saw the small amount of baggage that they had brought handed up, and then jumped in.

“How is he looking?” Mrs. Percival asked anxiously.

“Of course he is looking thin, mother. He was very weak when we found him, five days ago; but he has picked up a good deal since then, and in another fortnight he will be walking about with you just as of old.”

“You are looking thin yourself, Frank—very thin. My father mentioned in his letter that you had had a touch of fever.”

“Yes, it was rather a sharp touch; but, as you see, I am all right now, though I have not yet returned to duty. I was able to take a part in the battle of Volturno, but collapsed after it was over.”

“And your grandfather has not changed much, you said?” the Signora asked.

“He has borne it marvellously,” Frank said. “As I told you in my letter, he has kept himself up by going through all the authors he knew by heart. You know what a marvellous memory he has, and of course that helped him immensely. Of all the prisoners we have released, there was not one who was so well and strong as he was. I really don’t think that you will find any change in him since you saw him last—except that, of course, his hair is rather greyer. Father is a good deal greyer, mother. I think that, perhaps, it is the result of there being so little light in the places where he has been kept. Here is the hotel. Now I will take you up to them, and will leave you there while I come down and see after your traps. I should doubt whether any English ladies ever arrived at Naples before with so little luggage.”

He spoke cheerfully, for both his mother and the Signora were so much agitated that he was afraid of their breaking down before they got upstairs. On reaching the door he opened it, and, closing it quickly behind him, went away. It was a quarter of an hour before he returned to the room. All had now recovered from the effects of their first meeting.

“We have already settled, Frank, that we will start for home at once. Your grandfather says that he has ascertained that a steamer will leave to-morrow for England; and we mean to go all the way by sea. It will do your father good, and you too, for your grandfather says the doctor told him that, although you have got rid of the fever altogether, you need change to set you up thoroughly, and that a sea voyage would be the best thing for you. And, as we are all good sailors, it will be the pleasantest way as well as the best. Fortunately your work is done here. The fighting is over, and even if it were not, you have done your share. You have not told us much about that in your letters, but Garibaldi spoke of you in the highest terms to your father; and your grandfather learned, from some of your comrades, what you really did at Calatafimi and Palermo.”

“I did just what the others did, mother, and was luckier than most of them, though I was laid up there for a month with the wound I got; but I don’t see how I could start to-morrow without leave, and, at any rate, without thanking Garibaldi for his kindness.”

“Well, then, you must run over to Caserta and see him this evening. The railway is open, is it not? It is only a run of half an hour or so.”

“Very well, mother, I will do that; and very likely he will be over in the morning. He comes here nearly every day, and if he had not intended doing so to-morrow, I am sure he would come, if only to see you and the signora, and to say good-bye to father and the professor. About what time does the steamer start?”

“At one o’clock.”

“Oh, that will leave plenty of time; the general is always up at three in the morning.”

Frank was not mistaken: at eight o’clock Garibaldi arrived at the hotel and spent half an hour with them. He delighted Mrs. Percival by the manner in which he spoke of Frank, saying that no one had distinguished himself more during the campaign.

The voyage to England was pleasant and uneventful, and by the time they arrived at home, Captain Percival was almost himself again, while Frank had entirely shaken off the effects of his illness. It had been agreed that he should not return to Harrow; six months of campaigning had ill-fitted him for the restrictions of school life, and it was arranged that he should be prepared for Cambridge by a private tutor. He finally passed creditably, though not brilliantly, through the University. He and his family had the pleasure of meeting Garibaldi when the latter paid a visit to London, four years after the close of the campaign; and the general, in spite of his many engagements, spent one quiet evening with his friends at Cadogan Place.

Four years later Frank married, and his father settled upon him his country estate, to which, since his return to England, he had seldom gone down, for, although his general health was good, he never sufficiently recovered from the effects of his imprisonment to be strong enough again to take part in field sports. He lived, however, to a good old age, and it is not very long since he and his wife died within a few days of each other. The professor and Signora Forli had left them fifteen years before.

THE END.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

the enemey=> the enemey {pg 140}

who assuredy=> who assuredy {pg 192}

guerillas=> guerrillas {pg 203}

the the entrance=> the entrance {pg 244}

fictitous=> fictitous {pg 342}

Table of Contents

Jack Archer

CHAPTER I. THE MIDSHIPMAN

CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE AT GIB

CHAPTER III. THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER IV. GALLIPOLI

CHAPTER V. A BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY

CHAPTER VI. THE ALMA

CHAPTER VII. BEFORE SEBASTOPOL

CHAPTER VIII. BALAKLAVA

CHAPTER IX. INKERMAN

CHAPTER X. THE GREAT STORM

CHAPTER XI. TAKEN PRISONERS

CHAPTER XII. PRISONERS ON PAROLE

CHAPTER XIII. A NOMINAL IMPRISONMENT

CHAPTER XIV. A SUSPECTED HOUSEHOLD

CHAPTER XV. A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

CHAPTER XVI. AN ESCAPE FROM PRISON

CHAPTER XVII. A JOURNEY IN DISGUISE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE POLISH INSURGENTS

CHAPTER XIX. TO THE RESCUE

CHAPTER XX. IN A LION'S DEN

CHAPTER XXI. BACK AT THE FRONT

CHAPTER XXII. THE REPULSE AT THE REDAN

CHAPTER XXIII. THE BATTLE OF THE TCHERNAYA

CHAPTER XXIV. A FORTUNATE STORM

CHAPTER XXV. THE CAPTURE OF SEBASTOPOL

CHAPTER XXVI. CONCLUSION

Jack Archer

CHAPTER I. THE MIDSHIPMAN

The first day of term cannot be considered a cheerful occasion. As the boys arrive on the previous evening, they have so much to tell each other, are so full of what they have been doing, that the chatter and laughter are as great as upon the night preceding the breaking-up. In the morning, however, all this is changed. As they take their places at their desks and open their books, a dull, heavy feeling takes possession of the boys, and the full consciousness that they are at the beginning of another half year's work weighs heavily on their minds.

It is true enough that the half year will have its play, too, its matches, with their rivalry and excitement. But at present it is the long routine of lessons which is most prominent in the minds of the lads who are sitting on the long benches of the King's School, Canterbury.

As a whole, however, these have not great reason for sadness. Not more than a third of them are boarders, and the rest, who have in truth, for the last week, begun to be tired of their holidays, will, when they once get out of school, and begin to choose sides for football, be really glad that the term has again commenced.

"So your brother is not coming back again, Archer?" one of the boys said to a lad of some fifteen years old, a merry, curly-haired fellow, somewhat short for his age, but square-shouldered and sturdy.

"No. He is expecting in another six months to get his commission, and is going up to town to study with a coach. My father has lodged the money for him, and hopes to get him gazetted to his old regiment, the 33d."

"What is he going to a coach for? There is no examination, is there? And if there was, I should think he could pass it. He has been in the sixth for the last year."

"Oh, he is all right enough," Archer said. "But my father is sending him to an army man to get up military drawing and fortification. Dad says it is of no use his going on grinding here at Greek and Latin, and that he had much better spend the time, till he gets his commission, in learning something that may be of use to him. I wish I had done with Latin and Greek too, I'm sure they'll never be of any use to me, and I hate them."

At this moment the conversation between the boys was abruptly broken off by Archer being called up by the class master.

"Archer," he said, looking up from the papers on the desk before him, "these verses are disgraceful. Of all in the holiday tasks sent in, yours appears to me to be the worst."

"I'm very sorry, sir," Jack Archer said, "I really tried hard to do them, but somehow or other the quantities never will come right."

"I don't know what you call trying hard, Archer, but it's utterly impossible, if you had taken the trouble to look the words out in the Gradus, that you could have made such mistakes as those here."

"I don't know, sir," Jack answered. "I can do exercises and translations and all that sort of thing well enough, but I always break down with verses, and I don't see what good they are, except for fellows who want to write Latin verses for tombstones."

"That has nothing to do with it," the master said; "and I am not going to discuss the utility of verses with you. I shall report you to Dr. Wallace, and if you will not work in your holidays, you will have to do so in your play-hours."

Jack retired to his seat, and for the next ten minutes indulged in a diatribe against classical learning in general, and hexameters and pentameters in particular.

Presently one of the sixth form came down to where Jack was sitting,—

"Archer, Dr. Wallace wants you."

"Oh, lord," Jack groaned, "now I'm in for it! I haven't seen Marshall get out of his seat. I suppose he has written a report about those beastly verses."

The greeting of Dr. Wallace was, however, of a different nature from that which he had anticipated.

"Archer," he said, "I have just received a note from your father. You are to go home at once."

Jack Archer opened his eyes in astonishment. It was but an hour and a half since he had started from Harbledown, a mile or so distant from the school. His father had said nothing at breakfast, and what on earth could he want him home again for?

With a mechanical "Yes, sir," he returned to his place, gathered up his books hastily together, fastening them with a strap, and was soon on his way home at a rapid trot. He overtook ere long the servant who had brought the note—an old soldier, who had been Major Archer's servant in the army.

"What is the matter, Jones? Is any one ill at home?"

"No, sir; no one is ill as I knows of. The major called me into his study, and told me to take a note to Dr. Wallace, and, of course, I asked the master no questions."

"No," Jack said, "I don't suppose you did, Jones. I don't suppose you'd ask any questions if you were told to take a letter straight to the man in the moon. I wonder what it can mean."

And continuing his run, he soon left the steady-going old soldier far behind. Up High Street, under the great gate, along through the wide, straggling street beyond, into the open country, and then across through the fields to Harbledown. Jack never paused till, hot and panting, he entered the gate.

His father and his elder brother, who had seen him coming across the fields, were standing in the porch.

"Hurrah! Jack," the latter shouted; "you're going to be first out after all."

"Going to be first out?" Jack gasped. "What on earth do you mean, Harry?"

"Come into the parlor, Jack," his father said, "and you shall hear all about it."

Here his mother and two sisters were sitting.

"My dear boy," the former said, rising and throwing her arms round his neck, "this is sudden indeed."

"What is sudden, mother? What is sudden?" Jack asked. "What is it all about?" and noticing a tear on his mother's cheek, he went on, "It can't be those beastly verses, is it?" the subject most upon his mind being prominent. "But no, it couldn't be that. Even if Wallace took it into his head to make a row about them, there would not be time. But what is it, mother?"

"Sit down, Jack," his father said. "You know, my boy, you have always said that you would like to go to sea. I had no interest that way, but six months ago I wrote to my nephew Charles, who is, as you know, a first lieutenant in the navy, and asked him if he thought he could get you a midshipman's berth. He wrote back to say that he was at present on half pay, and feared it would be a long time before he was afloat again, as there were but few ships in commission, and he had not much interest. But if he were appointed he might be able to get you a berth on board the ship. As that didn't seem very hopeful, I thought it better to say nothing to you about it. However, this morning, just after you had started for school, the postman brought a letter from him, saying that, owing to the threatening state of affairs in the East, a number of ships were being rapidly put in commission, and that he had been appointed to the 'Falcon,' and had seen the captain, and as the latter, who happened to be an old friend of his, had no one in particular whom he wished to oblige, he had kindly asked the Admiralty for a midshipman's appointment for you. This he had, of course, obtained. The 'Falcon' is being fitted out with all haste, and you are to join at once. So I shall take you to Portsmouth to-morrow."

Jack was too much delighted and surprised to be able to speak at first. But after a minute or two he recovered his breath, uttered a loud hurrah of delight, and then gave vent to his feelings by exuberantly kissing his mother and sisters.

"This is glorious," he said. "Only to think that I, who have just been blown up for my verses, am a midshipman in her Majesty's service. I can hardly believe that it is true. Oh, father, I have so wished to go to sea, but I have never said much about it because I thought you did not like it, and now to think of my getting it when I had quite given up all hope, and just at a time, too, when there seems to be a chance of a row. What is it all about, father? I have heard you say something about a dispute with Russia, but I never gave much attention to it."

"The cause of the dispute is trumpery enough, and in itself wholly insufficient to cause a war between two great nations. It began by a squabble about the holy places at Jerusalem, as to the rights of the Greek and Latin pilgrims respectively."

"But what have we got to do with either the Latin or the Greek pilgrims?" Jack asked. "I should have thought that we were quite bothered enough with Latin and Greek verses, without having anything to do with pilgrims. Besides, I didn't know there were any Latins now, and the Greeks ain't much."

Major Archer smiled.

"The Latin pilgrims are the members of the countries which profess the Roman Catholic religion, while the Greeks are those who profess the religion of the Greek Church. That is to say, in the present case, principally Russians. There have for years been squabbles, swelling sometimes into serious tumults, between the pilgrims of these creeds, the matter being generally complicated by the interference of the Turkish authorities with them. The Russian government has been endeavoring to obtain from Turkey the protectorate of all Christians in her dominions, which France, as the leading Catholic country, naturally objects to. All this, however, is only a pretext. The real fact is that Russia, who has for centuries been casting a longing eye upon Turkey, thinks that the time has arrived when she can carry out her ambitious designs. It has always been our policy, upon the other hand, to sustain Turkey. We have large interests in the Mediterranean, and a considerable trade with the Levant, and were Russia to extend her dominion to Constantinople, our position would be seriously menaced. Moreover, and this perhaps is the principal point, it is absolutely necessary for us in the future to be dominant in the east of the Mediterranean. Egypt is rapidly becoming our highway to India, and many men think that in the future our trade with that great dependency will flow down the valley of the Euphrates. Consequently, it is necessary to prevent Russia, at any cost, obtaining a footing south of the Black Sea."

"And do you think, father, that there will really be a war?"

"I'm inclined to think that there will be, Jack, although this is not the popular opinion. We have so long, in England, been talking about the iniquity of war that I believe that the Emperor Nicholas has persuaded himself that we will not fight at any price. In this I am sure that he is wholly mistaken. So long as there was no probability of war, the people of England have quietly permitted the cheese-paring politicians who govern us to cut down the army and navy to a point when we can hardly be said to have an army at all. But I am convinced that the people of England are at heart as warlike as of old. Few nations have done more fighting than we, and, roughly speaking, the wars have always been popular. If the people at large once become convinced that the honor and interest of England are at stake, they will go to war, and the politicians in power will have to follow the popular current, or give way to men who will do so. At present, however, the general idea is that a demonstration upon the part of England and France, will be sufficient to prevent Russia from taking any further steps. I think myself that Russia has gone too far to draw back. Russia is a country where the czars are nominally all-powerful, but where, in point of fact, they are as much bound as other sovereigns to follow the wishes of the country. The conquest of Constantinople has long been the dream of every Russian, and now that the Czar has held out hopes that this dream is about to be realized, he will scarcely like to draw back."

"But surely, father," Harry Archer said, "Russia cannot think herself a match for England and France united."

"I don't know that, my boy. Russia has an enormous population, far larger than that of England and France united. Every man, from the highest to the lowest, is at the disposal of the Czar, and there is scarcely any limit to the force which he is capable of putting into the field. Russia has not fought since the days of Napoleon, and in those days the Russian troops showed themselves to be as good as any in Europe. At Borodino and Smolensko they were barely defeated after inflicting enormous losses on the emperor's army, and, as in the end, they annihilated the largest army even Napoleon had ever got together, they may well think that, fighting close to their own borders, while England and France have to take their troops across Europe, they will be more than a match for us. And now, Jack, we must go down to the town. There is much to do and to think about. The principal part of your outfit I shall, of course, get at Portsmouth, where the tailors are accustomed to work at high pressure. But your underclothes we can get here. Now, my dear, if you will go upstairs and look through Jack's things, and let me know exactly how he stands, I will go down with him to the town, and get anything he requires."

"And will you be able to spare me for a quarter-of-an-hour, father? I should like to be outside the school when they come out at one o'clock, to say good-bye to them. Won't they be surprised, and jolly envious? Oh no, I should think not! They would give their ears, some of them, I know, to be in my place. I should like to say good-bye, too, to old Marshall. His face will be a picture when he finds that he is not going to drop on me for those verses, after all."

It was a day of bustle and business, and Jack, until the very moment when he was embracing his weeping mother and sisters, while his father stood at the door, in front of which was the pony-chaise, which was waiting to take him down to the station, could hardly realize that it was all true, that his school-days were over, and that he was really a midshipman in her Majesty's service.

Harry had already gone to the station on foot, as the back seat in the pony-chaise was occupied by Jack's luggage, and the last words that he said, as he shook hands with his brother, were,—

"I shouldn't be surprised, old boy, if we were to meet in the East before long. If anything comes of it, they will have to increase the strength of the army as well as of the navy, and it will be bad luck indeed if the 33d is left behind."

On arriving at Portsmouth, Major Archer took up his quarters at the famous George Inn, and, leaving their luggage there, was soon on his way down to the Hard. Half a century had gone by since Portsmouth had exhibited such a scene of life and bustle. Large numbers of extra hands had been taken on at the dockyards, and the fitters and riggers labored night and day, hastening on the vessels just put into commission. The bakeries were at work turning out biscuits as fast as they could be made, and the stores were crammed to repletion with commissariat and other stores. In addition to the ships of war, several large merchant steamers, taken up as transports, lay alongside the wharves, and an unusual force of military were concentrated in the town, ready for departure. By the Hard were a number of boats from the various men-of-war lying in the harbor or off Spithead, whose officers were ashore upon various duties. Huge dockyard barges, piled with casks and stores, were being towed alongside the ships of war, and the bustle and life of the scene were delightful indeed to Jack, accustomed only to the quiet sleepiness of a cathedral town like Canterbury. Inquiring which was the "Falcon," a paddle steamer moored in the stream was pointed out to them by a boatman.

"Oh dear," Jack said, "she looks small in comparison with those big men-of-war."

"She is none the worse, Jack, for that," his father said. "If there should be fighting, it will scarcely be at sea. The Russian fleet will not venture to engage the fleets of England and France united, and you are likely to see much more active work in a vessel like the 'Falcon' than in one of those floating castles. Hullo, Charles, is that you?" he broke off, lying his hand upon the shoulder of a naval officer, who was pushing his way though the crowd of boatmen and sailors to a man-of-war gig, which, with many others, was lying by the Hard.

"Hullo, uncle, is that you?" he replied. "I am glad to see you. I was expecting you here in a day or so. I thought you would run down with the youngster. Well, Jack, how are you? Why, it must be eight years since I saw you. You were quite a little chap then. Well, are you thinking of thrashing the Russians?"

"The boy is half out of his mind with pleasure, Charles," Major Archer said, "and he and all of us are greatly obliged to you for your kindness in getting him his berth. I think you will find him active and intelligent, though I fear he has not shone greatly at school, especially," he said smiling, "in his Latin verses."

"He will make none the worse sailor for that," Charles Hethcote said with a laugh. "But I must be going on board. I have a message from the admiral to the captain and every moment is precious, for things are terribly behindhand. The dockyard people are wellnigh out of their wits with the pressure put upon them, and we are ordered to be ready to sail in a week. How it's all to be done, goodness only knows. You need not come on board, Jack. I will tell the captain that you have arrived, and he would not thank me for bringing any live lumber on board just at present. You had better get him his outfit, uncle, at once, and then he can report himself in full trim to-morrow."

Giving the major the address of the tailor who could be trusted to supply Jack's uniform without loss of time, and accepting an invitation to dine at the "George" that evening, if he could possibly get away from the ship, Lieutenant Hethcote stepped into the gig, and made his way to the "Falcon."

Major Archer and Jack first paid a visit to the tailor, where all the articles necessary for the outfit were ordered and promised for next day. They then visited the dockyard, and Jack was immensely impressed at the magnitude of the preparations which were being made for the war. Then they strolled down the ramparts, and stood for some time watching the batches of recruits being drilled, and then, as the short winter day was drawing to a close, they returned to the "George."

CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE AT GIB

It was on the 1st of February, 1854, that the "Falcon" sailed from Portsmouth for the East, and ten days later she dropped her anchor at Gibraltar harbor. Jack Archer was by this time thoroughly at home. In the week's hard work during the preparation for sea at Portsmouth, he had learned as much of the names of the ropes, and the various parts of the ship, as he would have done in a couple of months at sea, and had become acquainted with his new ship-mates. So great had been the pressure of work, that he had escaped much of the practical joking to which a new-comer on board ship, as at school, is generally subject.

He had for comrades four midshipmen; one of these, Simmons, had already nearly served his time, and was looking forward to the war as giving him a sure promotion; two others, Delafield and Hawtry, had already served for two or three years at sea, although only a year or so older than Jack, while the fourth, Herbert Coveney, was a year younger, and was, like Jack, a new hand. There were also in the berth two master's mates, young men of from twenty to two-and-twenty. With all of these Jack, with his high spirits, good-tempered face, merry laugh, soon became a favorite.

During the first two days at sea he had suffered the usual agonies from sea-sickness. But before reaching Gibraltar he had got his sea-legs and was regularly doing duty, being on the watch of the second lieutenant, Mr. Pierson.

The wind, which had blown strongly across the Bay of Biscay and down the coast of Portugal, moderated as the "Falcon" steamed past Cape St. Vincent with its picturesque monastery, and the straits were calm as a mill-pond as she slowly made her way along the Spanish coast and passed Tarifa. Up to the time when she dropped her anchor in the Bay of Gibraltar, the only incident which had happened on the way was that, as they steamed up the straits, they passed close by a homeward-bound P. and O. steamer, whose passengers crowded the sides, and cheered and waved their handkerchiefs to the eastward-bound ship.

The "Falcon" was not a fast vessel, seldom making, under favorable circumstances, more than eight knots an hour. She carried sixteen guns, twelve of which were eighteen-pounders. It had been intended that the "Falcon" should only stay a few hours at Gibraltar, proceeding immediately she had taken in a fresh supply of coal. The engineers, however, reported several defects in her machinery, which would take three or four days to put in order.

Jack was pleased at the delay, as he was anxious to set his foot for the first time ashore in a foreign country, and to visit the famous fortifications of the Rock. The first day he did not ask for leave, as he did not wish to presume upon his being the first lieutenant's relation.

Charles Hethcote differed widely from the typical first lieutenant of fiction, a being as stiff as a ramrod, and as dangerous to approach as a polar bear. He was, indeed, a bright, cheery fellow, and although he was obliged to surround himself with a certain amount of official stiffness, he was a great favorite among officers and crew.

It was not till the third day of his stay that Jack, his seniors having all been ashore, asked for leave, which was at once granted. Young Coveney, too, had landed on the previous day, and Hawtry, whom Jack was inclined to like most of his shipmates, now accompanied him. They had leave for the whole day, and, as soon as breakfast was over, they went ashore.

"What a rum old place!" Hawtry said, as they wandered along the principal street. "It looks as Spanish as ever. Who would have thought that it had been an English town for goodness knows how long?"

"I wish I had paid a little more attention to history," Jack said. "It makes one feel like a fool not to know such things as that when one comes to a famous place like this. Look at that tall fellow with the two little donkeys. Poor little brutes, they can scarcely stagger under their loads. There is a pretty girl with that black thing over her head, a mantilla don't they call it? There is a woman with oranges, let's get some. Now, I suppose, the first thing is to climb up to the top of the Rock."

With their pockets full of oranges, the boys started on their climb, which was accomplished in capital time. From the flagstaff they enjoyed the magnificent view of the African coast across the straits, of Spain stretching away to their right, of the broad expanse of the blue Mediterranean, and of the bay with its ships, and the "Falcon" dwarfed to the dimensions of a toy vessel, at their feet. Then they came down, paid a flying visit to the various fortifications and to the galleries, whence the guns peer out threateningly across the low, sandy spit, known as the neutral ground.

When all this was finished, it was only natural that they should go to the principal hotel and eat a prodigious luncheon, and then Hawtry proposed that they should sally out for a ramble into Spain.

They had been disappointed in the oranges, which they found in no way better than those which they had bought in England. But they thought that if they could pick them off the trees, they must somehow have a superior flavor. Accordingly they sallied out by the land gate, passed unquestioned through the line of British sentries, and were soon in the little village inside the Spanish lines.

"It's awfully hot," Hawtry said, mopping his forehead. "Who would have thought that it would have been so hot as this in any place in Europe in the middle of February? Just fancy what it must be here in July! Look, there is a fellow with two mules. I expect he would let them. I vote we go for a ride. It's too hot for walking altogether.

"I say, old boy," he said, approaching a tall and powerfully-built man, who was smoking a cigar, and leaning lazily against one of his mules; "you let mules, we hire them, eh?"

The Spaniard opened his eyes somewhat, but made no reply, and continued to smoke tranquilly.

"Oh, nonsense," Hawtry said. "Look here."

And he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some silver. Then he made signs of mounting one of the mules, and waved his hand over the surrounding country to signify that he wanted a general ride.

The Spaniard nodded, held up five fingers, and touched one of the mules, and did the same with the other.

"He wants five shillings a head," Hawtry said.

"I don't know," Jack said doubtfully. "I don't suppose he knows much about shillings. It may be five dollars or five anything else. We'd better show him five shillings, and come to an understanding that that is what he means before we get on."

The Spaniard, on being shown the five shillings, shook his head, and pointing to a dollar which they had obtained in change on shore, signified that these were the coins he desired.

"Oh, nonsense!" Hawtry said indignantly. "You don't suppose we're such fools as to give you a pound apiece for two or three hours' ride on those mules of yours. Come on, Jack. We won't put up with being swindled like that."

So saying the two lads turned away, and started on their walk.

While they were speaking to the Spaniard, he had been joined by one of his countrymen, and when they turned away, these entered into a rapid conversation together. The result was, that before the boys had gone thirty yards, the Spaniard with the mules called them back again, and intimated that he accepted their terms.

They were about to jump up at once, but the man signed to them to stop, and his companion in a minute or two had brought out two rough rugs which were secured with some cords over the wooden saddles.

"That's an improvement," Jack said. "I was just wondering how we were going to sit on those things, which are not saddles at all, but only things for boxes and barrels to be fastened to."

"I wonder which way we'd better go," Hawtry said, as he climbed up with some difficulty, aided by the Spaniard, on to one of the mules. "My goodness, Jack, this is horribly uncomfortable. I never can stand this. Hi, there! help me down. It would be better a hundred times to ride barebacked."

Accordingly the saddles were taken off, the rugs folded and secured on the animals' backs by a rope passed round them, and then the boys again took their seats.

"I hope the brutes are quiet," Jack said, "for I am nothing of a rider at the best of times, and one feels an awful height at the top of these great mules, with one's legs dangling without stirrups."

"If you find yourself going, Jack," Hawtry said, "the best thing is to catch hold of his ears. Come on, let's get out of this. All the village is staring at us."

The mules, upon the reins being jerked, and boys' heels briskly applied to their ribs, moved on at a fast walk.

"We shall have to stop under a tree and cut a stick presently," Hawtry said. "It will not do to get down, for I should never be able to climb up again. Mind, we must take our bearings carefully, else we shall never get back again. We have neither chart nor compass. Hallo! here comes the mules' master."

They had by this time gone two or three hundred yards from the village, and, behind them, at a brisk trot, seated on a diminutive donkey, was the Spaniard.

"Perhaps it's best he should come," Jack said. "There will be no fear of being lost then, and if one of us gets capsized, he can help him up again."

Upon the Spaniard coming up to them, he gave a sharp shout to the mules, at the same time striking the donkey on which he rode with a stick. Instantly the mules, recognizing the signal, started into a sharp trot, the first effect of which was to tumble Hawtry from his seat into the road, Jack with difficulty saving himself by clutching wildly at the mane.

"Confound it!" Hawtry exclaimed furiously, as he regained his feet, to the Spaniard. "Why didn't you say what you were going to be up to? Starting the ship ahead at full speed without notice! I believe I've broken some of my ribs. Don't you laugh too soon, Jack. It will be your turn next."

The Spaniard helped Hawtry to regain his seat, and they were soon clattering along the dusty road at a brisk rate, the boys quickly getting accustomed to the pace, which, indeed, was smooth and easy. For hours they rode on, sometimes trotting, sometimes walking, taking no heed whither they were going, and enjoying the novelty of the ride, the high cactus hedges, the strange vegetation, little villages here and there, sometimes embowered in orange trees, and paying no heed to time.

Presently Jack exclaimed,—

"I say, Hawtry, it must be getting late. We have been winding and turning about, and I have not an idea how far we are now from Gib. We must be through the gates by gun-fire, you know."

They stopped, and by pantomime explained to the Spaniard that they wanted to get back again as soon as possible.

He nodded, made a circle with his arm, and, as they understood, explained that they were making a circuit, and would arrive ere long at their starting-place.

For another hour and a half they rode along, chatting gayly.

"I say, Jack," Hawtry exclaimed suddenly, "why, there's the sun pretty nearly down, and here we are among the hills, in a lonelier looking place than we have come to yet. I don't believe we're anywhere near Gib. I say, old fellow, it strikes me we're getting into a beastly mess. What on earth's to be done?"

They checked their mules, and looked at each other.

"What can the Spaniard's game be, Hawtry? We've had a good five shillings' worth."

"Let us take our own bearings," Hawtry said. "The sun now is nearly on our left. Well, of course, that is somewhere about west-sou-west, so we must be going northward. I don't think that can be right. I'm sure it can't. Look here, you fellow, there is the sun setting there"—and he pointed to it—"Gibraltar must lie somewhere over there, and that's the way we mean to go."

The Spaniard looked surly, then he pointed to the road ahead, and indicated that it bent round the next spur of the hill, and made a detour in the direction in which Hawtry indicated that Gibraltar must lie.

"What on earth shall we do, Jack? If this fellow means mischief, we are in an awkward fix. I don't suppose he intends to attack us, because we with our dirks would be a match for him with that long knife of his. But if he means anything, he has probably got some other fellows with him."

"Then hadn't we better go in for him at once," Jack said, "before he gets any one to help him?"

Hawtry laughed.

"We can hardly jump off our mules and attack him without any specific reason. We might get the worst of it, and even if we didn't how should we get back again, and how should we account for having killed our mule-driver? No. Whatever we are in for, we must go through with it now, Jack. Let us look as though we trusted him."

So saying, they continued on the road by which they had previously travelled.

"I don't believe," Hawtry said, after a short silence, "that they can have any idea of cutting our throats. Midshipmen are not in the habit of carrying much money about with them, but I have heard of Guerillas carrying people off to the mountains and getting ransoms. There, we are at the place where that fellow said the road turned. It doesn't turn. Now, I vote we both get off our mules and decline to go a step farther."

"All right," Jack said. "I shall know a good deal better what I am doing on my feet than I shall perched up here!"

The two boys at once slid off their mules to the ground.

"There is no turning there," Hawtry said, turning to the hill. "You have deceived us, and we won't go a foot farther," and turning, the lads started to walk back along the road they had come.

The Spaniard leapt from his donkey, and with angry gesticulation endeavored to arrest them. Finding that they heeded not his orders, he put his hand on his knife, but in a moment the boys' dirks flashed in the air.

"Now, my lad," Hawtry said. "Two can play at that game, and if you draw that knife, we'll let daylight into you."

The Spaniard hesitated, then drew back and gave a loud, shrill whistle which was, the boys fancied, answered in the distance.

"Come on, Jack. We must run for it. We can leave this lumbering Spaniard behind, I have no doubt," and sheathing their dirks, the boys set off at full speed.

The Spaniard appeared inclined to follow them, but distrusting his powers, he paused, gave a long, shrill whistle, twice repeated, and then mounted his donkey and driving the mules before him, he followed the boys at a hand gallop.

They had, however, a good start, and maintained their advantage.

"I don't think," Jack said, "we have passed a village for the last hour. When we get to one, we'd better rush into a house, and ask for shelter. These fellows will hardly dare to touch us there."

Had the race been simply between the boys and their immediate pursuer, it is probable that they would have won it, for they were light, active, and in good condition, while the animals behind them had already been travelling for five hours, at a rate considerably above the speed to which they were accustomed. The road, however, was an exceedingly winding one, which gave time to the confederates of the mule-driver to make a short cut, and, as the boys turned a sharp corner, they saw three men barring the road in front.

"It's all up, Jack," Hawtry said, pausing in his run. "It's no use making any resistance. We should only get our throats cut straight off."

Jack agreed, and they walked up to the men in front just as the muleteer came galloping up with his troupe.

"What do you want with us?" Hawtry said, advancing to the men.

There was a volley of maledictions at the run they had given them. The boys were seized by the collar, their dirks, watches, and money roughly taken from them, their arms tied to their sides by the ropes taken from the mules, and they were motioned to accompany their captors. These at once left the road and struck up the hill, the muleteer proceeding along the road with the animals.

With their arms tied, the boys found it hard work to keep up with their captors, who strode along with long steps. The sun had by this time sunk, and presently they heard the distant boom of the sunset gun from Gibraltar.

"That gun must be fifteen miles away," Hawtry said. "What fools we have been, Jack, to be sure!"

In one of the three men who accompanied them they recognized the peasant who had spoken to the muleteer when he refused to accept their first offer, and they had no doubt that he had arranged with the man to lead them to a certain spot, to which he had proceeded direct, while their guide had conducted them by a circuitous route.

They walked for four hours without a pause, ever ascending among the hills, until they at last reached a sort of plateau, upon which some six or eight men were gathered round a fire. Upon three sides the hill rose abruptly, on the fourth the ground sloped away, and in front, seemingly almost at their feet, some 2000 feet below them stretched away the waters of the Mediterranean, sparkling in the moonlight.

"They have got something to eat that smells nice," Jack said, as they approached the fire. "I hope to goodness they are going to give us some. I feel awfully peckish."

The men gathered round the fire rose at the approach of the new-comers, and an animated conversation took place. Then the boys were motioned to sit down, and the rest threw themselves round the fire. Some meat which was roasting on a rough spit over it was taken off, and one of the men undid the cords which tied their arms, and a share of the meat was given them.

"This is stunning," Jack said. "What on earth is it? It does not taste to me like mutton, or beef, or pork, or veal."

"I fancy it's kid," Hawtry said. "Well, it is evident they have no idea of cutting our throats. If they had been going to do that, they would have done it a quarter of a mile after we left the road. I suppose they are going to try to get a ransom for us. Where it's coming from as far as I'm concerned, I don't know, for my father is a clergyman, and has as much as he can do to make ends meet, for there are eight of us and I'm the eldest."

"It's an awful fix altogether," Jack said. "And anyhow, we shall lose our ship and get into a frightful row, and, if somebody won't pay our ransom, I suppose they will knock us on the head finally. The best thing, you know, will be for us to make our escape."

"But how on earth are we to do that?" Hawtry said. "There are ten of them, and I see a lot of guns piled there."

"Oh, I daresay we shall see some chance," Jack said cheerfully. "We must think it over. Jack Easy, Peter Simple, and all those fellows used to get into worse scrapes than this, and they always managed to get out of them somehow; so why shouldn't we? The best thing is, just to think what one of them would have done if he had been in our place. I wish to goodness that we had Mesty prowling about somewhere; he would get us out in no time."

Hawtry answered with a grunt, and devoted himself to his kid. Presently Jack spoke again.

"Look here, Hawtry, I vote that to begin with we both pretend to be in an awful funk. If they think that we are only two frightened boys, they won't keep as sharp a watch over us as if they thought we were determined fellows, likely to attempt our escape. There is the sea down there in front of us, and there are sure to be villages on the coast. Therefore we shall know which way to go if we once manage to escape, and, if we can get down there, we can either claim the protection of the head man in the village, or we can take a boat and make off to sea."

When the meal was over, one of the men, who appeared to be the leader, rose and come to the boys. Pointing to himself, he said, "Pedro," to another "Sancho," to a third "Garcia."

"He wants to know our names," Jack said, and pointing to his companion, he said, "Hawtry," and to himself "Archer."

The Spaniard nodded and resumed his seat, when an animated conversation took place. Jack, in the meantime, began to enact the part which he had arranged, turning over upon his face, and at times making a loud, sobbing noise.

Hawtry, after hesitating for some time, seconded his efforts by burying his face in his hands, and appearing also to give way to violent grief.

CHAPTER III. THE ESCAPE

Shortly after the meal was over, the brigands rose. The boys were again bound, and were laid down on the ground near the fire. One of the brigands then took his seat beside them, and the others, rolling themselves in their cloaks, were soon asleep at the fire. The boys, tired as they were by the long and fatiguing day through which they had passed, were some time getting off to sleep. Indeed, with their arms bound by their side, the only way of doing so was by lying flat upon their backs.

With the early dawn they were awake.

"I expect they are getting up steam on board the 'Falcon,'" Hawtry said, "and no doubt there is a nice row over our being missing. I'd give a good sum, if I had it to give, to be back on her decks again."

The band was soon astir, but for some hours nothing was done. They were evidently waiting for the arrival of some one, as one or other of the bandits went frequently to the edge of the plateau and looked down.

At last one of them announced to his comrades that the person expected was in sight, and shortly afterwards the muleteer of the previous day appeared. Over his shoulder hung a heavy skin of wine. In his hand he carried a large basket, in which were several loaves of coarse bread. His arrival was hailed with a shout. A fresh supply of meat had been placed on the fire immediately his coming was reported, and in a short time the meal was prepared, the meat being washed down by horns of the rough wine of the country.

The lads had been again unbound when the band awoke, and were, as before, invited to share the meal. They continued to maintain their forlorn and downcast attitude. The rascally guide of the day before gave the company an account of the proceedings, and roars of laughter were excited by his tragic imitation of the defiant way in which the boys had drawn their dirks, a proceeding which was rendered the more ludicrous from its contrast with their present forlorn attitude.

"But mind," he continued, "they can run like hares. Going up a hill, no doubt, any of you would soon overtake them, but along a straight road, I would back them against the best of us."

"There is no fear of their trying that," the chief said, pointing to the rifles. "They would soon be stopped if they tried it on. However, they are not likely to make any such mad attempt. They are, after all, only young boys, and their spirit has speedily evaporated."

However, as a measure of precaution, he ordered that the man who was acting as sentry over the boys should always keep his rifle in hand.

The meal over, the muleteer produced from his pocket some writing-paper and a pencil. The chief then wrote on a piece of paper the figures 5000, followed by the word "dollars." Then he said to the boys, "Capitan," giving them a pencil and a sheet of note-paper. He pointed to the figures he had written down, then to the sun, marked with his hand its course twice through the sky, and then drew it significantly across his throat.

"Well," Hawtry said, "that's clear enough. We are to write to the captain to say that unless 5000 dollars are paid in two days we are to have our throats cut. Well, I may as well write,—

"Dear Captain Stuart,—We are in an awful mess. We took some mules in the Spanish lines for a ride yesterday, and the fellow who owned them steered us into the middle of a lot of brigands. They were too strong for us to show fight, and here we are. As far as we can make out, they say that, unless 5000 dollars are paid in two days, we are to have our throats cut. We don't expect that you will get this note, as by this time the 'Falcon' was to have sailed. In that case we suppose it will be all up with us. We intend to try to slip our anchors, and make a bolt for it. We are awfully sorry that we have got into this scrape."

To this epistle the boys both signed their names, and as the muleteer had not provided himself with envelopes, the letter was roughly folded and directed,—

"Captain Stuart, H.M.S. 'Falcon.'"

Another letter, embodying the same in the form of a demand, was then written, after much consultation, by the brigands, with postscript stating that if the bearer were in any way molested, the prisoners would at once be put to death. The youngest of the party, a peasant of some twenty years old, was then selected, and to him the letters were given, with full instructions as to his conduct.

During the next two days, the boys maintained their appearance of extreme despondency. They lay on the ground with their faces buried in their arms, and at times strolled listlessly about. They could see that this conduct had lulled to rest any suspicion of their captors that they might attempt an escape. The sentry no longer kept in their immediate vicinity, and although he retained his gun in his hand, did so as a mere form. The others went about their business, several of them absenting themselves for hours together; and at one time but three men, including the guard, remained at the encampment.

The boys kept every faculty on the alert, and were ready to seize the first opportunity, however slight, which might offer itself. They agreed, that however much their guard might be reduced, it would be unsafe to make the attempt in the daytime, as they were wholly ignorant of the way down to the sea, and the shouts of their pursuers would be sure to attract the attention of any of the party who might have gone in that direction.

As to the two days assigned for payment, they did not anticipate that the crisis would arrive at the end of that time, as they felt sure that the "Falcon" would have sailed before the messenger could have arrived, in which case fresh negotiations would probably be set on foot.

So it proved. On the evening of the day after his departure, the messenger returned, and the news that he brought was greeted with an outburst of ejaculations of anger and disappointment on the part of the brigands. They crowded round the boys, shook their fists at them, cuffed and kicked them. When they had somewhat recovered their equanimity, they made signs that the ship had departed.

By using the word "Governor," they made the boys understand that a fresh letter must be written to that officer.

This was done at once, and another of the party started immediately with it.

Late on into the night the boys talked in low voices as to their best plan of attempting an escape. Although free in the daytime, they were tightly bound at night, and the guards, who were changed every two hours, never for a moment relaxed their vigilance. Finally, they concluded that their only chance was to endeavor to slip away on the following evening, just as it became dusk, when all the party generally reassembled, and were busy cooking their food, or relating what had happened during the day.

Immediately in front of the encampment the slope was extremely steep. The brigands, in going or coming, always turned to the right or left, and kept along the brow for some distance to points where, as the boys supposed, the slope became more gradual, and paths existed by which they could make their way down to the shore.

At one time the boys thought of rolling down the steep slope, and taking their chance, but this they agreed would be a last resource, as it was probable that the slope ended in an absolute precipice.

"I have an idea," Jack said suddenly in the middle of the day.

"What is it, Jack?"

"You see that heap of rugs in which they wrap themselves when they go to sleep? Now I vote that when it gets dusk, we stand for some time at the edge, looking down into the sea; then, when we see our guard chatting with one of the men who have just arrived, and the others busy round the fire, we will quietly move back towards it. If our guard notices us at all, he won't pay any special attention, as we are going that way. We will steal up to the rear of the blankets, within a few feet of where they are standing, and will crawl quietly under them. When we are missed, they are sure to suppose that we have either made down the slope, or along the brow, and will at once set off in pursuit. The betting is they'll all go, but if only one or two are left, we may take them by surprise. At any rate it seems our best chance."

Hawtry agreed, and it was decided that they should attempt to put the plan into execution that evening.

Late in the afternoon, the brigands, as usual, came dropping in, in twos and threes. One brought in a kid, and two others exhibited to their admiring friends a purse containing some ten or twelve dollars in silver. They related, amid the uproarious laughter of their comrades, the manner in which they had threatened the worthy farmer, its late possessor, into surrendering the proceeds of his day's marketing without resistance. It was already dusk. Jack and Hawtry had a minute before been standing near the edge of the slope. The guard was chatting with the last comer, and keeping one ear open to the narrative told by the fire.

Suddenly he glanced round, and perceived that the figures he had, as he believed, scarcely taken his eye off were missing.

"Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed. "Where are the prisoners?"

At his exclamation, all round the fire started into activity. A hasty glance round the encampment showed that their captives were not within its circle. With an exclamation of fury, the captain seized his gun, and with the butt-end struck the sentry to the ground. Then in furious tones he ordered every man off in instant pursuit. Snatching up their arms, some hurried off one way, some another, shouting threats of vengeance as they went.

As their voices receded, there was a slight movement among the rugs, and the boys' heads peered out from below their hiding-place. The encampment was deserted, save that on the ground lay the form of the prostrate sentinel, while the captain stood, gun in hand, on the edge of the slope, peering down into the gathering darkness.

The boys rose stealthily to their feet, and keeping along by the side of the hill, so as to be out of the direct line of sight should the brigand turn towards the fire, they noiselessly approached him.

He did not look round until they were within five paces, and it was then too late. He turned and threw up his gun, but before he could level it, they both threw themselves upon him.

Taken wholly by surprise, he staggered backwards. He was but a pace from the edge of the steep declivity, and in another moment he fell backward, his gun exploding in the air as he went. The boys heard his body as it rolled and crashed through the slight brushwood on the slope. Fainter and fainter became the sound, and then it suddenly ceased.

As long as it continued the boys stood motionless, and were turning to go, when there was the crack of a rifle, and a ball whizzed between them. Leaping round, they saw the guard, whom they had supposed to be insensible, had risen to his feet. Throwing down the rifle which he had just discharged, and drawing his long knife, he rushed at them.

"Dodge him, Hawtry, dodge him. Get hold of the rifle. I will get a stick from the fire."

The boys separated, one going each way. The Spaniard, still bewildered by the stunning blow he had received, hesitated a moment, and then rushed at Jack, who darted round the fire. Hawtry seized the rifle, and with the butt-end attacked the Spaniard, who turned to defend himself. Jack snatched up a heavy brand from the fire, and coming behind the Spaniard, who was waiting, knife in hand, for an opportunity to rush in between the sweeping blows which Hawtry was dealing at him with the butt-end of the rifle, smote him with all his force across the side of the head.

With a scream of agony the Spaniard fell prostrate and Jack, snatching up his knife, while Hawtry still retained the rifle, they darted off at full speed along the brow.

Presently they heard footsteps of men hastily returning, and drawing aside, threw themselves down among some low bushes. The men were talking eagerly. They had heard the two reports of the guns, and had no doubt that the captain had discovered the fugitives.

When the Spaniards had passed, the boys rose to their feet, and continued their flight at the top of their speed. The men had come from below, and the boys soon discovered traces of a path descending the slope. This they at once took, proceeding with caution now, for the descent was an extremely steep one, and the path little more than a goat track. Fortunately the moon was shining brightly, and by its light they were enabled to follow its windings.

After half an hour's descent, they found themselves in a rough road, along the face of the hill. This they doubted not was the road from one of the coast villages into the interior. They now went more cautiously, for the road was extremely rough, with large stones lying here and there upon it, and a heavy fall or a sprained ankle would be disastrous. They had no fear of pursuit. Once or twice they fancied that they heard shouts far above them, but they considered it likely that the band would be too far paralyzed by the loss of their captain to again take up the pursuit.

Three hours later, they stood by the sea shore, near a tiny fishing village, composed of three or four houses only. They held a consultation as to whether it would be better to rouse the villagers and explain the circumstances, but they had become suspicious of Spaniards, and thought it likely that there would be a close relationship between the people here and the band in their neighborhood. No lights were visible in the village, and it was probable that the inhabitants were already in bed.

They sat down for another hour to avoid the chance of their being surprised by any straggler. Then, proceeding to the shore, they launched a small boat. Hawtry stepped the mast and hoisted the sail, and they were soon making their way off the land. The wind was light, and their progress slow. For a time they kept straight out to sea, and then turned the boat's head towards Gibraltar.

The wind presently died quite away, and, lowering the sails, they got out the oars, and set to work. Beyond trying once or twice upon the Stour, Jack had had no experience in rowing, and his clumsiness excited considerable indignation on the part of Hawtry. The boat was heavy, and their progress, in consequence, very slow. They calculated that they must have twenty-five miles to row, as the point at which they were captured was, Hawtry had judged by the sound of the gun, fully fifteen miles distant from it, and they had walked another ten before arriving at the brigands' encampment.

All night they rowed, until the moon sank, this being, as they were aware, about three o'clock. They then lay down in the boat for a nap, and when they awoke it was daylight. They found that the wind had got up, and was blowing steadily off shore, and that they were now distant some five miles from land, the Rock of Gibraltar rising steeply from the sea some ten miles from them in a straight line.

Hawtry at once set the sail again, and the boat was soon slipping fast through the water.

"What a nuisance!" Hawtry said. "The wind is hauling farther round, and we shall not make into the Rock this tack. This tub of a boat makes no end of leeway. We shall have to make right across towards the African shore, and then tack back again."

They were, as Hawtry anticipated, fully three miles to leeward of Europa Point, as they passed the Rock. The wind was now blowing strongly from the west.

"Upon my word," Hawtry said, "I question whether we shall ever be able to make the Rock in this beast of a boat. She won't sail anywhere near the wind, and makes awful leeway. Hurrah! there's a big steamer coming out. We will hail her."

Hawtry now steered the boat till he had placed her as near as possible in the line which the steamer was pursuing, and then lowered the sail, and waited for her to come up.

When she came within a quarter of a mile the sail was again hoisted, and Hawtry so steered the boat that for a moment Jack thought he would put her under the bows of the steamer. This, however, had the effect which Hawtry had intended, of drawing attention to them.

The steamer passed within thirty feet of them. Hawtry lowered the sail, and standing up, shouted,—

"Throw us a rope!"

A number of persons had been attracted to the side, and one of the officers, seeing two young midshipmen in the boat, at once threw a rope to them, while the officer on duty ordered the engines to be stopped. In another two minutes the boat was hauled alongside. The two lads scrambled up the rope, the boat was cast adrift, and the steamer was again ploughing her way eastward.

The boys found that they were on board the transport "Ripon," having the Coldstream Guards on board, the first detachment of the army on its way east.

Considerable excitement was caused by the sudden and unexpected boarding of the ship by the two young officers, and great curiosity was expressed as to how they had got into such a position. As Hawtry said, however, that they had been twenty-four hours without food, they were at once taken to the saloon, where breakfast was on the point of being served. No questions were put to them until they had satisfied their hunger; then they told the story of their adventures, which caused quite an excitement among the officers.

The "Ripon" had sailed from Southampton docks on the 23d of February, in company with the "Manilla" and "Orinoco."

The next four days passed pleasantly, the boys being made a good deal of by the officers of the Coldstream Guards, but they were not sorry when, on Saturday evening, the lights of Malta were seen, and soon after midnight they dropped anchor in Valetta Harbor. The next morning they were delighted at seeing the "Falcon" lying a few cables' length distant, and, bidding good-bye to their new friends, they hailed a shore boat, and were soon alongside the "Falcon." The first lieutenant was on deck.

"Young gentlemen," he said sternly, "you have committed a very serious offence, and are liable to be tried by court-martial for having deserted your ship. I expected better things of you both. Go below immediately, and consider yourselves under arrest. I shall report your coming on board to the captain."

The boys saluted without a word, and went below to the midshipmen's berth where the tale of their adventures was soon related to their comrades, who were at first inclined to believe that the whole story was an invention got up to screen themselves for breaking leave. However, they soon saw that the boys were in earnest, and the truth of the story as to their being picked up at sea by the "Ripon" could, of course, at once be tested.

Presently they were summoned to the captain's cabin, and there Hawtry again recited the story.

The captain told them that they had erred greatly in going away in such a reckless manner, without taking proper precautions to secure their return before gun-fire. But he said they had already been punished so severely for their thoughtlessness that he should overlook the offence, and that he complimented them on the courage and coolness they had displayed in extricating themselves from the dangerous position into which they had fallen.

He then invited them to breakfast, at which meal the first lieutenant was also present, and here they gave much fuller details of their escape than Hawtry had done in his first narration of it.

At ten o'clock, when the boys were below, they heard a loud cheering, and found that the "Orinoco," with the Grenadiers, had just come into harbor, and were being cheered by their comrades on board the "Ripon" and by the blue jackets of the men-of-war.

All through the day the harbor was alive with boats. Before nightfall the Coldstreams were all ashore, and by Monday evening the last of the Grenadiers had also disembarked.

CHAPTER IV. GALLIPOLI

Every day brought fresh troops to Malta, until the brigade of Guards and eleven regiments of infantry of the line were gathered there. The streets of Valetta were like a fair, crowded with soldiery chattering with the vendors of oranges, dates, olives, and apples. Cigars, too, are nowhere cheaper than in Malta, and as, unfortunately, spirits were equally low in price, the British soldier, small as was his daily rate of pay, found but little difficulty in intoxicating himself.

In a few days the French began to put in an appearance, and the crowd in the streets was even more lively and picturesque than before. All this time the great topic of discussion was whether matters would or would not come to the arbitration of war.

During their stay Jack Archer and his comrades enjoyed themselves heartily, but it was by no means all play. The sailors had an immense deal to do in moving stores, preparing fittings, and getting matters ready for the forward despatch of the troops, should war be finally decided upon.

A month after the arrival at Malta, the doubt was put an end to, for upon the 28th of March war was formally declared, and on the 29th the French sailed for Gallipoli, followed, the next day, by Sir George Brown with the advance party of the light division.

The same day the "Falcon" steamed out of harbor, and, although the stay at Malta had been enjoyed, all hands were delighted at the advance towards the scene of future action.

Gallipoli stands near the upper end of the Dardanelles, and is an important military position.

"It looks a nice little town," Delafield said, on returning after his first visit in the captain's gig, to his comrades. "But I can't say much for it when you see it at close quarters. One got tired of Malta, but Malta was a paradise to this place. The confusion seems to be tremendous. But those jolly old Turks are sitting at their doors, smoking like so many old owls, and do not seem to interest themselves in the slightest."

"And did you see any lovely houris?" Simmonds asked, laughing.

"That I did not," Delafield said. "I saw some bundles looking like rolls of dirty white sheets ready for the wash, with a pair of big, yellow shoes underneath them, and I believe that they were women. I did not see any of their faces. I didn't want to, for I'm sure no decently pretty woman would allow herself to be made such an object as that."

The same work of unloading and transporting goods to the shore, which had gone on at Malta, was continued here. Every day fresh troops arrived, English and French, and the whole of the undulating plain round Gallipoli was dotted with their camps. By the end of the month 22,000 French and some 10,000 English were gathered there.

After the day's work was done, the midshipmen often got leave ashore, and enjoyed the scene of bustle and confusion which reigned there. Enormous numbers of pack animals and bullock-carts were at work, and even at this early period of the campaign the immense superiority of the French arrangements over the English was manifest. This was but natural, as the French, like other European nations, had been in the habit in time of peace of regarding the army as a machine which might be required for war, and had therefore kept the commissariat, transport, and other arrangements in a state of efficiency. In England, upon the other hand, the army had been entirely neglected, and had been made the subject of miserable, petty economy in all its branches, and the consequence was that war found us wholly unprepared, except that we possessed an army of seasoned soldiers such as, in the nature of things under the new regulations, England will never see again.

On going ashore the midshipmen would sometimes ramble away to the camp, sometimes stroll through the town, and amuse themselves by chaffing the grave Turkish shopkeepers, by watching the English and French soldiers staggering along with drunken gravity, sometimes with their arms round each other's necks, or by kissing their hands airily to the veiled figures, of whom they got dim glimpses through the closely-latticed windows. The upper part of the town was inhabited principally by Greeks, whose sympathies were, for the most part, with the Russians, and who were as quarrelsome and turbulent as the Turks were placid and good-natured.

One evening Hawtry and Jack had obtained leave to be out later than usual, as they had been asked to dine with some of the officers of the Coldstreams whom they had met on board the "Ripon." The meal was a rough one, for the country had been completely eaten up by this immense accession of strangers. Still, the caterer had succeeded in procuring some tough fowls in addition to the ration beef, and as these were washed down by champagne, there was no reason to grumble.

The boys spent a merry evening, and started at half-past ten for the town. This was already quiet, and for the most part asleep, when they reached it. A few officers, who had been dining with the various generals who had their headquarters there, or with friends on board ship, were the sole people in the streets, although from some of the closed windows of the drinking-shops in the Greek quarter came sounds of singing and noise, for every one was earning high wages, and the place was full of Maltese, Alexandrians, Smyrniotes, and, indeed, the riff-raff of all the Mediterranean cities, who had flocked to the scene of action to make money as petty traders, hucksters, camp-followers, mule-drivers, or commissariat-laborers.

As they were passing through a dark and silent street they suddenly heard a sound of shouting and the clash of weapons, the fall of heavy bodies, and the tramping of feet. Then a window was dashed open, a voice shouted, "Help!" and then the strife continued as before.

"Come on, Archer," Hawtry exclaimed. "There are some of our fellows in a row with these Greeks."

The door was fastened, but the boys burst in a window next to it, leapt into the room, groped their way to the door, and then finding the stairs, hurried up. On the landing a dim oil light was burning, but it needed no light to indicate the room in which the struggle was still proceeding. The door stood ajar, and the boys, with drawn dirks, dashed into the room.

It was a large one. In the centre was a table on which were strewn several packs of cards; some chairs lay on the ground; the oil from an overturned lamp was forming a great black stain on the green table-cloth. In the corner by the window, three officers with drawn swords, were defending themselves against the attacks of some twenty Greeks, armed with knives. In the confusion, none had noticed the entry of the boys.

"Pick up a chair, Jack," Hawtry said, recoiling from the idea of rushing with his dirk upon unprepared men.

The two lads each seized one of the strong, but light, chairs scattered on the floor, and, with a sudden hurrah, flung themselves upon the Greeks. Two or three of these were knocked down and the rest, taken by surprise by the sudden attack, recoiled, and the boys were speedily by the side of the assailed officers.

The Greeks drew back, but seeing how slight was the reinforcement, again advanced to the attack. Three of their number lay upon the ground, and several of the others were bleeding freely. Upon the other hand, one of the officers leant against the wall, badly wounded, while both of the others had received nasty cuts. They would, before this, have been overpowered, had they not hastily pulled a small table and a chair or two, so as to form a sort of barricade, across the angle, and so prevented the Greeks from closing upon them. One of the officers was an Englishman, the others were French. All were quite young men. There was scarcely time for the exchange of a word before the Greeks were upon them again.

The boys had again drawn their dirks, but these formed but a poor weapon against the chairs with which several of the Greeks, seeing the inferiority of their knives, had now armed themselves. Hawtry received a crashing blow on the head which sent him staggering back against the wall, and Jack one on his arm which rendered it useless.

"This will never do," the English officer shouted. "Let us make a rush at the scoundrels, and fight our way to the door. It's our only chance."

"Wait a moment," Jack said, a thought striking him. Stooping down behind the others, he pulled out a matchbox from his pocket, struck a light, and applied it to the muslin curtains which hung before the window. In a moment a broad sheet of flame leaped up. The Greeks uttered a shout of terror and surprise.

"Now!" Jack shouted. "All together."

In a moment the five dashed down the table, and flung themselves upon the Greeks. These, taken by surprise, and paralyzed by the great sheet of flame which was already licking the wooden ceiling, recoiled. Some were cut down as they stood. Others were hurled aside. Two or three fell before the dirks of the midshipmen, and in a few seconds the little party had burst through the crowd of their assailants, and had gained the door of the room. Here the Englishman and one of the French officers turned and made a stand, in order to give the midshipmen time to assist their badly-wounded comrade down the narrow stairs, and to open the door of the house. As they flung this open, Jack shouted up that the way was free, and then, half carrying the wounded Frenchman, they hurried down the street, uttering shouts for assistance. The lattice work of the window had already caught fire, and a sheet of flame lit up the street. Before they had gone fifty yards, they heard a noise behind them, as the two officers, followed by the Greeks, issued from the house.

Fortunately, at this moment a party of English officers, who had been dining at the general's, ran up at full speed, attracted by the shouts of the boys and the glare of fire. Upon seeing this accession of strength, the Greeks at once desisted from the attack, and made off. By this time the windows of the various houses were opening, and shouts of affright arose at the sight of the conflagration; for the houses were, for the most part, constructed of wood, and, once begun, there was no saying where a fire would end.

"What is all this about, gentlemen?" one of the officers, a colonel, asked. "Give me your names, for there must be an inquiry into the matter. I see you are all wounded, and 'tis best to get back to camp at once. I fear this will be a serious matter."

In five minutes the street was full of people, and the flames had obtained entire possession of the house, and were rushing high into the air. The wind was blowing briskly, and it was evident that the safety of the whole quarter of the town was menaced. The French officer succeeded in getting four Maltese to carry his comrade to the camp. A door was taken off its hinges, and they were soon upon their way.

Jack and Hawtry, who had only received one or two slight slashes of knives, remained to see what came of it. The Turkish guards were speedily on the spot, but these could do nothing beyond trying to prevent the rabble from commencing a general pillage. From every house the people were throwing out their goods of all descriptions. Every minute the fire spread, and six or seven houses were already in flames when, but a quarter of an hour after the outbreak of the fire, a heavy tramp was heard, and a battalion of French infantry from their nearest camp came up at a double. There was no water, no means whatever of extinguishing the flames, but the active little Frenchmen did not lose a minute. At the word of command, they broke their ranks, and swarmed into the houses, and in a minute a perfect avalanche of goods was thrown from the windows. Some stood along outside the houses, others climbed upon their shoulders, on these again others took their places, and so on until living ladders were formed, up which a score of men climbed the roofs. These set to work with axe and hatchet, tearing off the tiles and hacking down rafters, while their comrades in the houses hewed away at floors and staircases. In less than a quarter of an hour four houses on either side of those in flames were completely gutted, and the fire, thus cut off, speedily burnt itself out, fifteen houses having been consumed.

By this time large numbers of troops, together with sailors from the fleet, had arrived, but the work was fortunately done, and had it not been for the early appearance of the French battalion, and the energetic measures which they adopted, a great portion of the Greek quarter would have been destroyed.

Among those who had landed was a strong party of seamen from the "Falcon," under Mr. Hethcote. The boys joined these, and returned with them on board ship. They reported to the lieutenant the share which they had had in the affair.

"It is an unpleasant business," he said, "but I do not blame you for going to the assistance of those attacked when you heard an Englishman call for help. Still, Mr. Archer, it is clear that you have pretty nearly burnt down the town of Gallipoli, and I don't know the light in which the admiral and Sir George Brown may view the affair. As you say that no one took any notice of you at the time that the names of the military officers were taken, it is possible that no inquiry will be made about you. I shall, of course, report the matter to Captain Stuart, and he must act as he thinks fit. But, in the meantime, I should advise you to say nothing of the share which you have had in the matter to any one. You must have those gashes you have got plastered up. But I will speak to the surgeon. Do you know the name of the English officer concerned?"

"Yes, sir, he was Lieutenant Tewson of the Grenadier Guards. We only exchanged a few words before he went away, but he begged us to go and see him."

"I should advise you to keep away from him altogether, until the matter has blown over," Mr. Hethcote said. "Did you give him your names?"

"No, sir, we had no time."

"All the better," Mr. Hethcote said. "It will, of course, come out in the course of the inquiry that two midshipmen were concerned, and it is just as well that he cannot give your names. I expect the ship to be ordered up to Constantinople in a day or two, and I hope we may be off before any inquiries are made. One can never say how these big-wigs may take things. Sir George Brown is a tremendous martinet, and he may consider that it would have been far better that five officers, who chose to go to a gambling-house, should be killed, than that Gallipoli, full as it is of valuable stores, and munitions of war, should run the risk of being destroyed by fire. There, now, go off to the surgeon, and get your faces strapped up, and then ask him to come to me at once. If you two young gentlemen go on as you have begun, you are not likely to live to obtain eminence in your profession. It is but two months since we left England, and we have not yet seen an enemy, yet you have had two as narrow escapes for your lives as one could wish to have."

Very severe was the cross-questioning which the lads had to undergo in the midshipmen's berth as to the manner in which they came by their cut faces, and they were obliged to take refuge under the strict order of the first lieutenant that they were to say nothing about it.

Fortunately the next day the "Falcon" received orders to proceed to the Bosphorus, and got up her anchor and steamed up the Dardanelles before dark. Presently Mr. Hethcote came up to Jack, who was on duty on the quarter-deck.

"I tell you what, Jack," he said quietly, "it is very lucky for you that we are away. The French officer died during the night. I hear that his lungs were pierced. Sir George Brown is said to be furious, and threatens to try Tewson by court-martial, for entering a gambling-house in spite of strict orders to the contrary. Of course it is well known that scores of other officers have done the same, but it is only when a thing is found out that there is a row about it. Tewson had been dining on board a French ship, and was going home with the two French officers, who were also there. None of them had been in a gambling-house before, but it seems they had heard of this place, which was one of the most notorious dens in the town, and agreed to look in for a few minutes to see what it was like. They began to play and had an extraordinary run of luck, winning something like four hundred pounds. The bank was broken, and the Greeks wanted them to stop till some more money was procured. This they would not do, and the Greeks then attacked them. Tewson has strong interest, and the affair will probably, in his case, blow over. The Greeks have made a complaint against them for wilfully setting fire to the house, and this is the most serious part of the affair. I am told that both Tewson and the French officer deny having done so. They say that it was done in order to effect a diversion, by two officers who came in to their assistance in the middle of the fight, and both declare that they do not know who they were or anything about them, as they only saw them for a minute in the middle of the confusion. Some one has said that two young naval officers were seen just at the beginning of the fire, and no doubt inquiries will be set on foot. But now that we are fairly off, they will find out nothing at Gallipoli, and it's likely that it will all blow over. The authorities have plenty to think about at present without troubling themselves very much in following up a clue of this kind."

In all the world there is no more lovely scene than that which greeted Jack Archer's eyes as he went on deck the following morning.

The "Falcon" was anchored about mid-channel. On the left was Constantinople with its embattled wall, its palaces, its green foliage down to the water's edge, its domes and minarets rising thickly. Separated from it by the Golden Horn, crossed by a bridge of boats, are Pera and Galatta, street rising above street. Straight over the bows of the ship was the Bosphorus, with its wooded banks dotted with villas and palaces. To the right was Scutari, with the great barrack standing on the edge of a cliff some fifty feet in height. Little did those who looked at the great square pile of building dream that ere many months it would be crowded from top to bottom with British sick and wounded, and that even its ample corridors would prove wholly insufficient to contain them. The water itself was thronged with shipping of all nations: men-of-war, merchant steamers crowded with stores, troop-ships thronged with red-coats; great barges, laden to the water's edge, slowly made their way between the ships and the shore. The boats of the shipping, filled with soldiers, rowed in the same direction. Men-of-war boats, with their regular, steady swing, went hither and thither, while among all crossed and re-crossed from Constantinople to Scutari, the light caicques with their one or two white-shirted rowers. No boats in the world are more elegant in appearance, none except those built specially for racing can vie with them in speed. The passenger sits comfortably on a cushion in the bottom of the boat, and smokes the long pipe which the boatman, as a matter of course, fills and hands to him as he takes his seat, while the boatmen themselves, generally Albanians, and singularly handsome and athletic men, lay themselves down to their work with a vigor and a heartiness which would astound the boatmen of an English watering-place.

A scene so varied, so beautiful, and so busy could not be equalled elsewhere.

CHAPTER V. A BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY

Two days later Jack obtained leave to go on shore. He hesitated for a moment whether to choose the right or left bank. The plateau of Scutari was covered with the tents of the British army, which were daily being added to, as scarce an hour passed without a transport coming in laden with troops. After a little hesitation, however, Jack determined to land at Constantinople. The camps at Scutari would differ but little from those at Gallipoli, while in the Turkish capital were innumerable wonders to be investigated. Hailing a caicque which was passing, he took his seat with young Coveney, who had also got leave ashore, and accepted with dignity the offer of a long pipe. This, however, by no means answered his expectations; the mouthpiece being formed of a large piece of amber of a bulbous shape, and too large to be put into the mouth. It was consequently necessary to suck the smoke through the end, a practice very difficult at first to those accustomed to hold a pipe between the teeth.

In ten minutes the boat landed them at Pera, close to the bridge of boats across the Golden Horn. For a time the lads made no motion to advance, so astonished were they at the crowd which surged across the bridge: Turkish, English, and French soldiers, Turks in turbans and fezes, Turkish women wrapped up to the eyes in white or blue clothes; hamals or porters staggered past under weights which seemed to the boys stupendous; pachas and other dignitaries riding on gayly-trapped little horses; carriages, with three or four veiled figures inside and black guards standing on the steps, carried the ladies of one harem to visit those of another. The lads observed that for the most part these dames, instead of completely hiding their faces with thick wrappings as did their sisters in the streets, covered them merely with a fold of thin muslin, permitting their features to be plainly seen. These ladies evidently took a lively interest in what was going on, and in no way took it amiss when some English or French officer stared unceremoniously at their pretty faces; although their black guards gesticulated angrily on these occasions, and were clearly far more indignant concerning the admiration which their mistresses excited than were those ladies themselves.

At last the boys moved forward across the bridge, and Jack presently found himself next to two young English officers proceeding in the same direction. One of these turned sharply round as Jack addressed his companion.

"Hallo, Jack!"

"Hallo, Harry! What! you here? I had no idea you had got your commission yet. How are you, old fellow, and how are they all at home?"

"Every one is all right, Jack. I thought you would have known all about it. I was gazetted three days after you started, and was ordered to join at once. We wrote to tell you it."

"I have never had a letter since I left home," Jack said. "I suppose they are all knocking about somewhere. Every one is complaining about the post. Well, this is jolly; and I see you are in the 33d too, the regiment you wanted to get into. When did you arrive?"

"We came in two days ago in the 'Himalaya.' We are encamped with the rest of the light division who have come up. Sir George Brown commands us, and will be here from Gallipoli in a day or two with the rest of the division."

The boys now introduced their respective friends to each other, and the four wandered together through Constantinople, visited the bazaars, fixed upon lots of pretty things as presents to be bought and taken home at the end of the war, and then crossed the bridge again to Pera, and had dinner at Missouri's, the principal hotel there, and the great rendezvous of the officers of the British army and navy. Then they took a boat and rowed across to Scutari, where Harry did the honors of the camp, and at sundown Jack and his messmate returned on board the "Falcon."

The next three weeks passed pleasantly, Jack spending all his time, when he could get leave, with his brother, and the latter often coming off for an hour or two to the "Falcon." Early in May the news arrived that the Russians had advanced through the Dobrudscha and had commenced the siege of Silistria. A few hours later the "Falcon" and several other ships of war were on their way up the Dardanelles, convoying numerous store-ships bound to Varna. Shortly afterwards the generals of the allied armies determined that Varna should be the base for the campaign against the Russians, and accordingly towards the end of May the troops were again embarked.

Varna is a seaport, surrounded by an undulating country of park-like appearance, and the troops were upon their arrival delighted with their new quarters. Here some 22,000 English and 50,000 French were encamped, together with 8,000 or 10,000 Turks. A few days after their arrival Jack obtained leave for a day on shore, and rowed out to Alladyn, nine miles and a half from Varna, where the light division, consisting of the 7th, 19th, 23d, 33d, 77th, and 88th regiments, was encamped. Close by was a fresh-water lake, and the undulated ground was finely wooded with clumps of forest timber, and covered with short, crisp grass. No more charming site for a camp could be conceived. Game abounded, and the officers who had brought guns with them found for a time capital sport. Everyone was in the highest spirits, and the hopes that the campaign would soon open in earnest were general. In this, however, they were destined to be disappointed, for on the 24th of June the news came that the Turks had unaided beaten off the Russians with such heavy loss in their attack upon Silistria that the latter had broken up the siege, and were retreating northward.

A weary delay then occurred while the English and French home authorities, and the English and French generals in the field were settling the point at which the attack should be made upon Russia. The delay was a disastrous one, for it allowed an enemy more dangerous than the Russians to make his insidious approaches. The heat was very great; water bad, indeed almost undrinkable, the climate was notoriously an unhealthy one, and fruit of all kinds, together with cucumbers and melons, extremely cheap, and the soldiers consequently consumed very large quantities of these.

Through June and up to the middle of July, however, no very evil consequences were apparent. On the 21st of July two divisions of French troops under General Canrobert marched into the Dobrudscha, in search of some bodies of Russians who were said to be there. On the night of the 28th cholera broke out, and before morning, in one division no less than 600 men lay dead. The other divisions, although situated at considerable distances, were simultaneously attacked with equal violence, and three days later the expedition returned, having lost over 7000 men. Scarcely less sudden or less fatal was the attack among the English lines, and for some time the English camps were ravaged by cholera.

Jack was extremely anxious about his brother, for the light division suffered even more severely than did the others. But he was not able to go himself to see as to the state of things, for the naval officers were not allowed to go on shore more than was absolutely necessary. And as the camp of the light division had been moved some ten miles farther away on to the slopes of the Balkans, it would have been impossible to go and return in one day. Such precautions as were taken, however, were insufficient to keep the cholera from on board ship. In a short time the fleet was attacked with a severity almost equal to that on shore, and although the fleet put out to sea, the flagship in two days lost seventy men.

Fortunately the "Falcon" had left Varna before the outbreak extended to the ships. The Crimea had now been definitely determined upon as the point of assault. Turkish vessels with heavy siege guns were on their way to Varna, and the "Falcon" was ordered to cross to the Crimea and report upon the advantages of several places for the landing of the allied army. The mission was an exciting one, as beside the chance of a brush with shore batteries, there was the possibility that they might run against some of the Russian men-of-war, who still held that part of the Black Sea, and whose headquarters were at Sebastopol, the great fortress which was the main object of the expedition to the Crimea.

The "Falcon" started at night, and in the morning of the second day the hills of the Crimea were visible in the distance. The fires were then banked up and she lay-to. With nightfall she steamed on until within a mile or two of the coast, and here again anchored. With the early dawn steam was turned on, and the "Falcon" steamed along as close to the shore as she dare go, the lead being constantly kept going, as but little was known of the depth of water on these shores. Presently they came to a bay with a smooth beach. The ground rose but gradually behind, and a small village stood close to the shore.

"This looks a good place," Captain Stuart said to the first lieutenant. "We will anchor here and lower the boats. You, Mr. Hethcote, with three boats, had better land at that village, get any information that you can, and see that there are no troops about. If attacked by a small force, you will of course repel it; if by a strong one, fall back to your boats, and I will cover your retreat with the guns of the ship. The other two boats will be employed in sounding. Let the master have charge of these, and make out, as far as he can, a perfect chart of the bay."

In a few minutes the boats were lowered, and the men in the highest glee took their places. Jack was in the gig with the first lieutenant. The order was given, and the boats started together towards the shore. They had not gone fifty yards before there was a roar of cannon, succeeded by the whistle of shot. Two masked batteries, one upon each side of the bay, and mounting each six guns, had opened upon them. The cutter, commanded by the second lieutenant, was smashed by a round shot and instantly sunk. A ball struck close to the stroke-oar of the gig, deluging its occupants with water and ricochetting over the gunwale of the boat, between the stroke-oar and Mr. Hethcote. Two shot hulled the "Falcon," and others whistled through her rigging.

"Pick up the crew of the cutter, Mr. Hethcote, and return on board at once," Captain Stuart shouted; the engines of the "Falcon" at once began to move, and the captain interposed the ship between the nearest battery and the boats, and a few seconds later her heavy guns, which had previously been got ready for action, opened upon the forts. In two minutes the boats were alongside with all hands, save one of the cutter's crew who had been cut in two by the round shot. The men, leaving the boats towing alongside, rushed to the guns, and the heavy fire of the "Falcon" speedily silenced her opponents. Then, as his object was to reconnoitre, not to fight, Captain Stuart steamed out to sea. He was determined, however, to obtain further information respecting the bay, which appeared to him one adapted for the purpose of landing.

"I will keep off till nightfall, Mr. Hethcote. We will then run in as close as we dare, showing no lights, and I will then ask you to take a boat with muffled oars to row to the village. Make your way among the houses as quietly as possible, and seize a couple of fishermen and bring them off with you. Our interpreter will be able to find out from them at any rate, general details as to the depth of water and the nature of the anchorage."

"Who shall I take with me, sir?"

"The regular gig's crew and Mr. Simmonds. He has passed, and it may give him a chance of promotion. I think, by the way, you may as well take the launch also; it carries a gun. Do not let the men from it land, but keep her lying a few yards off shore to cover your retreat if necessary. Mr. Pascoe will command it."

There was a deep but quiet excitement among the men when at nightfall the vessel's head was again turned towards shore, and the crews of the gig and launch told to hold themselves in readiness. Cutlasses were sharpened and pistols cleaned. Not less was the excitement in the midshipmen's berth, where it was known that Simmonds was to go in the gig; but no one knew who was to accompany the launch. However, Jack turned out to be the lucky one, Mr. Pascoe being probably glad to please the first lieutenant by selecting his relation, although that officer would not himself have shown favoritism on his behalf.

It was about eleven o'clock when the "Falcon" approached her former position, or rather to a point a mile seaward of it as nearly as the master could bring her, for the night was extremely dark and the land scarcely visible. Not a light was shown, not a voice raised on board, and the only sound heard was the gentle splash of the paddles as they revolved at their slowest rate of speed. The falls had been greased, the rowlocks muffled, and the crew took their places in perfect silence.

"You understand, Mr. Hethcote," were Captain Stuart's last words, "that you are not to attempt a landing if there is the slightest opposition."

Very quietly the boats left the "Falcon's" side. They rowed abreast and close to each other, in order that the first lieutenant could give orders to Mr. Pascoe in a low tone. The men were ordered to row quietly, and to avoid any splashing or throwing up of water. It was a longer row than they had expected, and it was evident that the master, deceived by the uncertain light, had brought the vessel up at a point considerably farther from the shore than he had intended. As they got well in the bay they could see no lights in the village ahead; but an occasional gleam near the points at either side showed that the men in the batteries were awake and active. As the boat neared the shore the men rowed, according to the first lieutenant's orders, more and more gently, and at last, when the line of beach ahead became distinctly visible, the order was given to lie upon their oars. All listened intently, and then Mr. Hethcote put on his helm so that the boat which had still some way on it drifted even closer to the launch.

"Do you hear anything, Mr. Pascoe?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't seem to make out any distinct sound, but there certainly appears to be some sort of murmur in the air."

"So I think, too."

Again they listened.

"I don't know, sir," Jack whispered in Mr. Pascoe's ear, "but I fancy that at times I see a faint light right along behind those trees. It is very faint, but sometimes their outline seems clearer than at others."

Mr. Pascoe repeated in a low voice to Mr. Hethcote what Jack had remarked.

"I fancied so once or twice myself," he said. "There," he added suddenly, "that is the neigh of a horse. However, there may be horses anywhere. Now we will paddle slowly on. Lay within a boat's length of the shore, Mr. Pascoe, keep the gun trained on the village, and let the men hold their arms in readiness."

In another minute the gig's bow grated on the beach. "Quietly, lads," the first lieutenant said. "Step into the water without splashing. Then follow me as quickly as you can."

The beach was a sandy one, and the footsteps of the sailors were almost noiseless as they stole towards the village. The place seemed hushed in quiet, but just as they entered the little street a figure standing in the shade of a house rather larger than the rest, stepped forward and challenged, bringing, as he did so, his musket to the present. An instant later he fired, just as the words, "A Russian sentry," broke from the first lieutenant's lips. Almost simultaneously three or four other shots were fired at points along the beach. A rocket whizzed high in the air from each side of the bay, a bugle sounded the alarm, voices of command were heard, and, as if by enchantment, a chaos of sounds followed the deep silence which had before reigned, and from every house armed men poured out.

"Steady, lads, steady!" Mr. Hethcote shouted. "Fall back steadily. Keep together, don't fire a shot till you get to the boat; then give them a volley and jump on board. Now, retire at the double."

For a moment the Russians, as they poured from the houses, paused in ignorance of the direction of their foes, but a shout from the sentry indicated this, and a scattering fire was opened. This, however, was at once checked by the shout of the officer to dash forward with all speed after the enemy. As the mass of Russians rushed from the village, the howitzer in the bows of the launch poured a volley of grape into them, and checked their advance. However, from along the bushes on either side fresh assailants poured out.

"Jump on board, lads, jump on board!" Mr. Hethcote shouted, and each sailor, discharging his musket at the enemy, leapt into his place. "Give them a volley, Mr. Pascoe. Get your head round and row. Don't let the men waste time in firing."

The volley from the launch again momentarily checked the enemy, and just as she got round, another discharge from the gun further arrested them. The boats were not, however, thirty yards from the shore before this was lined with dark figures who opened a tremendous fire of musketry.

"Row, lads, row!" Mr. Pascoe shouted to his men. "We shall be out of their sight in another hundred yards."

CHAPTER VI. THE ALMA

Desperately the men bent to their oars, and the heavy boat surged through the water. Around them swept a storm of musket balls, and although the darkness and their haste rendered the fire of the Russians wild and uncertain, many of the shot took effect. With a sigh, Mr. Pascoe fell against Jack, who was sitting next to him, just at the moment when Jack himself experienced a sensation as if a hot iron had passed across his arm. Several of the men dropped their oars and fell back, but the boats still held rapidly on their way, and in two or three minutes were safe from anything but random shot. At this moment, however, three field pieces opened with grape, and the iron hail tore up the water near them. Fortunately they were now almost out of sight, and although the forts threw up rockets to light the bay, and joined their fire to that of the field guns, the boat escaped untouched.

"Thank God we are out of that!" Mr. Hethcote said, as the fire ceased and the boats headed for a light hung up to direct then.

"Have you many hurt, Mr. Pascoe?"

"I'm afraid, sir, Mr. Pascoe is either killed or badly wounded. He is lying against me, and gives no answer when I speak to him."

"Any one else hurt?" Mr. Hethcote asked in a moment.

The men exchanged a few words among themselves.

"There are five down in the bottom of the boat, sir, and six or seven of us have been hit more or less."

"It's a bad business," Mr. Hethcote said. "I have two killed and three wounded here. Are you hit yourself, Mr. Archer?"

"I've got a queer sensation in my arm, sir, and don't seem able to use it, so I suppose I am, but I don't think it's much."

"Pull away, lads," Mr. Hethcote said shortly. "Show a light there in the bow to the steamer."

The light was answered by a sharp whistle, and they heard the beat of the paddles of the "Falcon" as she came down towards them, and five minutes later the boats were hoisted to the davits. "No casualties, I hope, Mr. Hethcote?" Captain Stuart said, as the first lieutenant stepped on board. "You seem to have got into a nest of hornets."

"Yes, indeed, sir. There was a strong garrison in the village, and we have suffered, I fear heavily. Some eight or ten killed and as many wounded."

"Dear me, dear me!" Captain Stuart said. "This is an unfortunate circumstance, indeed. Mr. Manders, do you get the wounded on board and carried below. Will you step into my cabin, Mr. Hethcote, and give me full details of this unfortunate affair?"

Upon mustering the men, it was found that the total casualties in the two boats of the "Falcon" amounted to, Lieutenant Pascoe killed, Midshipman Archer wounded; ten seamen killed, and nine wounded. Jack's wound was more severe than he had at first thought. The ball had gone through the upper part of the arm, and had grazed and badly bruised the bone in its passage. The doctor said he would probably be some weeks before he would have his arm out of a sling. The "Falcon" spent another week in examining the Crimean coast, and then ran across again to Varna. Here everything was being pushed forward for the start. Over six hundred vessels were assembled, with a tonnage vastly exceeding that of any fleet that had ever sailed the seas. Twenty-seven thousand English and twenty-three thousand French were to be carried in this huge flotilla; for although the French army was considerably larger than the English, the means of sea-transport of the latter were vastly superior, and they were able to take across the whole of their army in a single trip; whereas, the French could convey but half of their force. Unfortunately, between Lord Raglan, the English Commander-in-Chief, and Marshal Saint Arnaud, the French commander, there was little concert or agreement. The French, whose arrangements were far better, and whose movements were prompter than our own, were always complaining of British procrastination; while the English General went quietly on his own way, and certainly tried sorely the patience of our allies. Even when the whole of the allied armies were embarked, nothing had been settled beyond the fact that they were going to invade the Crimea, and the enormous fleet of men-of-war and transports, steamers with sailing vessels in tow, extending in lines farther than the eye could reach, and covering many square miles of the sea, sailed eastward without any fixed destination. The consequence was, as might be expected, a lamentable waste of time. Halts were called, councils were held, reconnaissances sent forward, and the vast fleet steamed aimlessly north, south, east, and west, until, when at last a landing-place was fixed upon, near Eupatoria, and the disembarkation was effected, fourteen precious days had been wasted over a journey which is generally performed in twenty-four hours, and which even the slowly moving transports might have easily accomplished in three days.

The consequence was the Russians had time to march round large bodies of troops from the other side, and the object of the expedition—the capture of Sebastopol by a coup de main—was altogether thwarted. No more imposing sight was ever seen than that witnessed by the bands of Cossacks on the low shores of the Crimea, when the allied fleets anchored a few miles south of Eupatoria. The front extended nine miles in length, and behind this came line after line of transports until the very topmasts of those in the rear scarce appeared above the horizon. The place selected for the landing-place was known as the Old Fort, a low strip of bush and shingle forming a causeway between the sea and a stagnant fresh-water lake, known as Lake Saki.

At eight o'clock in the morning of the 14th of September, the French admiral fired a gun, and in a little more than an hour six thousand of their troops were ashore, while the landing of the English did not commence till an hour after. The boats of the men-of-war and transports had already been told off for the ships carrying the light division, which was to be the first to land, and in a wonderfully short time the sea between the first line of ships and the shore was covered with a multitude of boats crowded with soldiers. The boats of the "Falcon" were employed with the rest, and as three weeks had elapsed since Jack had received his wound, he was able to take his share of duty, although his arm was still in a sling. The ship to which the "Falcon's" boats were told off lay next to that which had carried the 33d, and as he rowed past, he exchanged a shout and a wave of the hand with Harry, who was standing at the top of the companion-ladder, seeing the men of his company take their seats in the boats. It was a day of tremendous work. Each man and officer carried three days' provisions, and no tents or other unnecessary stores were to be landed. The artillery, however, had to be got ashore, and the work of landing the guns on the shingly beach was a laborious one indeed. The horses in vain tugged and strained, and the sailors leaped over into the water and worked breast high at the wheels, and so succeeded in getting them ashore. Jack had asked permission from Captain Stuart to spend the night on shore with his brother, and just as he was going off from the ship for the last time. Simmonds, who had obtained his acting commission in place of Mr. Pascoe, said, "Archer, I should advise you to take a tarpaulin and a couple of bottles of rum. They will be useful before morning, I can tell you, for we are going to have a nasty night."

Indeed the rain was already coming down steadily, and the wind was rising. Few of those who took part in it will ever forget their first night in the Crimea. The wind blew pitilessly, the rain poured down in torrents, and twenty-seven thousand Englishmen lay without shelter in the muddy fields, drenched to the skin. Jack had no trouble in finding his brother's regiment, which was in the advance, some two or three miles from the landing-place. Harry was delighted to see him, and the sight of the tarpaulin and bottles did not decrease the warmth of his welcome. Jack was already acquainted with most of the officers of the 33d.

"Hallo, Archer," a young ensign said, "if I had been in your place, I should have remained snugly on board ship. A nice night we are in for!"

So long as the daylight lasted, the officers stood in groups and chatted of the prospects of the campaign. There was nothing to do—no possibility of seeing to the comforts of their men. The place where the regiment was encamped was absolutely bare, and there were no means of procuring any shelter whatever.

"How big is that tarpaulin, Jack?"

"About twelve feet square," Jack said, "and pretty heavy I found it, I can tell you."

"What had we better do with it?" asked Harry. "I can't lie down under that, you know, with the colonel sitting out exposed to this rain."

"The best thing," Jack said after a minute's consideration, "would be to make a sort of tent of it. If we could put it up at a slant, some six feet high in front with its back to the wind, it would shelter a lot of fellows. We might hang some of the blankets at the sides."

The captain and lieutenant of Harry's company were taken into consultation, and with the aid of half a dozen soldiers, some muskets bound together and some ramrods, a penthouse shelter was made. Some sods were laid on the lower edge to keep it down. Each side was closed with two blankets. Some cords from one of the baggage carts were used as guy ropes to the corners, and a very snug shelter was constructed. This Harry invited the colonel and officers to use, and although the space was limited, the greater portion of them managed to sit down in it, those who could not find room taking up their places in front, where the tent afforded a considerable shelter from the wind and rain. No one thought of sleeping. Pipes were lighted, and Jack's two bottles of rum afforded a tot to each. The night could scarcely be called a comfortable one, even with these aids; but it was luxurious, indeed, in comparison with that passed by those exposed to the full force of the wind.

The next morning Jack said good-bye to his brother and the officers of the regiment, to whom he presented the tarpaulin for future use, and this was folded up and smuggled into an ammunition cart. It was not, of course, Jack's to give, being government property, but he would be able to pay the regulation price for it on his return. Half an hour later, Jack was on the beach, where a high surf was beating. All day the work of landing cavalry and artillery went on under the greatest difficulties. Many of the boats were staved and rendered useless, and several chargers drowned. It was evident that the weather was breaking up, and the ten days of lovely weather which had been wasted at sea were more bitterly regretted than ever. No tents were landed, and the troops remained wet to the skin, with the additional mortification of seeing their French allies snugly housed under canvas, while even the 4000 Turks had managed to bring their tents with them. The natural result was that sickness again attacked the troops, and hundreds were prostrated before, three days later, they met the enemy on the Alma. The French were ready to march on the 17th, but it was not until two days later, that the British were ready; then at nine o'clock in the morning the army advanced. The following is the list of the British force. The light division under Sir George Brown—2d Battalion Rifle Brigade, 7th Fusiliers, 19th Regiment, 23d Fusiliers, under Brigadier Major-General Codrington; 33d Regiment, 77th Regiment, 88th Regiment, under Brigadier-General Butler. First division, under the Duke of Cambridge—The Grenadier, Coldstream and Scots Fusilier Guards, under Major-General Bentinck; the 42d, 79th and 93d Highlanders, under Brigadier-General Sir C. Campbell. The second division, under Sir De Lacy Evans—The 30th, 55th, and 95th, under Brigadier-General Pennefather; the 41st, 47th and 49th, under Brigadier-General Adams. The third division under Sir R. England—The 1st, 28th and 38th under Brigadier-General Sir John Campbell; the 44th, 50th, and 68th Regiments under Brigadier-General Eyre. Six companies of the fourth were also attached to this division. The fourth division under Sir George Cathcart consisted of the 20th, 21st, 2d Battalion Rifle Brigade, 63d, 46th and 57th, the last two regiments, however, had not arrived. The cavalry division under Lord Lucan consisted of the Light Cavalry Brigade under Lord Cardigan, composed of the 4th Light Dragoons, the 8th Hussars, 11th Hussars, 13th Dragoons and 17th Lancers; and the Heavy Cavalry Brigade under Brigadier-General Scarlett, consisting of the Scots Greys, 4th Dragoon Guards, 5th Dragoon Guards, and 6th Dragoons. Of these the Scots Greys had not yet arrived.

It was a splendid sight, as the allied army got in motion. On the extreme right, and in advance next the sea, was the first division of the French army. Behind them, also by the sea, was the second division under General Canrobert, on the left of which marched the third division under Prince Napoleon. The fourth division and the Turks formed the rearguard. Next to the third French division was the second British, with the third in its rear in support. Next to the second division was the light division, with the Duke of Cambridge's division in the rear in support. The Light Cavalry Brigade covered the advance and left flank, while along the coast, parallel with the march of the troops, steamed the allied fleet, prepared, if necessary, to assist the army with their guns. All were in high spirits that the months of weary delay were at last over, and that they were about to meet the enemy. The troops saluted the hares which leaped out at their feet at every footstep as the broad array swept along, with shouts of laughter and yells, and during the halts numbers of the frightened creatures were knocked over and slung behind the knapsacks to furnish a meal at the night's bivouac. The smoke of burning villages and farmhouses ahead announced that the enemy were aware of our progress.

Presently, on an eminence across a wide plain, masses of the enemy's cavalry were visible. Five hundred of the Light Cavalry pushed on in front, and an equal number of Cossacks advanced to meet them. Lord Cardigan was about to give the order to charge when masses of heavy cavalry made their appearance. Suddenly one of these extended and a battery of Russian artillery opened fire upon the cavalry. Our artillery came to the front, and after a quarter of an hour's duel the Russians fell back; and soon after the army halted for the night, at a stream called the Boulyanak, six miles from the Alma, where the Russians, as was now known, were prepared to give battle. The weather had now cleared again, and all ranks were in high spirits as they sat round the bivouac fires.

"How savage they will be on board ship," Harry Archer said to Captain Lancaster, "to see us fighting a big battle without their having a hand in it. I almost wonder that they have not landed a body of marines and blue-jackets. The fleets could spare 4000 or 5000 men, and their help might be useful. Do you think the Russians will fight?"

"All soldiers will fight," Captain Lancaster said, "when they've got a strong position. It needs a very different sort of courage to lie down on the crest of a hill and fire at an enemy struggling up it in full view, to that which is necessary to make the assault. They have too all the advantage of knowing the ground, while we know absolutely nothing about it. I don't believe that the generals have any more idea than we have. It seems a happy-go-lucky way of fighting altogether. However, I have no doubt that we shall lick them somehow. It seems, though, a pity to take troops direct at a position which the enemy have chosen and fortified, when by a flank march, which in an undulating country like this could be performed without the slightest difficulty, we could turn the position and force them to retreat, without losing a man."

Such was the opinion of many other officers at the time. Such has been the opinion of every military critic since. Had the army made a flank march, the enemy must either have retired at once, or have been liable to an attack upon their right flank, when, if beaten, they would have been driven down to the sea-shore under the guns of the ships, and killed or captured, to a man. Unfortunately, however, owing to the jealousies between the two generals, the illness of Marshal Arnaud, and the incapacity of Lord Raglan, there was neither plan nor concert. The armies simply fought as they marched, each general of division doing his best and leading his men at that portion of the enemy's position which happened to be opposite to him. The sole understanding arrived at was that the armies were to march at six in the morning; that General Bosquet's division, which was next to the sea, was, covered by guns of the ships, to first carry the enemy's position there; and that when he had obtained a footing upon the plateau, a general attack was to be made. Even this plan, simple as it was, was not fully carried out, as Lord Raglan did not move his troops till nine in the morning. Three precious hours were therefore wasted, and a pursuit after the battle which would have turned the defeat into a rout was therefore prevented, and Sebastopol saved, to cost tens of thousands of lives before it fell. The Russian position on the Alma was along a crest of hills. On their left by the sea these rose precipitously, offering great difficulties for an assault. Further inland, however, the slope became easy, and towards the right centre and right against which the English attack was directed, the hill was simply a slope broken into natural terraces, on which were many walls and vineyards. Near the sea the river ran between low banks, but inland the bank was much steeper, the south side rising some thirty or forty feet, and enabling its defenders to sweep the ground across which the assailants must advance. While on their left the Russian forces were not advanced in front of the hill which formed their position, on the lower ground they occupied the vineyards and inclosures down to the river, and their guns were placed in batteries on the steps of the slope, enabling them to search with their fire the whole hill-side as well as the flat ground beyond the river.

The attack, as intended, was begun by General Bosquet. Bonat's brigade crossed the river by a bar of sand across the mouth where the water was only waist-deep, while D'Autemarre's brigade crossed by a bridge, and both brigades swarmed up the precipitous cliffs which offered great difficulties, even to infantry. They achieved their object, without encountering any resistance whatever, the guns of the fleet having driven back the Russian regiment appointed to defend this post. The enemy brought up three batteries of artillery to regain the crest, but the French with tremendous exertions succeeded in getting up a battery of guns, and with their aid maintained the position they had gained.

When the sound of Bosquet's guns showed that his part of the programme was carried into effect, the second and third divisions of the French army crossed the Alma, and were soon fiercely engaged with the enemy. Canrobert's division for a time made little way, as the river was too deep for the passage of the guns, and these were forced to make a detour. Around a white stone tower some 800 yards on their left, dense masses of Russian infantry were drawn up, and these opened so tremendous a fire upon the French that for a time their advance was checked. One of the brigades from the fourth division, which was in reserve, advanced to their support, and joining with some of the regiments of Canrobert's division, and aided by troops whom General Bosquet had sent to their aid, a great rush was made upon the dense body of Russians, who, swept by the grape of the French artillery, were unable to stand the impetuous attack, and were forced to retire in confusion. The French pressed forward and at this point also of the field, the day was won.

In the mean time the British army had been also engaged. Long before they came in sight of the point which they were to attack they heard the roar of cannon on their right, and knew that Bosquet's division were engaged. As the troops marched over the crest of the rounded slopes they caught glimpses of the distant fight. They could see masses of Russian infantry threatening the French, gathered on the height, watch the puffs of smoke as the guns on either side sent their messengers of death, and the white smoke which hung over the fleet as the vessels of war threw their shells far over the heads of the French into the Russian masses. Soon they heard the louder roar which proclaimed that the main body of the French army were in action, and burning with impatience to begin, the men strode along to take their share in the fight. Until within a few hundred yards of the river the troops could see nothing of it, nor the village on its banks, for the ground dipped sharply. Before they reached the brow twelve Russian guns, placed on rising ground some 300 yards beyond the river, opened upon them.

"People may say what they like," Harry Archer said to his captain, "but a cannon-ball makes a horribly unpleasant row. It wouldn't be half as bad if they would but come silently."

As he spoke a round shot struck down two men a few files to his right. They were the first who fell in the 33d.

"Steady, lads, steady," shouted the officers, and as regularly as if on field-day, the English troops advanced. The Rifles, under Major Northcote, were ahead, and, dashing through the vineyards under a rain of fire, crossed the river, scaled the bank, and pushed forward to the top of the next slope. It was on the plateau beyond that the Russian main body were posted, and for a time the Rifles had hard work to maintain themselves. In the meantime, the Light Division were advancing in open order, sometimes lying down, sometimes advancing, until they gained the vineyards. Here the regular order which they had so far maintained was lost, as the ground was broken up by hedges, stone walls, vines and trees. The 19th, 7th, 23d and 33d were then led, at a run, right to the river by General Codrington, their course being marked by killed and wounded, and crossing they sheltered themselves under the high bank. Such was the state of confusion in which they arrived there that a momentary pause was necessary to enable the men of the various regiments to gather together, and the enemy, taking advantage of this, brought down three battalions of infantry, who advanced close to the bank, and, as the four regiments dashed up it, met them with a tremendous fire. As hotly it was answered, and the Russians retired while their batteries again opened fire.

There was but little order in the British ranks as they struggled forward up the hill. Even under this tremendous fire the men paused to pick grapes, and all the exertions of their officers could not maintain the regular line of advance. From a rising ground a Russian regiment kept up a destructive fire upon them, and the guns in the batteries on their flank fired incessantly. The slaughter was tremendous, but the regiments held on their way unflinchingly. In a few minutes the 7th had lost a third of their men, and half the 23d were down. Not less was the storm of fire around the 33d. Confused, bewildered and stunned by the dreadful din, Harry Archer struggled on with his company. His voice was hoarse with shouting, though he himself could scarce hear the words he uttered. His lips were parched with excitement and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Man after man had fallen beside him, but he was yet untouched. There was no thought of fear or danger now. His whole soul seemed absorbed in the one thought of getting into the battery. Small as were the numbers who still struggled on, their determined advance began to disquiet the Russians. For the first time a doubt as to victory entered their minds. When the day began they felt assured of it. Their generals had told them that they would annihilate their foes, their priests had blessed them, and assured them of the protection and succor of the saints. But the British were still coming on, and would not be denied. The infantry behind the battery began to retire. The artillery, left unprotected, limbered up in haste, and although three times as numerous as the men of the Light Division, the Russians, still firing heavily, retired up the hill, while, with a shout of triumph the broken groups of the 23d, the 19th, and 33d burst into the battery, capturing a gun which the Russians had been unable to withdraw.

CHAPTER VII. BEFORE SEBASTOPOL

Not long were the Light Division to enjoy the position they had won. Breathless, exhausted, bleeding, they were but a handful; and the Russians, looking down upon them and seeing that they were unsupported, again advanced in heavy masses, and the Light Division fell back.

Had their division had the whole of their strength they might have been enabled to hold the position they had won. But just as they crossed the river, there was an unfounded alarm of a cavalry attack on the flank, and the 77th and 88th were halted to repel this, and took no share in the advance by the rest of the division.

As the shattered regiments fell back before the Russians in a state of disorder, they saw advancing up the slope behind them the brigade of Guards in as regular order as if on parade. For a moment the splendid formation was broken as the disordered troops came down upon them. But opening their files they allowed the Light Division to pass through them, and then closing up again moved forward in splendid order, the Highland Brigade keeping pace with them on their left, while the regiments of the Light Division reformed in their rear and followed after.

Steadily, under a storm of fire, the Guards advanced. Grape, canister, round shot, shell, and shot, swept through them but they kept forward till nigh crossing bayonets with the Russian infantry.

At this moment, however, two British guns mounted on a knoll opened upon the Russians, the victorious French threatened their flank, the Russian gunners limbered up and retired, and their infantry suddenly fell back.

On the right of the Light Division, General Sir De Lacy Evans had also been fighting sternly. The second division had advanced side by side with that of Prince Napoleon. The resistance which he encountered was obstinate, but more skilled in actual warfare than his brother generals, he covered his advance with the fire of eighteen guns, and so bore forward, suffering far less than the division on his left. He had, however, very heavy fighting before he gained the river. The village had been set on fire by the Russians, and the smoke and flames greatly incommoded the men as they fought their way through it. The 95th, however, dashed across the bridge under a storm of missiles, while the 55th and 30th waded through the river, and step by step won their way up the hill. Then the firing ceased, and the battle of Alma was won.

The force under the Russians consisted of some 37,000 men, of whom 3500 were cavalry. They had eighty guns, besides two light batteries of horse artillery. Inferior in number as they were, the discrepancy was more than outbalanced by the advantage of position, and had the troops on both sides been of equally good material, the honor of the day should have rested with the defenders.

The British loss consisted of 26 officers killed and 73 wounded, 327 men killed and 1557 wounded. The French had only 3 officers killed and 54 wounded, 253 men killed and 1033 wounded. The Turks were not engaged. The Russians lost 45 officers killed and 101 wounded, 1762 men killed and 2720 wounded. The Allied Army had 126 guns against 96 of the Russians; but the former, owing to the nature of the ground, played but a small part in the fight.

The whole of the loss fell upon a comparatively small number of the English regiments, and as the French had 9000 men in reserve who had not fired a shot, there was no season why the greater portion of the army, with all the cavalry, should not at once have followed on the track of the beaten Russians. Had they done so, the war in the Crimea would have been over in three days. That time, however, elapsed before a move was made. The reason assigned was the necessity of caring for the wounded and burying the dead. But this might have been committed to the hands of sailors and marines, of whom 5000 might have been landed at night; in which case the whole Allied Army could have marched at day break.

It was a sad sight when the four regiments of the Light Division mustered after their work was done. Hitherto in the confusion and fierce excitement of the fight, men marked not who stood and who fell. But now as the diminished regiments paraded, mere skeletons of the fine corps which had marched gayly from their camping-ground of the night before, the terrible extent of their losses was manifest. Tears rolled down the cheeks of strong men who had never flinched in the storm of fire, as they saw how many of their comrades were absent, and the glory of the victory was dimmed indeed by the sorrow for the dead.

"I wanted to see a battle," Harry Archer said to Captain Lancaster, who, like him, had gone through the fight without a scratch, "but this is more than I bargained for. To think of half one's friends and comrades gone, and all in about two hours' fighting. It has been a deadly affair, indeed."

"Yes, as far as we are concerned, Archer. But not for the whole army. I heard Doctor Alexander say just now that the casualties were about 1500, and that out of 27,000 men is a mere nothing to the proportion in many battles. The French have, I hear, lost rather less."

"I thought in a battle," Harry said, "one would see something of the general affair, but I certainly did not. In fact, from the time when we dashed up the river bank till the capture of the battery, I saw nothing. I knew there were some of our men by the side of me, and that we were all pushing forward, but beyond that I knew absolutely nothing. It was something like going through a tremendous thunder shower with one's head down, only a thousand times more so."

After parade the men scattered in groups; some went down to the river to fill their canteens, others strolled through the vineyards picking grapes, and in spite of the fact that in many places the dead lay thickly together, a careless laugh was sometimes heard. The regiments which had not been engaged were at work bringing in the wounded, and Doctor Alexander and his assistants were busy at the ghastly task of amputating limbs and extracting balls.

The next day a few officers from the fleet came up; among these was Hawtry, who was charged with a special mission from Jack, who could not again ask for leave, to inquire after his brother. The wounded were sent down in arabas and litters to the ships, a painful journey of three miles. The French wounded fared better, as they had well-appointed hospital vans. Seven hundred and fifty Russian wounded were collected and laid together, and were given in charge of the inhabitants of a Tartar village near; Dr. Thomson, of the 44th Regiment with a servant volunteering to remain in charge of them, with the certain risk of capture when the Russian troops returned after our departure.

On the morning of the 23d the army started, continuing its march along the road to Sebastopol, the way being marked not only by debris thrown away by the retreating Russians, but by the cottages and pretty villas having been sacked by the Cossacks as they retired.

The troops halted for the night at Katcha, where the French were reinforced by 8000 men who were landed from transports just arrived, and the English by the Scots Greys and the 57th. As it was found that the enemy had batteries along the northwest of the harbor of Sebastopol which would cause delay and trouble to invest, while the army engaged in the operation would have to draw all its provisions and stores from the harbor at the mouth of the Katcha River, it was determined to march round Sebastopol, and to invest it on the southern side, where the Russians, not expecting it, would have made but slight preparations for a resistance.

Towards the sea-face, Sebastopol was of immense strength, mounting seventeen guns at the Telegraph Battery, 104 at Fort Constantine, eighty at Fort Saint Michael, forty at battery No. 4, and some fifty others in smaller batteries. All these were on the north side of the harbor. On the southern side were the Quarantine Fort with fifty-one guns, Fort Alexander with sixty-four, the Arsenal Battery with fifty, Fort Saint Nicholas with 192, and Fort Paul with eighty. In addition to these tremendous defences, booms had been fixed across the mouth of the harbor, and a three-decker, three two-deckers, and two frigates sunk in a line, forming a formidable barrier against the entry of hostile ships. Besides all this, the whole of the Russian Black Sea fleet were in harbor, and prepared to take part in the defence against an attack by sea. Upon the other hand, Sebastopol was naturally weak on the land side. It lay in a hollow, and guns from the upper ground could everywhere search it.

At the time when the Allied Armies arrived before it the only defences were an old loop-holed wall, a battery of fourteen guns and six mortars, and one or two batteries which were as yet scarcely commenced.

The march from the Katcha to the south side was performed without interruption, and on the 26th, six days after the battle of Alma, the Allied Army reached their new position. According to arrangements, the British occupied the harbor of Balaklava, while the French took possession of Kamiesch and Kaznatch, as bases for the supply of their armies. At the mouth of Balaklava Harbor are the ruins of a Genoese fort standing 200 feet above the sea. This was supposed to be unoccupied. As the staff, however, were entering the town, they were astonished by four shells falling close to them.

The "Agamemnon," which was lying outside, at once opened fire, and the fort immediately hung out a flag of truce. The garrison consisted only of the commandant and sixty men. The officer, on being asked why he should have opened fire when he knew that the place could not be held, replied that he did so as he had not been summoned to surrender, and felt bound in honor to fire until he did so.

The British ships at once entered the harbor, and the disembarkation of the stores and siege-train commenced. The harbor of Balaklava was but ill-suited for the requirements of a large army. It was some half mile in length and a few hundred yards broad, and looked like a little inland lake, for the rocks rose precipitously at its mouth, and the passage through them made a bend, so that the outlet was not visible from a ship once fairly inside. The coast is steep and bold, the rocky cliff rising sheer up from the water's edge to heights varying from 400 to 2000 feet. A vessel coasting along it would not notice the narrow passage, or dream—on entering—that a harbor lay hidden behind. On either side of the harbor inside the hills rose steeply, on the left hand, so steeply, that that side was useless for the purposes of shipping. On the right hand there was a breadth of flat ground between the water and the hill, and here and upon the lower slopes stood the village of Balaklava. The valley extended for some distance beyond the head of the harbor, most of the ground being occupied with vineyards. Beyond was the wide rolling plain upon which the battles of Balaklava and Inkerman were to be fought. Taken completely by surprise, the inhabitants of Balaklava had made no attempt to escape, but upon the arrival of the British general, a deputation received him with presents of fruit and flowers.

By this time the fleet had come round, and the sailors were soon hard at work assisting to unload the transports and get the stores and siege materials on shore. It was reported that a marine battery was to be formed, and there was eager excitement on board as to the officers who would be selected. Each of the men-of-war contributed their quota, and Lieutenant Hethcote found that he had been told off as second in command, and that he was to take a midshipman and twenty men of the "Falcon."

The matter as to the midshipman was settled by Captain Stuart.

"You may as well take Archer," he said. "You won't like to ask for him because he's your cousin; but I asked for his berth, you know, and don't mind doing a little bit of favoritism this once."

And so, to Jack's intense delight, he found that he was to form a portion of the landing party.

These were in all 200 in number, and their work was, in the first place, to assist to get the heavy siege guns from the wharf to the front.

It is necessary that the position occupied by the Allies should be perfectly comprehended, in order to understand the battles and operations which subsequently took place. It may be described as a triangle with one bulging side. The apex of the triangle were the heights on the seashore, known as the Marine Heights.

Here, at a point some 800 feet above the sea, where a ravine broke the line of cliffs, was the camp of the marines, in a position almost impregnable against any enemy's force, following the seashore. On the land-slopes of the hills, down towards Balaklava, lay the Highland Brigade, guarding the approach from the plains from the Marine Heights to the mouth of Balaklava Valley, at the mouth of which were the camps of the cavalry, and not far off a sailor's camp with heavy guns and 800 men.

This side of the triangle continued along over the undulating ground, and some three miles farther, reached the right flank of the position of the Allies above Sebastopol, which formed the base of our imaginary triangle.

This position was a plateau, of which one side sloped down to Sebastopol; the end broke steeply off down into the valley of Inkerman, while behind the slopes were more gradual. To the left it fell away gradually towards the sea. This formed the third side of the triangle. But between Balaklava and Sebastopol the land made a wide bulge outwards, and in this bulge lay the French harbor of Kamiesch.

From the Marine Heights to the crest looking down upon Sebastopol was a distance of some seven miles. From the right of our position above Inkerman Valley to Kamiesch was about five miles.

A glance at the map will enable this explanation to be understood.

At the commencement of the siege the British were posted on the right of the Allies. This, no doubt, was the post of honor, but it threw upon them an enormous increase of work. In addition to defending Balaklava, it was upon them that the brunt of any assault by a Russian army acting in the field would fall. They would have an equal share of the trench-work, and had five miles to bring up their siege guns and stores; whereas the French harbor was close to their camp.

It was tremendous work getting up the guns, but soldiers and sailors willingly toiled away, pushing, and hauling, and aiding the teams, principally composed of bullocks, which had been brought up from Constantinople and other Turkish ports. Long lines of arabas, laden with provisions and stores, crawled slowly along between Balaklava and the front. Strings of mules and horses, laden with tents, and driven by men of every nationality bordering the Mediterranean, followed the same line.

Parties of soldiers, in fatigue suits, went down to Sebastopol to assist unloading the ships and bringing up stores. Parties of officers on ponies brought from Varna or other ports on the Black Sea, cantered down to make purchases of little luxuries on board the ships in the harbor, or from the Levantines, who had set up little shops near it. All was life and gayety.

"It is all very well, Mr. Archer," growled Dick Simpson, an old boatswain, as the men paused after helping to drag a heavy gun up one of the slopes, "in this here weather, but it won't be no laughing matter when the winter comes on. Why, these here fields would be just a sheet of mud. Why, bless you, last winter I was a staying with a brother of mine what farms a bit of land down in Norfolk, and after a week's rain they couldn't put the horses on to the fields. This here sile looks just similar, only richer and deeper, and how they means to get these big carts laden up through it, beats me altogether."

"Yes, Dick," Jack Archer answered, "but they expect to take the place before the winter comes on."

"They expects," the old tar repeated scornfully. "For my part, I don't think nothing of these soldier chaps. Why, I was up here with the first party as come, the day after we got here, and there warn't nothing in the world to prevent our walking into it. Here we've got 50,000 men, enough, sir, to have pushed those rotten old walls down with their hands, and here we be a-digging and a-shovelling on the hillside nigh a mile from the place, and the Russians are a-digging and a-shovelling just as hard at their side. I see 'em last night after we got back to camp. It seems to me as if these here generals wanted to give 'em time to make the place so strong as we cannot take it, before they begins. Why, it stands to reason that the Rooshians, who've got their guns all stored close at hand, their soldiers and their sailors handy, and no trouble as to provisions and stores, can run up works and arm them just about three times as fast as we can; and where shall we be at the end of three months? We shall be just a-shivering and a-shaking, and a-starving with cold, and short of grub on that 'ere hill; and the Rooshians will be comfortable in the town a-laughing at us. Don't tell me, Mr. Archer; my opinion is, these 'ere soldiers are no better than fools. They don't seem to have no common sense."

"I hope it's not as bad as all that, Dick," Jack laughed. "But it certainly does seem as if we were purposely giving the Russians time to strengthen themselves. But you'll see when we go at them we shall make short work of them."

"Well, I hope so, Mr. Archer," Dick Simpson said, shaking his head ominously, "but I'm dubious about it."

By this time the oxen and men had recovered their breath, and they again set to at their tiresome work. Although the weather was fine and the position of the camps high and healthy, the cholera which had ravaged their ranks at Varna still followed them, and during the three first weeks in the Crimea, the Allies lost as many men from this cause as they had done in the Battle of Alma.

By the 4th of October forty pieces of heavy artillery had been brought up to the front, and the work of the trenches began in earnest.

On the morning of the 10th the Russian batteries for the first time opened a heavy fire upon us. But the distance was too great for much harm to be done. On the 11th the Russians made their first sortie, which was easily repulsed.

On the 17th of October the bombardment commenced. The French and English had 117 guns in position, the Russians 130. The fire commenced at half-past six. By 8.40 a French magazine at the extreme right blew up, killing and wounding 100 men, while the French fire at this part was crushed by that of the Russians opposed to them. All day, however, the cannonade continued unabating on both sides, the men-of-war aiding the land forces by engaging the forts.

During the night the Russians, having plenty of guns at hand, and labor in abundance, mounted a larger number of guns, and their superiority was so marked that the bombardment was gradually discontinued, and even the most sanguine began to acknowledge that an enormous mistake had been made in not attacking upon our arrival, and that it was impossible to say how long the siege would last. Ammunition, too, was already running short.

For the next day or two, however, our guns continued their fire. But the French had been so completely overpowered by the heavy Russian metal that they were unable to assist us. The sailors had had their full share of work during the bombardment. Captain Peel, who commanded the party, was just the man to get the greatest possible amount of work from them. Always in high spirits, taking his full share in all the work, and exposing himself recklessly in the heaviest fire, he was almost idolized by his men.

Jack Archer lived in a tent with five other midshipmen, and was attended upon by one of the fore-top men, who, not having been told off for the party, had begged permission to go in that capacity.

Tom Hammond was the most willing of servants, but his abilities were by no means equal to his good-will. His ideas of cooking were of the vaguest kind. The salt junk was either scarcely warm through, or was boiled into a soup. The preserved potatoes were sometimes burned from his neglect of putting sufficient water, or he had forgotten to soak them beforehand, and they resembled bits of gravel rather than vegetables. Sometimes the boys laughed, sometimes they stormed, and Tom was more than once obliged to beat a rapid retreat to escape a volley of boots and other missiles.

At first the tent was pitched in the usual way on the ground; but one of the boys, in a ramble through the camp, had seen an officer's tent prepared in a way which added greatly to its comfort, and this they at once adopted. Tom Hammond was set to dig a hole of eighteen inches smaller diameter than the circle of the tent. It was three feet in depth, with perpendicular sides. At nine inches from the edge a trench a foot deep was dug. In the centre was an old flour barrel filled with earth. Upon this stood the tent-pole. The tent was brought down so as to extend six inches into the ditch, the nine-inch rim of earth standing inside serving as a shelf on which to put odds and ends. A wall of sods, two feet high, was erected round the outside of the little ditch. Thus a comfortable habitation was formed. The additional three feet of height added greatly to the size of the tent, as the occupants could now stand near the edges instead of in the centre only. It was much warmer than before at night, and all draught was excluded by the tent overlapping the ditch, and by the wall outside. A short ladder at the entrance enabled them to get in and out.

Tom Hammond had grumbled at first at the labor which this freak of his masters entailed. But as the work went on and he saw how snug and comfortable was the result, he took a pride in it, and the time was not far off when its utility was to become manifest. Indeed, later on in the winter the greater portion of the tents were got up in this manner.

The camp of the Light Division was not far from that of the sailors, and the two brothers were often together. Fortunately both of them had so far escaped the illnesses which had already decimated the army.

CHAPTER VIII. BALAKLAVA

On the morning of the 25th Harry ran into Jack's tent.

"Wake up, Jack, there is a row down near Balaklava. The Russians are coming on in force. You're off duty, are you not? So am I. We only came out of the trenches half an hour ago. Hurry on your things and come along."

Jack was only a minute or two getting into his clothes, the other midshipmen off duty also hurrying up. Tom Hammond brought in four cups of hot coffee, which they drank hastily, and then munching their hard biscuits as they went, the party of four hurried off.

On reaching the edge of the plateau the whole scene was visible. On four knolls in the plain, redoubts had been erected, and these were garrisoned by the Turks. Some two miles out ran the little river called the Tchernaya, which runs through the valley of Inkerman into the head of the harbor of Sebastopol, and upon this a body of Russian troops had been for some time encamped. Large bodies of the enemy were known to be gathered on the Mackenzie heights, a range of hills which bounded the plain upon the opposite side. These had been strongly reinforced, and at daybreak the Russian army, having gathered at the Tchernaya, advanced upon the Turkish redoubts. The scene when the boys reached the edge of the plateau was a stirring one. Great bodies of infantry were marching across the undulating plain. Strong regiments of cavalry swept hither and thither, and two batteries of light guns had already opened on the redoubts. Lines of British infantry could be seen drawn up at the foot of the slopes from Balaklava to the Marine Heights, where the marines were getting the guns in a position to command the plain. Solid bodies of British cavalry were drawn up near the mouth of the valley. The drums and bugles were sounding all over the plateau behind the group, and the troops were already forming up, and staff-officers were dashing about with orders.

"There goes my regimental call," Harry said. "I must go back again, Jack."

"I shall push on," Jack said. "Come along, you fellows, we're too far off to see much of it here. Let us get down as near Balaklava as we can."

So saying, the midshipmen set off at a run. For a few minutes the guns of No. 1 redoubt, the farthest out of all, replied to the Russian fire, and then the Turks, menaced by overwhelming forces, and beyond the possibility of any assistance, left their guns and bolted across the plain towards the second redoubt. Few of them, however, reached it, for the Russian cavalry swooped down on them and nearly all were sabred as they ran. As soon as the Russians obtained possession of the redoubt they turned its guns upon the British, and the 93d Highlanders who were drawn up in front of the entrance to the Balaklava valley, were forced to fall back. Our cavalry, which were formed up in a slight dip of the ground, were invisible to the enemy. As the Russians advanced, the Turks in the second redoubt fled towards the third, but the Russian cavalry were too quick for them, and but few escaped. The guns were turned by the Russians upon the third redoubt, and, untaught by the fate of their comrades that it was safer to stand than to run, the Turks here also bolted, and ran for the town. Again did the Russian cavalry sweep down. The naval guns from the Marine Heights, the French and Turkish batteries on the road up to the camp in vain spoke out, and sent their shot and shell far out on the plain. The distance was too great, and many of the Turks were cut down, the rest reaching our lines where they formed up behind the 93d.

By this time the whole sweep from the Sebastopol plateau to Balaklava was alive with spectators. The British infantry were drawn up ready to defend their position or to march down and take part in a general battle. Heavy columns of the French were marching from their distant camps, while groups of generals and mounted officers watched the progress of the fight. Lord Raglan and General Canrobert, who now commanded the French (Marshal St. Arnaud having gone on board ship a day or two after the battle of the Alma, where he died two days later), had taken up their position on some rising ground above Kadikoi, a village which lay near the mouth of the Balaklava valley.

As the Russian cavalry on the left of their advance crowned the slope they saw the Highlanders drawn up in line across the plain. They halted till joined by numbers of other squadrons. Then they dashed at the Highlanders. As they came sweeping in magnificent array the Turks fired a volley and bolted. The Highlanders stood firm and immovable. When the Russians came within 600 yards, a long flash of fire ran along the British front. The distance, however, was too great, and the Russians came steadily on, although the shot from the British batteries were plunging thick among them.

When within 250 yards of the Highlanders another flash of fire swept out along the line, and this time so great was the effect that the Russian squadrons recoiled, and in another minute were galloping back towards their main body, while a cheer ran along the heights from the marine battery to Sebastopol.

Lord Raglan now sent orders to Lord Lucan to advance, and the Heavy Brigade moved forward just as a large body of Russian cavalry came over the brow in front of them. The British trumpets rang out the charge, and the Scots Greys and Inniskillings, who formed the first line of the Heavy Brigade, dashed at the enemy. Gathering speed as they went, these two splendid regiments rode at the heavy masses of Russian cavalry. Faster and faster grew their speed till, with a mighty shout, they flung themselves upon the foe. For a moment all seemed wild confusion to the spectators. Redcoats and black were inextricably mixed together, and over them like a play of rapid lightning was the flash of steel as the swords rose and fell. Presently the Redcoats were seen emerging from the rear, having cut their way through the surging mass. The flanks of the Russian column, however, were lapping them in, and it seemed that the little body would be annihilated, when the 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards, forming the second line of the Heavy Brigade, burst upon them like a torrent. Smitten, as if by a thunderbolt, the Russian cavalry, men and horses, rolled over before the stroke, and the column, shattered and broken into fragments, galloped away to the shelter of their infantry, while a roar of triumph arose from long lines of the allies.

By this time the French infantry had arrived upon the ground, and Balaklava was safe. Then came the episode by which the battle of Balaklava is best known, the famous charge of the Six Hundred. An order was sent from Lord Raglan to Lord Lucan to advance the light cavalry farther. Captain Nolan, who bore the order, was himself a light cavalry officer of great enterprise and distinction, and who had an unlimited faith in the powers of British light cavalry. Excited probably by the sight of the glorious feat achieved by the "heavies," and burning to see it emulated by his comrades of the light regiments, he so gave the order to Lord Lucan that the latter conceived it to be his duty to charge. The order was simply to advance, but when Lord Lucan asked him, "How far are we to advance?" he replied, pointing to the Russians, "There are the enemy and there are the guns."

Lord Lucan, conceiving that his orders were absolute, ordered Lord Cardigan to advance upon the guns. Lord Cardigan saw at once the desperate nature of the enterprise. The guns were a mile and a half distant, backed by the whole Russian army. The line to be ridden over was swept not only by the fire of the guns he was about to charge, but by those of other batteries on the flank. No support was possible, for the heavy cavalry were at this time far away, executing a movement which had been ordered. Lastly, even if successful, the charge could be attended with no great results, as it would be impossible either to hold or carry away the guns.

The enterprise was indeed a desperate one. Lord Cardigan gave the order, and the Light Brigade, numbering in all but the strength of a single regiment, set out at a trot towards the distant Russians. As they approached they quickened their speed, and the spectators saw with feelings of mixed horror and admiration, the enterprise on which they had embarked. When at the distance of 1200 yards from the Russians, thirty pieces of artillery opened fire upon them. Men and horses rolled over before the iron shower, but the squadrons closed up their gaps and rode straight forward, with sabres flashing in the sun, leaving the plain behind them dotted with killed and wounded.

Again, as they neared the battery, the iron shower swept through their ranks; then with a mighty shout they dashed upon the guns. Brief was the struggle here. The Russian gunners were cut down, and gathering together, boot to boot, the British cavalry rode straight at a Russian line of infantry which formed up 100 yards behind the guns, poured a volley into them. There was no pause, but straight, and with the shock of an avalanche, they hurled themselves at the Russians. There was a yell, a crash, the clash of sabre on bayonet, the shout of the victor, the scream of the dying, and the British horsemen burst through the Russian line. Their work was done. They were conquerors, but alone in an army of enemies. Turning now, they swept back again through the guns on their homeward way. The flank batteries belched their fire upon them, the rattle of musketry sounded round them, a regiment of cavalry was hurled upon their flanks, but these, weak as they were, they dashed aside, and wounded and bleeding, the remnant of the gallant band rode on until met by the Heavy Brigade, advancing to assist them and cover their retreat.

Our infantry now made a forward movement. The Russians fell back, and at half-past eleven the battle of Balaklava was over. While the British charge was going on, 200 of the French cavalry made a brilliant charge on the left and carried a battery, but had to retreat with a loss of two captains, and fifty men killed and wounded. Our loss in all was thirteen officers killed or taken, and twenty-seven officers wounded, 162 men killed or taken, and 224 men wounded. There were 394 horses killed or missing, and 126 horses wounded. The Russians carried off some ten guns from the redoubts which they captured in the morning.

Jack and his friends returned at the conclusion of the fight to camp, where, as they had rather expected, they met with a severe reprimand for their absence, being told that upon such an occasion, whether off duty or not, their duty was to remain in camp. Captain Peel indeed, was nearly sending them back to their ships again. But after a very severe reprimand he allowed them to remain. The boys went back to their tent somewhat crestfallen, but agreed that such a sight as they had witnessed was worth anything.

October ended, and the batteries of besieged and besiegers continued to play, the Russians causing much annoyance by the heavy shell which they threw up from their mortars; the battery worked by the blue-jackets suffering particularly. The Russians had now 240 guns in their new works, a number far superior to those of the allies. As yet no damage whatever had been inflicted on the enemy's works. Each day their faces were pitted with shot, each night the Russians repaired the damages. In the mean time the Russians had received very large reinforcements. Two of the Imperial Grand Dukes had also arrived, and they were preparing for an attempt to sweep the allies into the sea. The weather had set in wet; the soldiers were weakened by their incessant work in the trenches, by wet and exposure, and the strength of many of the regiments was greatly reduced by disease. All hopes of capturing the fortress and returning to Constantinople to winter were now at an end, and the roads having become mere quagmires, the supplies of food and of fuel were growing scanty. On the 3d, Jack had been sent down to Balaklava with a despatch from Captain Peel to Admiral Lyons. Mr. Hethcote lent him his pony, and having delivered his message in the guard-ship in the harbor, whence it would be taken out to the "Agamemnon," Jack went on board some of the transports, and discharged a number of commissions with which he had been intrusted by his comrades. So numerous were they that he was obliged to get a couple of sacks which were completely filled with hams, bottled stout, fresh bread, potted meats, brandy, matches, and tobacco. He had, too, succeeded in purchasing several waterproof sheets and tarpaulins, and these being fastened on the top of the sacks, were placed upon the pony's back, and, taking his bridle, Jack started through the mud for his long tramp back to camp, for it was quite out of the question that the pony could carry him in addition to these burdens. Not a little laughter was excited on his arrival, and there was quite a rush of the various officers to procure their share of Jack's purchases, for no officer had been down to Balaklava for a fortnight, and the stores of luxuries were completely exhausted.

Next night Jack and his messmates gave a grand entertainment. Harry and two other lieutenants of the 33d—for the battle of the Alma had made so many death vacancies in the regiment that he had obtained his promotion—were there, and two young officers of the 30th who were cousins of one of Jack's tentmates. It certainly was a close pack. Tom Hammond had obtained some planks, and, laying these on the flour barrel, had contrived a sort of circular table, round which the parties sat with their backs to the wall, on boxes, empty preserved potato tins, rum kegs, and portmanteaus. There was no room for Tom to enter the tent, so the full dishes were handed in through the entrance, and the empty ones passed out. Each guest of course brought his own plate, knife, fork, spoon, and drinking tin. As for a change of plates, no one dreamed of such a thing.

Outside, the night set in wet and gloomy, but four tallow candles stuck in bottles threw a grand illumination.

The first course was pea-soup. It smelt good, but it had a suspicious appearance, globules of grease floated upon its surface. All fell to with a will, but with the first spoonful there was a general explosion.

"What on earth is this, Jack?" Harry exclaimed.

"What the deuce is it?" another said. "It is filthy!"

While one of the young officers of the 30th exclaimed to his cousin, "Confound it, Ned! you haven't brought us here to poison us, have you?"

This explosion was followed by a simultaneous shout for Tom by his six angry masters.

The top-man put his head in at the slit.

"What the deuce have you been doing to this soup?" roared the indignant chorus.

"Soup, your honors? Nothing."

"Nothing! Don't tell me, you ruffian!" exclaimed Allison, the oldest of the midshipmen. "It's poison! What have you been doing to it?"

"Well, your honor, the only way I can account for it is that a while ago I took off the lid to see if it was boiling nicely, when a bit of tallow candle I had in my fingers slipped and fell into it. I couldn't get it out, though I scalded my fingers in trying, and it just melted away in no time. I skimmed the fat off the top, your honors, and didn't think it would make no matter."

The shout of laughter which greeted the explanation was loud and general.

"You're a scoundrel, Tom!" Allison said, "and I shall have to ask Mr. Hethcote to disrate you, and get some one here who is not a born idiot. Here, take this horrible mess away! Pour the contents of your plates back into the pot, boys, and put the plates together. You must wash them, Tom, or the tallow will taste in everything we have."

The things were passed out of the tent, and after five minutes the plates were returned, and with them a great tin piled up with Irish stew, the contents of five tins. A cheer rose as the smell of the food greeted their nostrils.

"Hurrah! This is something like! I don't think there's any mistake this time."

Nor was there. The stew was unanimously voted to be perfect, and Tom was again called to the tent-door, and solemnly forgiven.

Then came fried rashers of ham, eaten with hard biscuit. Then came the great triumph of the banquet—a great plum-pudding, which had been sent out from England in a tin, ready cooked, and which had only required an hour's boiling to warm it through.

In order to eat this in what the midshipmen called proper style, a tin pannikin half filled with brandy was held over the candles, and the brandy being then ignited, was poured over the pudding. Not a scrap of this was left when the party had finished, and the table being cleared, pipes were brought out and lighted; the drinking-cups refilled with grog, and the party set-to to enjoy a long evening.

"It is a beastly night," the one sitting next to the door said, peering out into the darkness. "It is a fine rain, or rather a Scotch mist, so thick I can hardly see the next tent. It will be as much as you fellows will be able to do to find your way back to your camps.

"Now," Allison said, "let us make ourselves comfortable. It is only seven o'clock yet, and you've got three hours before 'lights out.' It's my duty as president of the mess to call upon some one for a song, but as I'm a good fellow I will set the example myself. Upon the present occasion we can't do better than begin with 'The Red, White, and Blue,' and, mind, a good chorus every one. Any one shirking the chorus will have no share of the next round of grog, and any one who does not sing when called upon, or who attempts to make any base explanations or excuses, will have to drink his tin full of salt and water."

Without further delay Allison began his song, one very popular at that time. There was no occasion for him to use his authority as president in the infliction of fines, for every one in turn, when called upon, did his best, and the choruses were heard over the whole of the naval camp.

"Hullo! What's all this noise about?" said a cheery voice presently, as a head was put through the opening of the tent.

The midshipmen all jumped to their feet.

"We are having a jollification, sir," Allison said, "on the things Archer brought up from Balaklava yesterday. Are we making too much noise, sir?"

"Not a bit, lads," the first lieutenant said. "It's cheerful to hear you. It isn't much enjoyment that we get on this bleak plateau. Well, good-night. You mustn't keep it up after 'lights out,' you know."

"That's something like a first lieutenant," Allison said, when Mr. Hethcote had retired. "Most of them look as if they'd swallowed a ramrod, and treat middies as if they were the dust of the earth. I'm quite sure that a man who is genial and nice gets his work done ever so much better than do those stand-off fellows. I see in your camp," he said to the officers, "colonels and majors standing and chatting to the young officers just as pleasantly and freely as a party of gentlemen on shore. Why the captain of a ship should hold himself as if he were a little god, is a thing I have never been able to make out. I'm sure you fellows obey orders on parade none the less promptly and readily because the colonel has been chatting with you in the mess-room half an hour before. But don't let us waste time. Archer, it's your turn for a song."

And so merrily the hours passed away, until it was time to break up and put out the lights. And as the young fellows laughed and sung, while the mist and rain came down pitilessly outside, they little thought what was preparing for the morrow, or dreamed that the churches in Sebastopol were crowded with Russian soldiers praying the saints to give them victory on the morrow, and to aid them to drive the enemies of the Czar into the sea.

CHAPTER IX. INKERMAN

It was soon after five in the morning when the pickets of the second division, keeping such watch as they were able in the misty light, while the rain fell steadily and thickly, dimly perceived a gray mass moving up the hill from the road at the end of the harbor. Although this point was greatly exposed to attack, nothing had been done to strengthen the position. A few lines of earthworks, a dozen guns in batteries, would have made the place secure from a sudden attack. But not a sod had been turned, and the steep hillside lay bare and open to the advance of an enemy.

Although taken by surprise, and wholly ignorant of the strength of the force opposed to them, the pickets stood their ground, but before the heavy masses of men clambering up the hill, they could do nothing, and were forced to fall back, contesting every foot.

Almost simultaneously, the pickets of the light division were also driven in, and General Codrington, who happened to be making his rounds at the front, at once sent a hurried messenger to the camp with the report that the Russians were attacking in force. The second division was that encamped nearest to the threatened spot. General Pennefather, who, as Sir De Lacy Evans was ill on board ship, was in command, called the men who had just turned out of their tents, and were beginning as best they could to light their fires of soaked wood, to stand to their arms, and hurried forward General Adam's brigade, consisting of the 41st, 47th, and 49th, to the brow of the hill to check the advance of the enemy by the road from the valley, while with his own brigade, consisting of the 30th, 55th, and 95th, he took post on their flank. Already, however, the Russians had got their guns on to the high ground, and these opened a tremendous fire on the British troops.

Sir George Cathcart brought up such portions of the 20th, 21st, 46th, 57th, 63d, and 68th regiments as were not employed in the trenches, and occupied the ground to the right of the second division. General Codrington, with part of the 7th, 23d, and 33d, took post to cover the extreme of our right attack. General Buller's brigade was to support the second division on the left, while Jeffrey's brigade, with the 80th regiment, was pushed forward into the brushwood. The third division, under Sir R. England, was held in reserve. The Duke of Cambridge, with the Guards, advanced on the right of the second division to the edge of the plateau overlooking the valley of the Tchernaya, Sir George Cathcart's division being on his right.

There was no manoeuvring. Each general led his men forward through the mist and darkness against an enemy whose strength was unknown, and whose position was only indicated by the flash of his guns and the steady roll of his musketry. It was a desperate strife between individual regiments and companies scattered and broken in the thick brushwood, and the dense columns of gray-clad Russians, who advanced from the mist to meet them. Few orders were given or needed. Each regiment was to hold the ground on which it stood, or die there.

Sir George Cathcart led his men down a ravine in front of him, but the Russians were already on the hillside above, and poured a terrible fire into the 63d. Turning, he cheered them on, and led them back up the hill; surrounded and enormously outnumbered, the regiments suffered terribly on their way back, Sir George Cathcart and many of his officers and vast numbers of the men being killed. The 88th were surrounded, and would have been cut to pieces, when four companies of the 77th charged the Russians, and broke a way of retreat for their comrades.

The Guards were sorely pressed; a heavy Russian column bore down upon them, and bayonet to bayonet, the men strove fiercely with their foes. The ammunition failed, but they still clung to a small, unarmed battery called the Sand-bag battery, in front of their portion, and with volleys of stones tried to check their foes. Fourteen officers and half the men were down, and yet they held the post till another Russian column appeared in their rear. Then they fell back, but, reinforced by a wing of the 20th, they still opposed a resolute front to the Russians.

Not less were the second division pressed; storms of shot and bullets swept through them, column after column of grey-clad Russians surged up the hill and flung themselves upon them; but, though suffering terribly, the second division still held their ground. The 41st was well-nigh cut to pieces, the 95th could muster but sixty-four bayonets when the fight was over, and the whole division, when paraded when the day was done, numbered but 800 men.

But this could not last. As fast as one assault was repulsed, fresh columns of the enemy came up the hill to the attack, our ammunition was failing, the men exhausted with the struggle, and the day was well-nigh lost when, at nine o'clock, the French streamed over the brow of the hill on our right in great force, and fell upon the flank of the Russians. Even now the battle was not won. The Russians brought up their reserves, and the fight still raged along the line. For another three hours the struggle went on, and then, finding that even the overwhelming numbers and the courage with which their men fought availed not to shake the defence, the Russian generals gave up the attack, and the battle of Inkerman was at an end.

On the Russian side some 35,000 men were actually engaged, with reserves of 15,000 more in their rear; while the British, who for three hours withstood them, numbered but 8500 bayonets. Seven thousand five hundred of the French took part in the fight. Forty-four British officers were killed, 102 wounded; 616 men killed, 1878 wounded. The French had fourteen officers killed, and thirty-four wounded; 118 men killed, 1299 wounded. These losses, heavy as they were, were yet small by the side of those of the Russians. Terrible, indeed, was the destruction which the fire of our men inflicted upon the dense masses of the enemy. The Russians admitted that they lost 247 officers killed and wounded, 4076 men killed, 10,162 wounded. In this battle the British had thirty-eight, the French eighteen guns engaged. The Russians had 106 guns in position.

Jack Archer and his comrades were still in bed, when the first dropping shots, followed by a heavy roll of musketry, announced that the Russians were upon them. Accustomed to the roar or guns, they slept on, till Tom Hammond rushed into the tent.

"Get up, gentlemen, get up. The Russian army has climbed up the hill, and is attacking us like old boots. The bugles are sounding the alarm all over the camps."

In an instant the lads were out of bed, and their dressing took them scarce a minute.

"I can't see ten yards before me," Jack said, as he rushed out. "By Jove, ain't they going it!"

Every minute added to the din, till the musketry grew into one tremendous roar, above which the almost unbroken roll of the cannon could scarce by heard. Along the whole face of the trenches the batteries of the allies joined in the din; for it was expected that the Russians would seize the opportunity to attack them also.

In a short time the fusillade of musketry broke out far to the left, and showed that the Russians were there attacking the French lines. The noise was tremendous, and all in camp were oppressed by the sound which told of a mighty conflict raging, but of which they could see absolutely nothing.

"This is awful," Jack said. "Here they are pounding away at each other, and we as much out of it as if we were a thousand miles away. Don't I wish Captain Peel would march us all down to help!"

But in view of the possible sortie, it would have been dangerous to detach troops from their places on the trenches and batteries, and the sailors had nothing to do but to wait, fuming over their forced inaction while a great battle was raging close at hand. Overhead the Russian balls sang in swift succession, sometimes knocking down a tent, sometimes throwing masses of earth into the air, sometimes bursting with a sharp detonation above them; and all this time the rain fell, and the mist hung like a veil around them. Presently a mounted officer rode into the sailor's camp.

"Where am I?" he said. "I have lost my way."

"This is the marine camp." Captain Peel said, stepping forward to him as he drew rein. "How is the battle going, sir?"

"Very badly, I'm afraid. We are outnumbered by five to one. Our men are fighting like heroes, but they are being fairly borne down by numbers. The Russians have got a tremendous force of artillery on to the hills, which we thought inaccessible to guns. There has been gross carelessness on our part, and we are paying for it now. I am looking for the third division camp; where is it?"

"Straight ahead, sir; but I think they have all gone forward. We heard them tramping past in the mist."

"I am ordered to send every man forward; every musket is of value. How many men have you here in case you are wanted?"

"We have only fifty," Captain Peel said. "The rest are all in the battery, and I dare not move forward without absolute orders, as we may be wanted to reinforce them, if the enemy makes a sortie."

The officer rode on, and the sailors stood in groups behind the line of piled muskets, ready for an instant advance, if called upon.

Another half-hour passed, and the roll of fire continued unabated.

"It is certainly nearer than it was," Captain Peel said to Mr. Hethcote. "No orders have come, but I will go forward myself and see what is doing. Even our help, small as it is, may be useful at some critical point. I will take two of the midshipmen with me, and will send you back news of what is doing."

"Mr. Allison and Mr. Archer, you will accompany Captain Peel," Mr. Hethcote said.

And the two youngsters, delighted at being chosen, prepared to start at once.

"If they send up for reinforcements from the battery, Mr. Hethcote, you will move the men down at once, without waiting for me. Take every man down, even those on duty as cooks. There is no saying how hard we may be pressed."

Followed by the young midshipmen, Captain Peel strode away through the mist, which was now heavy with gunpowder-smoke. They passed through the camp of the second division, which was absolutely deserted, except that there was a bustle round the hospital marquées, to which a string of wounded, some carried on stretchers, some making their way painfully on foot, was flowing in.

Many of the tents had been struck down by the Russian shot; black heaps showed where others had been fired by the shell. Dimly ahead, when the mist lifted, could be seen bodies of men, while on a distant crest were the long lines of Russian guns, whose fire swept the British regiments.

"I suppose these regiments are in reserve?" Jack said, as he passed some of Sir R. England's division, lying down in readiness to move to the front when required, most of the battalions having already gone forward to support the troops who were most pressed.

Presently Captain Peel paused on a knoll, close to a body of mounted officers.

"There's Lord Raglan," Allison said, nudging Jack. "That's the headquarter staff."

At that moment a shell whizzed through the air, and exploded in the centre of the group.

Captain Gordon's horse was killed, and a portion of the shell carried away the leg of General Strangeway. The old general never moved, but said quietly,—

"Will any one be kind enough to lift me off my horse?"

He was laid down on the ground, and presently carried to the rear, where an hour afterwards he died.

Jack and his comrades, who were but a few yards away, felt strange and sick, for it was the first they had seen of battle close at hand. Lord Raglan, with his staff, moved slowly forward. Captain Peel asked if he should bring up his sailors, but was told to hold them in reserve, as the force in the trenches had already been fearfully weakened.

"Stay here," Captain Peel said to the midshipmen. "I shall go forward a little, but do you remain where you are until I return. Just lie down behind the crest. You will get no honor if you are hit here."

The lads were not sorry to obey, for a perfect hail of bullets was whistling through the air. The mist had lifted still farther, and they could obtain a sight of the whole line along which the struggle was raging, scarce a quarter of a mile in front of them. Sometimes the remnants of a regiment would fall back from the front, when a fresh battalion from the reserves came up to fill its place, then forming again, would readvance into the thick belt of smoke which marked where the conflict was thickest. Sometimes above the roll of musketry would come the sharp rattle which told of a volley by the British rifles.

Well was it that two out of the three divisions were armed with Minies, for these created terrible havoc among the Russians, whose smooth-bores were no match for these newly-invented weapons.

With beating hearts the boys watched the conflict, and could mark that the British fire grew feebler, and in some places ceased altogether, while the wild yells of the Russians rose louder as they pressed forward exultingly, believing that victory lay within their grasp.

"Things look very bad, Jack," Allison said. "Ammunition is evidently failing, and it is impossible for our fellows to hold out much longer against such terrible odds. What on earth are the French doing all this time? Our fellows have been fighting single-handed for the last three hours. What in the world can they be up to?"

And regardless of the storm of bullets, he leaped to his feet and looked round.

"Hurrah, Jack! Here they come, column after column. Ten more minutes and they'll be up. Hurry up, you lubbers," he shouted in his excitement; "every minute is precious, and you've wasted time enough, surely. By Jove, they're only just in time. There are the Guards falling back. Don't you see their bearskins?"

"They are only just in time," Jack agreed, as he stood beside his comrade. "Another quarter of an hour and they would have had to begin the battle afresh, for there would have been none of our fellows left. Hurrah! hurrah!" he cried, as, with a tremendous volley and a ringing shout, the French fell upon the flank of the Russians.

The lads had fancied that before that onslaught the Russians must have given way at once. But no. Fresh columns of troops topped the hill, fresh batteries took the place of those which had suffered most heavily by the fire of our guns, and the fight raged as fiercely as ever. Still, the boys had no fear of the final result. The French were fairly engaged now, and from their distant camps fresh columns of troops could be seen streaming across the plateau.

Upon our allies now fell the brunt of the fight, and the British, wearied and exhausted, were able to take a short breathing-time. Then, with pouches refilled and spirits heightened, they joined in the fray again, and, as the fight went on, the cheers of the British and the shouts of the French rose louder, while the answering yell of the Russians grew fainter and less frequent. Then the thunder of musketry sensibly diminished. The Russian artillery-men were seen to be withdrawing their guns, and slowly and sullenly the infantry fell back from the ground which they had striven so hard to win.

It was a heavy defeat, and had cost them 15,000 men; but, at least, it had for the time saved Sebastopol; for, with diminished forces, the British generals saw that all hopes of carrying the place by assault before the winter were at an end and that it would need all their effort to hold their lines through the months of frost and snow which were before them.

When the battle was over, Captain Peel returned to the point where he had left the midshipmen, and these followed him back to the camp, where, however, they were not to stay, for every disposable man was at once ordered out to proceed with stretchers to the front to bring in wounded.

Terrible was the sight indeed. In many places the dead lay thickly piled on the ground, and the manner in which Englishmen, Russians, and Frenchmen lay mixed together showed how the tide of battle had ebbed and flowed, and how each patch of ground had been taken and retaken again and again. Here Russians and grenadiers lay stretched side by side, sometimes with their bayonets still locked in each other's bodies. Here, where the shot and shell swept most fiercely, lay the dead, whose very nationality was scarcely distinguishable, so torn and mutilated were they.

Here a French Zouave, shot through the legs, was sitting up, supporting on his breast the head of his dying officer. A little way off, a private of the 88th, whose arm had been carried away, besought the searchers to fill and light his pipe for him, and to take the musket out of the hand of a wounded Russian near, who, he said, had three times tried to get it up to fire at him as he lay.

In other cases, Russians and Englishmen had already laid aside their enmity, and were exchanging drinks from their water-bottles.

Around the sand-bag battery, which the Guards had held, the dead lay thicker than elsewhere on the plateau; while down in the ravine where Cathcart had led his men, the bodies of the 63d lay heaped together. The sailors had, before starting, fill their bottles with grog, and this they administered to friend and foe indiscriminately, saving many a life ebbing fast with the flow of blood. The lads moved here and there, searching for the wounded among the dead, awed and sobered by the fearful spectacle. More than one dying message was breathed into their ears; more than one ring or watch given to them to send to dear ones at home. All through the short winter day they worked, aided by strong parties of the French who had not been engaged; and it was a satisfaction to know that, when night fell, the greater portion of the wounded, British and French, had been carried off the field. As for the Russians, those who fell on the plateau received equal care with the allies; but far down among the bushes that covered the hillside lay hundreds of wounded wretches whom no succor, that day at least, could be afforded.

The next day the work of bringing in the Russian wounded was continued, and strong fatigue parties were at work, digging great pits, in which the dead were laid those of each nationality being kept separate.

The British camps, on the night after Inkerman, afforded a strong contrast to the scene which they presented the night before. No merry laugh arose from the men crouched round the fires; no song sounded through the walls of the tents. There was none of the joy and triumph of victory; the losses which had been suffered were so tremendous as to overpower all other feeling. Of the regiments absolutely engaged, fully one-half had fallen; and the men and officers chatted in hushed voices over the good fellows who had gone, and of the chances of those who lay maimed and bleeding in the hospital tents.

To his great relief, Jack had heard, early in the afternoon, that the 33d had not been hotly engaged, and that his brother was unwounded. The two young officers of the 30th, who had, a few hours before, been spending the evening so merrily in the tent, had both fallen, as had many of the friends in the brigade of Guards whose acquaintance he had made on board the "Ripon," and in the regiments which, being encamped near by the sailors, he had come to know.

Midshipmen are not given to moralizing, but it was not in human nature that the lads, as they gathered in their tent that evening, should not talk over the sudden change which so few hours had wrought. The future of the siege, too, was discussed, and it was agreed that they were fixed where they were for the winter.

The prospect was a dreary one, for if they had had so many discomforts to endure hitherto, what would it be during the next four months on that bleak plateau? For themselves, however, they were indifferent in this respect, as it was already known the party on shore would be shortly relieved.

CHAPTER X. THE GREAT STORM

Two days after the battle of Inkerman, the party of sailors who manned the batteries before Sebastopol were relieved by a fresh set from on board the men-of-war. Some of those who had been away at the front returned on board ship, while others, among whom was Jack Archer, were ordered to join the camp at the marine heights above Balaklava, to fill the places of some men invalided on board ship.

The change was, in some respects, an agreeable one; in others, the reverse. The position was very high and exposed to wind; but, on the other hand, the men, being able to obtain materials at Balaklava, had constructed warm shelters. The ravines below were well wooded, and they were consequently enabled to keep up cheerful fires; whereas at the front the supply of fuel barely sufficed to cook the food, and was almost useless for any purposes of warmth. There was far less privation here, for Balaklava lay within twenty minutes' walk, and stores of all kinds could be bought on board the ships. There was, too, an entire absence of the heavy and continuous work in the wet trenches. The great drawback to the position was, indeed, the absence of excitement and change, and the quiet seemed almost preternatural after the almost continual boom of cannon at the front.

Jack was pleased to find his chum Hawtry on duty at the height.

"This is a grand view, Hawtry," he said, as he stood at the edge of the cliff the morning after his arrival.

Below at his feet lay a great fleet of transports. To the left the cliffs stretched away, wild and precipitous, rising to heights far greater than the point at which they stood, some 600 feet above the sea. On his right the hill sloped gradually down to the old Genoese castle, and then sharply to the harbor, in which lay several men-of-war. In Balaklava, lines of wooden huts had been erected for a hospital, and their felt-covered roofs contrasted with the red tiles of the Tartar houses, and with the white walls and tower of the church. Along the valley at the foot of the harbor long lines of arabas and pack-animals, looking like mere specks from the point where the lads were standing, could be seen making their way to the front; while seven miles distant, on the plateau above Sebastopol, rose, like countless white dots, the tents of the Allied Army. Turning still farther round, they saw the undulating plain across which the light cavalry had charged upon the Russian guns, while standing boldly against the sky was the lofty table-land extending from above the village of Inkerman, right across the line of sight to the point known as Mackenzie Heights, from a farm belonging to an Englishman situated there. On these heights were encamped a large body of Russian troops.

"It's a splendid view, Dick," Jack Archer said; "but," he added, turning to look at the fleet of transports again, "I shouldn't like to be on board one of those ships if it came on to blow. It must be a rocky bottom and no holding-ground."

"That's what every one is saying, Jack. No one can make out why they don't let them all go inside. Of course they could not all unload at once, but there is room for them to shelter, if laid in tiers, as they would be in a crowded port. Yes, if we get a storm, and they say in the Black Sea they do have terrific gales during the winter, I fear we shall have a terrible business here."

Two days later they had a taste of what a storm in the Black Sea was. On the afternoon of Friday, the 10th, the wind got up, blowing straight into the bay. Very rapidly the sea rose. As dusk came on the sailors on the marine heights gathered on the edge of the cliff, and looked anxiously down upon the sea. Already great waves were tumbling in, dashing against the foot of the cliff, and sending clouds of spray half-way up to the old castle, 200 feet above them. The ships were laboring heavily, tugging and straining on their cables. From the funnels of the steamers volumes of black smoke were pouring, showing that they were getting up steam to keep the screws or paddles going, and relieve the strain upon their anchors.

"I wouldn't be aboard one of them craft," an old sailor said, "not for enough money to find me in grog and 'bacca for the rest of my life. If the gale gets stronger, half them ships will be ashore afore morning, and if they do, God help those on board!"

Happily the storm did not increase in violence, and when morning broke it was found that although many of the vessels had dragged their anchors, and some damage had been done by collisions, none had gone ashore. The knowledge, however, of how heavy a sea got up in a gale of even moderate force, and how frightfully dangerous was the position of the vessels, would, it might be thought, have served as a lesson, but unhappily it did not do so. The naval officer who was in charge of the harbor was obstinate, and again refused the request of the masters of many of the transports that the shipping might all be allowed to enter the harbor. He refused, and upon him is the responsibility of the terrible loss of life which ensued. On the 14th the wind again began to rise, and the sailors, as night came on, looked over the sea.

"We are going to have a bad night of it again," the officer in command of the post said, as he gazed seaward. "It looks as wild a night as ever I saw. Look how fast the scud is flying overhead. Last week's gale was a stiff one, but, unless I'm mistaken, it will be nothing to that which is upon us."

Louder and louder roared the wind, till men could scarce keep their feet outside shelter. The tents shook and rocked. Men could hardly hear each other's voices above the storm, and even in the darkness of night the sheets of foam could be seen dashing up to the very walls of the castle.

Jack Archer and Dick Hawtry, who with two other midshipmen occupied a tent, sat listening awe-struck to the fury of the gale. There was a gust fiercer than usual, accompanied by a crack like the sound of a pistol, followed by a stifled shout.

"There's a tent down!" Hawtry exclaimed, "and I shouldn't wonder—"

He did not finish, for at the moment the pole of their own tent broke asunder like a pipe, and in an instant the four were buried beneath the folds of the canvas. With much shouting and laughter they struggled to the entrance and made their way out. Half the tents were already levelled to the ground, and ten minutes later not one remained standing. The midshipmen crowded into the turf huts which some of the officers had had erected. Scarcely had they entered, when there was the boom of a heavy gun.

"I thought so," Dick Hawtry said. "There's the first of them. How many more will there be before morning?"

The door opened, and a sailor put in his head.

"Gentlemen, the captain says you are to turn out. He's going to take a party down to the castle with ropes."

In a few minutes a hundred men mustered, and moved down the hill. So fierce was the gale that, during the squalls, it was impossible to keep themselves on their feet, and all had to lie down till the fury of the gust had passed. It was pitch dark, and they groped rather than made their way along. Fast now, one after another, came the sound of the signal guns.

"There must be a dozen of them adrift," Dick shouted into his friend's ear during one of the lulls. "God help them all; what will become of them? A ship would be dashed to pieces like an eggshell against these cliffs."

When they reached the lowest point of the cliff, the party were halted and told to lie down and keep themselves in readiness, in case their services should be required. The officers struggled forward to the edge, and tried to see what was going on down in the bay below; but little could be seen, save the mighty sheets of spray, as the waves struck the cliffs. Here and there in the wild waters they fancied occasionally that they could see the dark forms of the ships, but even of this they could not have been certain, save for the twinkling lights which rose and fell, and dashed to and fro like fire-flies in their flight. Now and then the flash of a cannon momentarily showed some ship laboring in the trough of the mountainous sea.

"I believe that is the 'Black Prince,'" Jack shouted to his friend. "That big steamer which has been lying there the last week. If it is, she's ever so much nearer to shore than she was."

Suddenly a blue light threw its glare on the sea. It came from almost under their feet.

"Good heavens, Dick, there is a vessel on the rocks already; and look, a dozen more close in!"

The example was followed, and several other blue lights were burned showing plainly the terrible nature of the scene. The vessels were wallowing in the tremendous waves. Many had cut away their masts to relieve the strain on their anchors. The paddles and screws of the steamers were working at full speed, for the lines of white foam behind them could be plainly seen. But even this availed them but little, for almost every ship lay nearer to the line of cliffs than she did when night fell; several were close to the foot of the rocks, and the lookers-on noticed that some which had lain near the shore were missing. On the decks of the ships could be seen numbers of persons holding on to ropes and bulwarks. Sometimes from the deck of a vessel a rocket soared up, the wind catching it as it rose, and carrying it far inland.

By the captain's orders several blue lights, which the party had brought down, were burned, to show those on board that their position was perceived, but beyond this nothing could be done. Presently even above the noise of the gale a tremendous crash was heard, and they fancied that they heard a wild shout come faintly up.

"Can nothing be done?" Jack shouted to his friend.

"Nothing, sir," an old sailor said close by. "They are all doomed. There were over thirty ships there this morning, for I counted them, and I doubt if one will live out the night."

By this time the sailors, unable to lie inactive, had joined the officers, and all were scattered in groups along the cliff.

"Is there no possible way of getting down near the water?" Jack said.

"I don't think so, sir; but if it were daylight we might make a shift to try."

"Let us try, anyhow," Jack said.

"Oh, there is another!" as another crash was heard above the gale.

"Anything is better than standing here. I don't think the cliff goes quite sheer down everywhere. Let us try, Dick; it would be a relief to be doing something."

"All right, Jack. Let you and I stick together. Do you lads," he said, turning to three or four sailors who were standing by, "keep close to us, and lend a hand." At the point where they were standing, it was clearly impossible to get down, for the rock sloped straight from, their feet. Farther to the left, however, it went down more gradually, and here the boys began to try to descend.

"There is a sort of hollow here," Jack shouted, "a sort of ravine. This is our best place."

Cautiously, step by step, holding on to such bushes as grew among the rocks pausing sometimes flattened against the rocks by the force of the gust, and drenched every moment by the sheets of spray, the boys made their way down, till they paused at a spot where the rock fell away sheer under their feet. They could go no farther. At the moment they heard a wild scream. A vessel appeared through the darkness below, and crashed with a tremendous thud against the rocks. The masts, which were so close that the boys seemed almost able to jump upon them, as they reached nearly to the level on which they were standing, instantly going over the side. Peering over, they could see the black mass in the midst of the surging white waters at their feet. The sailors had paused some way up the ascent, appalled by the difficulties which the boys, lighter and more active, had accomplished.

"Go up to the top again," Hawtry said, climbing back to them. "Bring down one of those spars we brought down, a block, a long rope, and a short one to serve as a guy. Get half-a-dozen more hands. You'd better fix a rope at the top firmly, and use it to steady you as you return. There's a ship ashore just underneath us, and I think we can get down."

In a few minutes the sailors descended again, carrying with them a spar some twenty feet long. With immense difficulty this was lowered to the spot which the boys had reached. One of the sailors had brought down a lantern, and by its light a block was lashed to the end, and a long rope roved through it. Then a shorter rope was fastened to the end as a guy, and the spar lowered out, till it sloped well over the edge. The lower edge was wedged in between two rocks, and others piled round it.

"Now," Dick said, "I will go down."

"You'll never get down alive, sir," one of the sailor said. "The wind will dash you against the cliff. I'll try, sir, if you like; I'm heavier."

"Let me go down with you," Jack said. "The two of us are heavier than a man, and we shall have four legs to keep us off the cliff. Besides, we can help each other down below."

"All right," Dick said. "Fasten us to the rope, Hardy. Make two loops so that we shall hang face to face, and yet be separate, and give me a short rope of two or three fathoms long, so that we can rope ourselves together, and one hold on in case the other is washed off his feet when we get down. Look here, Hardy, do you lie down and look over the edge, and when you hear me yell, let them hoist away. Now for it!"

The boys were slung as Dick had ordered. "Lower away steadily," Dick said. "Stop lowering if we yell."

In another minute the lads were swinging in space, some ten feet out from the face of the cliff. For the first few yards they descended steadily, and then, as the rope lengthened, the gusts of wind flung them violently against the face of the cliff.

"Fend her off with your legs, Jack; that's the way. By Jove, that's a ducking!" he said, as a mighty rush of spray enveloped them as a mountainous sea struck the rock below. "I think we shall do it. There's something black down below, I think some part of her still holds together; slowly!" he shouted up, in one of the pauses of the gale, and Hardy's response of "Aye, aye, sir," came down to them.

It was a desperate three minutes; but at the end of that time, bruised, bleeding, half-stunned by the blows, half-drowned by the sheets of water which flew over them, the lads' feet touched the rocks. These formed a sloping shelf of some thirty feet wide at the foot of the cliff.

The wreck which had appeared immediately under them was forty feet away, and appeared a vague, misshapen black mass. They had been seen, for they had waved the lantern from the edge of the cliff before starting, and they had several times shouted as they descended, and as they neared the ground, they were delighted at hearing by an answering shout that their labors had not been in vain, and that some one still survived.

"Throw us a rope," Dick shouted at the top of his voice; and in a moment they heard a rope fall close to them. Groping about in the darkness, they found it, just as a wave burst below them, and, dashing high over their heads, drove them against the rock, and then floated them off their feet. The rope from above held them, however. "Lower away!" Dick yelled, as he regained his feet, and then, aided by the rope from the ship, they scrambled along, and were hauled on to the wreck before the next great sea came.

"I've broken my arm, Dick," Jack said; "but never mind me now. How many are there alive?"

There were sixteen men huddled together under the remains of the bulwark. The greater portion of the ship was gone altogether, and only some forty feet of her stern remained high on the rocky ledge on which she had been cast. The survivors were for the most part too exhausted to move, but those who still retained some strength and vigor at once set to work. In pairs they were fastened in the slings, and hauled up direct from the deck of the vessel, another rope being fastened to them and held by those on the wreck, by which means they were guided and saved somewhat from being dashed against the cliff in the ascent.

When those below felt, by the rope no longer passing between their hands, that the slings had reached the top, they waited for a minute to allow those in them to be taken out, and then hauling upon the rope, pulled the slings down again for a fresh party. So, slowly and painfully, the whole party were, two by two, taken up from the wreck.

Several times while the operation was being performed great crashes were heard, followed by loud shouts and screams, as vessel after vessel drove ashore to the right or left of them. But Jack and his friend, who consulted together, agreed that by no possibility could these be aided, as it was only just at the point where the wreck lay that the rocks at the foot of the cliff were high enough to be above all but exceptionally high waves, and any one adventuring many yards either to the right or left would have been dashed to pieces against the cliff by the first wave.

The midshipmen were the last to leave the ship. Dick had in vain begged his messmate to go up in one of the preceding batches, as the last pair would necessarily be deprived of the assistance from the lower rope, which had so materially aided the rest. Jack, however, refused to hear of it. When the slings came down to them for the last time, they put them on, and stood on the wreck watching till a great wave came. When it had passed, they slipped down the side of the ship by a rope, and hurried over the rocks till immediately under the spar, whose position was indicated by a lantern held there. Then, in answer to their shout, the rope tightened, and they again swung in the air.

The wind blew no more fiercely than before; indeed, it was scarce possible it could do so; but they were now both utterly exhausted. During the hour and a half which they had stood upon the remains of the wreck, they had been, every minute or two, deluged with water. Sometimes, indeed, the sea had swept clean over them, and had it not been that they had lashed themselves with ropes, they must have been swept away.

Every great wave had swept away some plank or beam of the wreck, and when they left it, scarce a fragment of the deck remained attached to the rudder-post. Terrible was the buffeting they received as they ascended, and time after time they were dashed with immense force against the face of the cliff.

To Jack the noise and confusion seemed to increase. A strange singing sounded in his ears, and as the slings reached the top, and a burst of cheering broke from the seamen there, all consciousness left him.

The officer in command of the party was himself at the spot; he and many others having made their way down, when the news spread that a rescue was being attempted. Dick, too, was unable to stand, and both were carried by the sailors to the top of the slope. Here a cup of strong rum-and-water was given to Dick, while some pure spirits poured down his throat soon recalled Jack to consciousness. The latter, upon opening his eyes, would have got up, but this his officer would not allow; and he was placed on a stretcher and carried by four tars up to the heights, where he was laid in one of the sod huts, and his arm, which was badly fractured, set by the surgeon.

The sixteen rescued men had, as they gained the top, been at once taken down into Balaklava, the sole survivors of the crews of over twenty ships which had gone to pieces in that terrible hurricane.

Of the fleet of transports and merchantmen which, trim and in good order, had lain in the bay the afternoon before, some half-dozen only had weathered the hurricane. The "City of London" alone had succeeded in steaming out to sea when the gale began. The "Jason" and a few others had ridden to their anchors through the night. The rest of the fleet had been destroyed, victims to the incompetence and pig-headedness of the naval officer in charge of the harbor. That there was ample room for all within it, was proved by the fact that, later on, a far larger number of ships than that which was present on the day of the gale lay comfortably within it.

The largest ship lost was the "Prince," with whom nearly 300 men went down. Even inside the harbor vessels dragged their anchors and drifted ashore, so terrible was the gale, which, indeed, was declared by old sailors and by the inhabitants of the town to be the most violent that they ever experienced. Enormous quantities of stores of all kinds, which would have been of immense service to the troops in the winter, were lost in the gale, and even in the camps on shore the destruction was very great.

CHAPTER XI. TAKEN PRISONERS

"That arm of yours always seems to be getting itself damaged, Jack," Hawtry said next morning, as he came into the hut. "You put it in the way of a bullet last time, and now you've got it smashed up. How do you feel altogether?"

"I am awfully bruised, Dick, black and blue all over, and so stiff I can hardly move."

"That's just my case," Dick said, "though, as you see, I can move. The doctor's been feeling me all over this morning, and he said it was lucky I was a boy and my bones were soft, for if I had been a man, I should have been smashed up all over. As to my elbows and my knees, and all the projecting parts of me, I haven't got a bit of skin on them, and my uniform is cut absolutely to ribbons. However, old boy, we did a good night's work. We saved sixteen lives, we got no end of credit, and the chief says he shall send a report in to the Admiral; so we shall be mentioned in despatches, and it will help us for promotion when we have passed. The bay is a wonderful sight. The shores are strewn with floating timber, bales of stores, compressed hay, and all sorts of things. Fellows who have been down to the town told me that lots of the houses have been damaged, roofs blown away, and those gingerbread-looking balconies smashed off. As for the camps, even with a glass there is not a single tent to be seen standing on the plateau. The gale has made a clean sweep of them. What a night the soldiers must have had! I am put on the sick list for a few days so I shall be able to be with you. That's good news, isn't it?"

"Wonderfully good," Jack laughed, "as if I haven't enough of your jaw at other times. And how long do you suppose I shall be before I am out?"

"Not for some little time, Jack. The doctor says you've got four ribs broken as well as your arm."

"Have I?" Jack said, surprised. "I know he hurt me preciously while he was feeling me about this morning; but he didn't say anything about broken ribs."

A broken rib is a much less serious business than a broken arm, and in ten days Jack was up and about again, feeling generally stiff and sore, and with his arm in a sling. The surgeon had talked of sending him on board ship, but Jack begged so hard for leave to remain with the party ashore, that his request was granted.

Winter had now set in in earnest. The weather was cold and wet; sometimes it cleared up overhead, and the country was covered with snow. A month after the accident, Jack was fit for duty again. Seeing what chums the lads were, the officer in command had placed them in the same watch, for here on land the same routine was observed as on board ship. The duties were not severe. The guns were kept bright and polished, the arms and accoutrements were as clean as if at sea. Each day the tars went through a certain amount of drill, and fatigue parties went daily down to the harbor to bring up stores, but beyond this there was little to do. One of the occupations of the men was chopping wood for fuel. The sides of the ravine immediately below the battery had long since been cleared of their brushwood, and each day the parties in search of fuel had to go farther away. Upon the day after Jack returned to duty, he and Hawtry were told off with a party of seamen to go down to cut firewood. Each man carried his rifle in addition to his chopper, for, although they had never been disturbed at this occupation, the Russians were known not to be far away. The sailors were soon at work hacking down the undergrowth and lopping off branches of trees. Some were making them up into faggots as fast as the others cut them, and all were laughing and jesting at their work.

Suddenly there was a shout, and looking up, they saw that a party of Russians had made their way noiselessly over the snowclad ground, and were actually between them and the heights. At the same moment a volley of musketry was poured in from the other side, and three or four men fell.

"Form up, form up," Hawtry shouted. "Well together, lads. We must make a rush at those beggars ahead. Don't fire till I tell you, then give them a volley and go at them with the butt-end of your muskets, then let every one who gets through make a bolt for it."

The sailors, some twenty strong, threw themselves together, and, headed by the midshipmen, made a rush at the Russians. These opened fire upon them, and several dropped, but the remainder went on at the double until within twenty yards of the enemy, when pouring in a volley and clubbing their muskets, they rushed upon them.

For a moment there was a sharp mélée; several of the sailors were shot or bayoneted, but the rest, using the butt-ends of their muskets with tremendous execution, fought their way through their opponents. Jack had shot down two men with his revolver, and having got through, was taking his place at the rear of the men—the proper place for an officer in retreat?—when he saw Hawtry fall. A Russian ran up to bayonet him as he lay, when Jack, running back, shot him through the head. In a moment he was surrounded, and while in the act of shooting down an assailant in front, he was struck on the back of the head with the butt of a musket, and fell stunned across the body of his friend. When he recovered consciousness, he found that he was being carried along by four Russians. He could hear the boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry, and knew that the defenders on the heights were angrily firing at the retreating party, who had so successfully surprised them. As soon as his bearers perceived that Jack had opened his eyes, they let him drop, hauled him to his feet, and then holding him by his collar, made him run along with them.

When they had mounted the other side of the slope, and were out of fire of the guns, the party halted, and Jack, hearing his own name called, looked round, and saw Hawtry in the snow, where his captors had dropped him.

"Hullo, Dick! old fellow," Jack shouted joyfully; "so there you are. I was afraid they had killed you."

"I'm worth a lot of dead men yet, Jack. I've been hit in the leg, and went down, worse luck, and that rascally Russian would have skewered me if you hadn't shot him. You saved my life, old fellow, and made a good fight for me and I shall never forget it; but it has cost you your liberty."

"That's no great odds," Jack said. "It can't be much worse stopping a few months in a Russian prison, than spending the winter upon the heights. Besides, with two of us together, we shall be as right as possible, and maybe, when your leg gets all right again, we'll manage to give them the slip."

The Russian officer in command of the party, which was about 200 strong, now made signs to the boys that they were to proceed.

Dick pointed to his leg, and the officer examined the wound. It was a slight one, the ball having passed through the calf, missing the bone.

He was, however, unable to walk. A litter was formed of two muskets with a great-coat laid between them, and Dick, being seated on this, was taken up by four men, and Jack taking his place beside him, the procession started. They halted some four miles off at a village in a valley beyond the Tchernaya.

The next day the boys were placed on ponies, and, under the escort of an officer and six troopers, conducted to Sebastopol. Here they were taken before a Russian general who, by means of an interpreter, closely examined them as to the force, condition, and position of the army.

The lads, however, evaded all questions by stating that they belonged to the fleet, and were only on duty on the heights above Balaklava, and were in entire ignorance of the force of the army and the intentions of its general. As to the fleet, they could tell nothing which the Russians did not already know.

The examination over, they were conducted to one of the casemates of Fort St. Nicholas. Here for a fortnight they remained, seeing no one except the soldier who brought them their food. The casemate was some thirty feet long by eighteen wide, and a sixty-eight-pounder stood looking out seaward. There the boys could occasionally see the ships of war of the allies as they cruised to and fro.

It was very cold, for the opening was of course unglazed. They had each a heap of straw and two blankets, and these in the daytime they used as shawls, for they had no fire, and it was freezing sharply.

Dick's leg had been examined and dressed by a surgeon upon his first arrival; but as the wound was not serious, and the surgeons were worked night and day with the enormous number of wounded at Inkerman, and in the various sorties, with which the town was crowded, he did not again come near his patient. The wound, however, healed rapidly.

As Jack remarked, the scanty rations of black bread and tough meat—the latter the produce of some of the innumerable bullocks which arrived at Sebastopol with convoys, too exhausted and broken down for further service—were not calculated to cause any feverish excitement to the blood, nor, had it been so, would the temperature have permitted the fever to rise to any undue height.

Their guards were kind to them so far as was in their power, and upon their using the word "tobacco," and making signs that they wanted to smoke, furnished them with pipes and with tobacco, which, although much lighter and very different in quality from that supplied on board ship, was yet very smokable, and much mitigated the dulness from which the boys suffered. A few days after their captivity the boys heard the church bells of Sebastopol ringing merrily.

"I wonder what all this is about?" Dick said; "not for a victory, I'll be bound."

"Why, bless me," Jack exclaimed, "if it isn't Christmas day, and we had forgotten all about it! Now, that is hard, monstrously hard. The fellows on the heights will just be enjoying themselves to-day. I know they were talking about getting some currants and raisins from on board ship, and there will be plum-duff and all sorts of things. I wonder how they're all getting on at home? They're sure to be thinking often enough of us, but it will never enter their minds that here we are cooped up in this beastly hole."

The day, however, did not pass unnoticed, for a Russian officer who spoke English called upon them, and said that he came at the request of the governor himself to express to them his regret that their quarters were so uncomfortable and their fare so bad. "But," he said, "we cannot help ourselves. Every barrack in the town is crowded; every hospital, every private house even, filled with wounded. We have fifty or sixty thousand troops, and near twenty thousand sick and wounded. Your people are very good not to fire at the town, for if they did, I do not know what the poor fellows would do. For to-day the governor has sent you down a dinner from his own table, together with a few bottles of wine and spirits—and what you will not prize less, for I see you smoke, a box of cigars. It is very cold here. I will see that you have some more blankets."

Two soldiers came in with baskets, the one with tin-covered dishes, the other with wines. These were set out on the ground, and the boys, after sending a message expressing their cordial thanks to the general for his thoughtfulness, sat down, when alone, in the highest spirits to their unexpected feast.

"This is a glorious spread, Jack. I wonder what all these dishes are? I don't recognize any of them. However, this is soup, there is no doubt about that, so let's fall to on that to begin with. But first of all, get out the cork of one of those champagne bottles. Now fill up your tin, Jack, and let's drink 'God bless all at home, and a merry Christmas to them.' We'll have our other toasts after dinner. I couldn't begin till we drank that. Now set to."

The dishes were not as cold as might have been expected, for each had been enveloped in flannel before placing it in the basket. The soup was pronounced excellent, and the unknown meats, prime—better than anything they had tasted since they left England. There were sweets, too, which they made a clean sweep of. Then they called their guard, to whom they gave the remains of their dinner, together with a strong pannikin of water and spirits, to his extreme delight.

Then, making themselves snug in the straw, wrapping themselves well in their blankets, fencing in their candle, so that it was sheltered from the draughts, they opened a bottle of brandy, drank a variety of toasts, not forgetting the health of the governor, who they agreed was a brick, they sang a song or two, then blew out the light, and, thoroughly warm and comfortable, were asleep in a minute or two.

A few days later, an officer came in, signed to them to make their blankets into a bundle, and to follow him.

The boys slipped four bottles of spirits which they had still remaining, and also the stock of cigars, into the rolls. Then, holding the bundles on their shoulders, they followed him.

Dick, although still weak on his legs, was now able to walk.

Presently they came to a large party of men, some of whom had their arms in slings, some were bandaged on the head, some lay in stretchers on the ground.

"It is a convoy of wounded," Jack said. "I suppose we're going to be taken into the interior."

An officer, evidently in charge, saluted the boys as they came up, and said something in Russian.

They returned the salute. He was a pleasant-looking fellow with light-blue eyes, and yellowish moustache and beard. He looked at them, and then gave orders to a soldier, who entered the building, and returned with two peasants' cloaks lined with sheep-skin, similar to the one he himself wore.

These were handed to them, and the midshipmen expressed their warmest gratitude to him; their meaning, if not their words, being clearly intelligible.

"These are splendid," Jack said. "They've got hoods too, to go over the head. This is something like comfort. I wish our poor fellows up above there had each got one. It must be awful up on the plateau now. Fancy twelve hours in the trenches, and then twelve hours in the tents, with no fires, and nothing but those thin great-coats, and scarcely anything to eat. Now there's a move."

A strong party of soldiers came down, lifted the stretchers, and in a few minutes the whole convoy were at the water's edge. Other similar parties were already there, and alongside were a number of flat barges. Upon these the invalids walked, or were carried, and the barges were then taken in tow by ships' boats, and rowed across the harbor to the north side.

"I hope to goodness," Jack said, looking up at the heights behind them, along which the lines of entrenchments were clearly visible against the white snow, "that our fellows won't take it into their heads to have a shot at us. From our battery we often amused ourselves by sending a shell from one of the big Lancaster guns down at the ships in the harbor. But I never dreamed that I was likely to be a cockshy myself."

The usual duel was going on between the batteries, and the puffs of white smoke rose from the dark line of trenches and drifted up unbroken across the deep blue of the still wintry sky.

But happily the passage of the flotilla of boats attracted no attention, and they soon arrived at the shore close to the work known as Battery No. 4.

Here they were landed. Those who could not walk were lifted into carts, of which some hundreds stood ranged alongside. The rest fell in on foot, and the procession started. The boys, to their satisfaction, found that the officer who had given them the coats was in charge of a portion of the train, and as they started he stopped to speak a word or two to them, to which they replied in the most intelligible manner they could by offering him a cigar, which a flash of pleasure in his face at once showed to be a welcome present.

It took some time to get the long convoy in motion, for it consisted of some 700 or 800 carts and about 5,000 sick and wounded, of whom fully three-fourths were unable to walk. It mounted to the plateau north of the harbor, wound along near the great north fort, and then across undulating land parallel with the sea. They stopped for the night on the Katcha, where the allied army had turned off for their flank march to the southern side.

The boys during the march were allowed to walk as they liked, but two soldiers with loaded muskets kept near them. They discussed the chances of trying to make their escape, but agreed that although they might be able to slip away from the convoy, the probability of their making their way through the Russian troops to their own lines at Balaklava or Sebastopol was so slight that the attempt would be almost madness. Their figures would be everywhere conspicuous on the snow, their footsteps, could be followed, they had no food, and were ignorant of the language and country. Altogether they determined to abandon any idea of escaping for the present.

There were but a dozen soldiers with the convoy, the officers being medical men in charge of the wounded. A halt was made in a sheltered spot near the river, and close to the village of Mamaschia, which was entirely deserted by its inhabitants.

The worst cases of sickness were carried into the houses, and the rest prepared to make themselves as comfortable as they could in or under the wagons. Stores of forage were piled by the village for the use of the convoys going up and down, and the drivers speedily spread a portion of this before their beasts.

The guard and such men as were able to get about went off among the orchards that surrounded the village, to cut fuel. The boys' special guard remained by them. When the doctor whom they regarded as their friend came up to them, he brought with him another officer as interpreter, who said in broken French,—

"Voulez-vous donner votre parole pas essayez echapper?"

Jack was as ignorant of French as of Russian, but Dick knew a little. He turned to Jack and translated the question.

"Tell him we will give our words not to try and escape during the march, or till we tell him to the contrary." This was almost beyond Dick.

"Nous donnons notre parole pour le présent," he said, "pour la marche, vous comprenez. Si nous changons notre—I wonder what mind is," he grumbled to himself—"intention, nous vous dirons."

This was intelligible, although not good French, and their friend, having shaken hands with them as if to seal the bargain, told the soldiers that they need no longer keep a watch on the prisoners, and then beckoned them to accompany him. The boys had, at starting, placed their bundles upon a cart to which they had kept close during the march. Putting these on their shoulders, they accompanied their friend to a cart which was drawn up three or four feet from the wall of a house. They set to work at once, and with the aid of some sticks and blankets, of which there was a good supply in the wagon, made a roof covering the space between it and the house, hung others at the end and side, and had soon a snug tent erected.

One of the soldiers brought a large truss of straw, and another a bundle of firewood. The blanket at the end of the tent sheltered from the wind, was drawn aside, and a great fire speedily blazed up at the entrance. The straw was shaken out to form a soft seat, just inside the tent. All three produced their pipes and lit them, while the doctor's servant prepared over the fire a sort of soup with the rations. This turned out to be by no means bad, and when after it the boys produced one of their bottles of brandy and three cigars, the Russian doctor patted them on the back, and evidently told them that they were first-rate fellows.

For half-an-hour he smoked his cigar and sipped his tin of brandy and water, then, explaining by signs that he must go and look after his wounded, left them.

The boys chatted for another half-hour, and then stowing their brandy carefully away, they shook up the straw into a big bed, and, wrapping themselves in their sheepskins, were soon soundly asleep; but it was long after midnight before the doctor returned from his heavy work of dressing wounds and administering medicine, and stretched himself on the straw beside them.

CHAPTER XII. PRISONERS ON PAROLE

Day after day the convoy made its way northward without any incident of importance happening. The midshipmen were glad to find that, thanks to their sheepskin cloaks and pointed hoods, they passed through the towns without attracting any attention whatever.

The convoy lessened in length as it proceeded. The animals broke down in great numbers and died by the road, under the task of dragging the heavy wagons through the deep snow.

At a town of some size, where they halted for two days, relief was afforded by the wheels being taken off the wagons, and rough runners affixed, the wheels being placed on the carts, as that they could be put on again in case of a thaw.

Famine, however, did more that fatigue in destroying the animals; for although good exertions had been made to form depots of forage along the roads, these were exhausted faster than they could be collected by the enormous trains, which, laden with provisions and warlike stores, were making their way to Sebastopol from the interior of Russia. There was no lack of food for the men, for ample stores of black bread were carried, and a supply of meat was always obtainable at the end of the day's journey by the carcase of some bullock which had fallen and then been shot during the day's march.

But though the train diminished in length, its occupants diminished even more rapidly. Every morning, before starting, a burying party were busy interring the bodies of those who had died during the previous day's march or in the night.

When the halt was made at a village, the papa or priest of the place performed a funeral mass; when, as was more common, they encamped in the open, the grave was filled in, a rough cross was erected over it, and the convoy proceeded on its march.

The midshipmen found the journey dreary and uninteresting in the extreme.

After leaving the Crimea the country became a dead flat; which, though bright in summer, with a wide expanse of waving grain, was inexpressibly mournful and monotonous as it lay under its wide covering of snow. Here and there, far across the plain, could be seen the low, flat-roofed huts of a Russian village, or the massively-built abode of some rich landed proprietor.

Scarce a tree broke the monotony of the wide plain, and the creaking of the carts and the shouts of the drivers seemed strangely loud as they rose in the dense silence of the plain.

From the first day of starting, the midshipmen set themselves to learn something of the language. The idea was Jack's and he pointed out to Hawtry, who was rather disinclined to take the trouble, that it would in the first place give them something to think about, and be an amusement on the line of march; in the second, it would render their captivity less dull, and, lastly, it would facilitate their escape if they should determine to make the attempt.

As they walked, therefore, alongside their friend the doctor, they asked him the names of every object around them, and soon learned the Russian words for all common objects. The verbs were more difficult, but thanks occasionally to the doctor (who spoke French) joining them at their encampment at night, they soon learned the sentences most commonly in use.

As they had nothing else to do or to think about, their progress was rapid, and by the end of a month they were able to make themselves understood in conversations upon simple matters.

They had been much disappointed, when, upon leaving the Crimea, the convoy had kept on north instead of turning west; for they had hoped that Odessa would have been their place of captivity.

It was a large and flourishing town, with a considerable foreign population, and, being on the sea, might have offered them opportunities for escape. The Russians, however, had fears that the allied fleets might make an attack upon the place, and for this reason, such few prisoners as fell into their hands were sent inland.

The journeys each day averaged from twelve to fifteen miles, twelve, however, being the more ordinary distance. The sky was generally clear and bright, for when the morning was rough and the snow fell, the convoy remained in its halting-place.

The cold was by no means excessive during the day, and although the snow was deep and heavy, there was no difficulty in keeping up with the convoy, as the pace of the bullocks was little over a mile and a half an hour. At night they were snug enough, for the doctor had adapted an empty wagon as their sleeping-place, and this, with a deep bed of straw at the bottom, blankets hung at the sides and others laid over the top, constituted as comfortable a shelter as could be desired.

At last, after a month's travelling, the doctor pointed to a town rising over the plain, and signified that this was their halting-place.

It was a town of some seven or eight thousand inhabitants, and the mosque-like domes of the churches shining, brightly in the sun, and the green-painted roofs and bright colors of many of the houses, gave it a gay and cheerful appearance.

The convoy made its way through the streets to large barracks, now converted into a hospital. When the sick had been taken into the wards, the doctor proceeded with the midshipmen to the residence of the governor.

The boys had laid aside the sheepskin cloaks which had proved so invaluable during their journey, and as they walked through the streets, in their midshipman's uniform, attracted a good deal of attention.

They were at once shown in to the governor, an officer of some five-and-thirty years old, with a fierce and disagreeable expression of countenance. He was a member of a high Russian family; but as a punishment for various breaches of discipline, arising from his quarrelsome disposition and misconduct, he had been appointed governor to this little town, instead of going with his regiment to the front.

Saluting him, the doctor delivered to him an order for the safe guardianship of the two English officers.

"Ah," he said, as he perused the document, and glanced at the midshipmen, "if these are British officers, I can scarcely understand the trouble they are giving us. They are mere boys. I thought their uniform was red. The soldiers who were brought here a month ago were all in red."

"These are young naval officers," the doctor said. "I understand that some of the sailors are serving on shore, and these were captured, I am told, when out with a party of their men cutting fuel."

"A wonderful capture, truly," the governor said sneeringly. "Two boys scarce out of the nursery."

"It cost us some men," the doctor said calmly, "for I hear from the officer who brought them in that we lost altogether fifteen men, and the sailors would all have got away had it not been that one of these young officers was shot in the leg and the other stood by him, and shot several men with his revolver before he was captured."

"A perfect St. George," the commandant sneered. "Well, sir, your duty is done, and I will see to them. Are they on parole?"

"They gave me their parole not to try to escape during the journey, and have expressed their willingness to renew it."

"It matters little one way or the other," the governor said. "Unless they could fly, they could not make their way through the country. There, sir, that will do."

The doctor bowed, shook hands with the boys, and without a word went out, touching his lips with his fingers to them as he turned his back to the governor, a movement which the lads understood at once as a hint that it would be as well to say nothing which might show that they had any knowledge of Russian.

The governor rang a hand-bell, and a sergeant entered. The governor wrote a few words on a piece of paper.

"Take these prisoners to Count Preskoff's," he said, "and deliver this order to him."

The sergeant motioned the lads to follow him. With a bow to the governor, which he passed unacknowledged, they followed the soldier.

"A disagreeable brute, that," Jack said. "A little work in the trenches would do him good, and take some of his cockiness out of him. That was a good idea of the doctor, not saying good-bye in Russian. I don't suppose we shall run against that fellow again, but it we did, he might make it so disagreeable that we might be driven to show him a clean pair of heels."

"He didn't ask for our parole," Dick said, "so we shall be justified in making a bolt if we see a chance."

Passing through the streets the sergeant led them through the town and out into the country beyond.

"Where on earth is he taking us to?" Jack wondered. "I would bet that he has quartered us on this Count Preskoff from pure spite. I wonder what sort of chap he is."

After half an hour's walking they approached a large chateau, surrounded by smaller buildings.

"He's a swell evidently," Dick said. "We ought to have comfortable quarters here."

They entered a large courtyard, across one side of which stood the house; and the sergeant, proceeding to the main entrance, rang the bell. It was opened by a tall man dressed in full Russian costume.

"I have a message for the count from the commandant," the sergeant said.

"The count is absent," the servant answered; "but the countess is in."

"I will speak to her."

Leaving them standing in the hall, the man ascended a wide staircase, and in a minute or two returned and motioned to the sergeant to follow him.

They ascended the stairs and entered a large and handsome room, in which sat a lady of some forty years old, with three younger ones of from sixteen to twenty years old.

Countess Preskoff was a very handsome woman, and her daughters had inherited her beauty.

The sergeant advanced and handed to her the order. She glanced at it, and an expression of displeasure passed across her face.

"The commandant's orders shall be obeyed," she said coldly; and the sergeant, saluting, retired.

The countess turned to her daughters.

"The commandant has quartered two prisoners, English officers, upon us," she said. "Of course he has done it to annoy us. I suppose these are they." And she rose and approached the lads, who were standing by the door. "Why, they are boys," she said in surprise, "and will do for playfellows for you, Olga. Poor little fellows, how cruel to send such boys to fight!"

Then she came up to the boys and bade them welcome with an air of kindness which they both felt.

"Katinka," she said, turning to her eldest daughter, "you speak French, and perhaps they do also. Assure them that we will do our best to make them comfortable. Come here, my dears."

Then she formally, pointing to each of them, uttered their names,—

"Katinka, Paulina, Olga."

Dick, in reply, pointed to his companion,—

"Jack Archer,"—and to himself—"Dick Hawtry."

The girls smiled, and held out their hands.

"Mamma says," the eldest said in French, "that she is glad to see you, and will do all in her power to make you comfortable."

"You're very good," Dick said. "I can speak very little French, and cannot understand it at all unless you speak quite slow. I wish now I hadn't been so lazy at school. But we both speak a few words of Russian, and I hope that we shall soon be able to talk to you in your own language."

Bad as Dick's French was, the girls understood it, and an animated conversation in a mixed jargon of French and Russian began. The girls inquired how they had come there, and how they had been taken, and upon hearing they had been in Sebastopol, inquired more anxiously as to the real state of things there, for the official bulletins were always announcing victories, and they could not understand how it was that the allies, although always beaten, were still in front of Sebastopol, when such huge numbers of troops had gone south to carry out the Czar's orders, to drive them into the sea.

The lads' combined knowledge of French and Russian proved quite insufficient to satisfy their curiosity, but there was so much laughing over their wonderful blunders and difficulty in finding words to explain themselves, that at the end of half an hour the boys were perfectly at home with their hostesses.

"You will like to see your rooms," the countess said; and touching a hand-bell, she gave some orders to a servant who, bowing, led the way along a corridor and showed the boys two handsomely-furnished rooms opening out of each other, and then left them, returning in a minute or two with hot water and towels.

"We're in clover here," Jack said, "and no mistake. The captain's state cabin is a den by the side of our quarters; and ain't they jolly girls?"

"And pretty, too, I believe you; and the countess, too. I call her a stunner!" he exclaimed enthusiastically; "as stately as a queen, but as friendly and kind as possible. I don't think we ought to go to war with people like this."

"Oh, nonsense!" Jack said. "We've seen thousands of Russians now, and don't think much of them; and 'tisn't likely we're going to let Russia gobble up Turkey just because there's a nice countess with three jolly daughters living here."

Dick laughed.

"No, I suppose not," he said. "But, Jack, what on earth are we going to do about clothes? These uniforms are getting seedy, though it is lucky that we had on our best when we were caught, owing to our having had the others torn to pieces the night of the wreck. But as for other things, we have got nothing but what we have on. We washed our flannel shirts and stockings as well as we could whenever we halted, but we can't well do that here; and as for money, we haven't a ha'penny between us. It's awful, you know."

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and the servant entered, bringing in a quantity of linen and underclothing of all kinds, which he laid down on the bed with the words,—

"With the countess's compliments."

"Hurrah!" shouted Dick. "The countess is a brick. This is something like. Now for a big wash, Jack, and a clean white shirt. We shan't know ourselves. Here is a brush, too. We shall be able to make our uniforms presentable."

It was nearly an hour before the boys again joined the ladies, looking, it must be owned, a great deal more like British officers and gentlemen than when they left the room. They were both good-looking lads, and the Russian girls were struck with their bright and cheerful faces.

Dick hastened to express their warm thanks to the countess for the welcome supply of clothes, and said that Jack and himself were ashamed indeed at not only trespassing on their hospitality, but being obliged to rely upon their wardrobe.

As Dick had carefully thought out this little speech, translated it into French, and said it over half-a-dozen times, he was able to make himself understood, utterly defective as were his grammar and pronunciation.

Katinka explained that the clothes had belonged to her brother, who was now a lieutenant in a regiment stationed in Poland, and that they had long been outgrown; he being now, as she signified by holding up her hand, over six feet in height.

A quarter of an hour later the dinner was announced, and the countess in a stately way took Dick's arm, and Jack, not without blushing, offered his to the eldest of the girls. The dinner was, in the boys' eyes, magnificent. Several domestics stood behind the chairs and anticipated their wants. The girls continued their Russian lessons by telling them the names of everything on the table, and making them repeat them after them, and there was so much laughter and merriment, that long as the meal was, it was by no means formal or ceremonious. They learnt that the Count Preskoff was absent at some estates in the north of Russia, and that he was not likely to return for some little time.

After dinner Dick asked Katinka to tell the countess that they did not wish to be troublesome, and that they would be out and about the place, and would not intrude upon them except when they wished to have them. The countess replied through her daughter that they would be always glad to have them in the room.

"You will really be a great amusement to us. We were very dull before, and instead of being a trouble, as Count Smerskoff no doubt intended when he quartered you upon us, you will make a very pleasant break. It is dreadfully dull here now," she said. "There is no longer any gayety, many of our neighbors are away, and nobody talks of anything but that horrid war. Count Smerskoff is almost the only person we see, and," and she shrugged her pretty shoulders, "he's worse than nothing. And now, mamma says, would you like to ride or to go out in a sledge? If you would like some shooting, there is plenty in the neighborhood. But of course for that you will want a whole day, and it must be arranged beforehand. I wish my brother Orloff had been at home. He could have looked after you nicely."

Delighted at the prospect, the boys said that they should like a drive, and a few minutes later, descending to the courtyard, they found a sledge with three horses at the door.

"What a stunning turn-out!" Jack exclaimed, delighted. "We shall fancy we are princes, Dick, and get spoiled altogether for a midshipman's berth."

The sledge was of graceful form, painted deep blue. The seats were covered with furs, while an apron of silver fox-skin was wrapped round their legs. The driver sat perched up on a high seat in front. He was a tall, stately figure, with an immense beard. On his head was the cap of black sheep-skin, which may be considered the national head-dress. He wore a long fur-lined coat of dark blue, fitting somewhat tightly, and reaching to his ankles. It was bound by a scarlet sash round his waist. It had a great fur collar and cuffs. His feet were encased in untanned leather boots, reaching above the knees.

The horses were harnessed in a manner quite different to anything the lads had before seen. They were three abreast; the middle one was in shafts, those on either side ran free in traces, and by dint, as the boys supposed, of long training, each carried his head curved round outwards, so that he seemed to be looking half-backwards, giving them a most peculiar effect, exactly similar to that which may be seen in ancient Greek bas-reliefs, and sculptures of horses in ancient chariots. This mode of harnessing and training the horses is peculiarly Russian, and is rigidly adhered to by all the old Russian families. Over each horse was a blue netting reaching almost to the ground, its object being to prevent snow or dirt being thrown up in the faces of those sitting in the low sledge.

Cracking his whip with a report as loud as that of a pistol, the driver set the horses in motion, and in a minute the sledge was darting across the plain at a tremendous pace; the centre horse trotting, the flankers going at a canter, each keeping the leg next to the horse in the shafts in front. The light snow rose in a cloud from the runners as the sledge darted along, and as the wind blew keenly in their faces, and their spirits rose, the boys declared to each other that sledging was the most glorious fun they had ever had.

They had been furnished with fur-lined coats, whose turned-up collars reached far above their ears, and both felt as warm as toast, in spite of the fact that the thermometer was down at zero.

The country here differed in its appearance from that over which they had been travelling, and great forests extended to within two or three miles of the town.

"I suppose," Dick said, "that's where the shooting is, for I can't fancy any birds being fools enough to stop out on these plains, and if they did, there would be no chance of getting a shot at them. How pretty those sledge-bells are, to be sure! I wonder they don't have them in England."

"I've seen wagons down in the country with them," Jack said, "and very pretty the bells sounded on a still night. But the bells were not so clear-toned as these."

From one shaft to another, in a bow, high over the horses' necks, extended an arch of light wood, and from this hung a score of little bells, which tinkled merrily as the sledge glided along.

"It's a delicious motion," Jack said; "no bumping or jolting, and yet, even when one shuts one's eyes, he feels that he is going at a tremendous pace."

The boys were amused at the driver, who frequently cracked his whip, but never touched the horses, to whom, however, he was constantly talking, addressing them in encouraging tones, which, as Jack said, they seemed to understand just like Christians.

After an hour-and-a-half's drive, in which they must have traversed some eighteen miles, they returned to the chateau. The servant at the door relieved them of their warm cloaks and of the loose, fur-lined boots, with which they had also been furnished, and then, evidently in accordance with orders, conducted them upstairs to the room where the countess and two of her daughters were working, while the third was reading aloud. It was already getting dusk, and lighted lamps burned on the tables, and the room, heated by a great stove in the corner, felt pleasantly warm and comfortable.

CHAPTER XIII. A NOMINAL IMPRISONMENT

The evening passed pleasantly. There was some music, and the three girls and their mother sang together, and Jack (who had learnt part-singing at home, for his family were very musical, and every night were accustomed to sing glees and catches) also, at their request, joined in, taking the part which their brother, when at home, had been accustomed to fill.

In the course of the evening the boys explained that they had said nothing to the commandant about their having picked up a little Russian, as they had thought that it was better to allow him to remain in ignorance of it, as they had had some idea of making their escape.

"Why, you foolish boys," Paulina said, "where would you escape to? However, perhaps it is as well that you said nothing about it, for he only sent you here because he thought it would annoy mamma; and if he had thought you had known any Russian, he might have lodged you somewhere else."

"We don't want to escape now, you know," Jack said in his broken Russian. "We are much more comfortable here than we should be in the cold before Sebastopol."

The next few days passed pleasantly; sometimes the countess was not present, and then the girls would devote themselves to improving the boys' Russian.

Sometimes two sledges would come to the door, and two of the girls accompanied the boys on their drive. On the fourth evening, Count Smerskoff called, and a cloud fell upon the atmosphere.

The countess received him ceremoniously, and maintained the conversation in frigid tones. The girls scarcely opened their lips, and the midshipmen sat apart, as silent as if they understood no word of what was passing.

"I am sorry, countess," the commandant said, "that I was obliged to quarter these two English boys upon you, but every house in the town is full of sick and wounded; and as they were given over to me as officers, though they look to me more like ship-boys, I could not put them in prison with the twenty or thirty soldiers whom we captured at the victory on the heights above Inkerman."

"It is my duty to receive them," the countess said very coldly, "and it therefore matters little whether it is pleasant or otherwise. Fortunately one of them speaks a few words of French, and my daughters can therefore communicate with them. So you have twenty or thirty English prisoners in the jail? Where are all the rest; for, of course, in such a great victory, we must have taken, some thousands of prisoners?"

The count glanced angrily at her.

"They have, no doubt, been sent to Odessa and other places," he said. "You do not doubt, countess, surely, that a great victory was gained by the soldiers of his Majesty?"

"Doubt," the countess said, in a tone of slight surprise. "Have I not read the official bulletins describing the victory? Only we poor women, of course, are altogether ignorant of war, and cannot understand how it is that, when they are always beaten, these enemies of the Czar are still in front of Sebastopol."

"It may be," said the count, "that the Archdukes are only waiting until all the reinforcements arrive to drive them into the sea, or capture them to the last man."

"No doubt it is that," said the countess blandly, "but from the number of sick and wounded who arrive here, to say nothing of those taken to Odessa and the other towns among which, as you say, the prisoners are distributed, it is to be wished that the reinforcements may soon be up, so as to bring the fighting to an end."

"The enemy are suffering much more than we are," the governor said, "and before the spring comes we may find that there are none left to conquer. If the soldiers of the Czar, accustomed to the climate as they are, feel the cold, although they have warm barracks to sleep in, what must be the case with the enemy on the bleak heights? I hear that the English newspapers are full of accounts of the terrible sufferings of their troops. They are dying like sheep."

"Poor creatures!" the countess said gravely. "They are our fellow-beings, you know, Count Smerskoff, although they are our enemies, and one cannot but feel some pity for them."

"I feel no pity for the dogs," the count said fiercely. "How dare they set foot on the soil of Holy Russia?"

"Hating them as you do," the countess said, "it must be annoying for you indeed, count, to occupy even so exalted a position as that of governor of this town, instead of fighting against the English and French."

The count muttered something between his teeth, which was certainly not a blessing. Then turning to Katinka, he changed the subject by asking her if she would favor him with some music.

Without a word, the girl seated herself at the piano and played. When she had finished the piece, she began another without stopping, and continued steadily for an hour. The countess leaned back in her chair, as if she considered that conversation would be out of place while her daughter was playing.

Count Smerskoff sat quietly for a quarter of an hour. Then he began to fidget in his chair, but he stoically sat on until, when at the end of an hour Katinka showed no signs whatever of leaving off, he rose, and ceremoniously regretting that his duties prevented him from having the pleasure of hearing the conclusion of the charming little piece which the young countess was playing (for in Russia all children bear the title of their parents) he took his leave.

When the door had closed behind him, and the sound of his footsteps along the corridor ceased, the girls burst into a fit of laughter, in which the midshipmen joined heartily.

"Well done, Katinka!" Olga said, clapping her hands. "That was a splendid idea of yours, and you have routed the governor completely. Oh, dear, how cross he did look, and how he fidgeted about as you played on and on without stopping! I thought I must have laughed out-right."

"It was a clever thought," the countess said, "and yet the count cannot complain of want of courtesy. He is a disagreeable man, and a bad man; but he is powerfully connected, and it will not do to offend him. We have enemies enough, heaven knows."

The boys at the time could not gather the drift of the conversation; but a month later, when their knowledge of the language had greatly increased, Olga, when driving in a sledge with Jack, enlightened him as to the position in which they stood.

"Papa," she said, "is a Liberal, that is to say, he wants all sorts of reform to be carried out. If he had his way, he would free the serfs and would have the affairs of the nation managed by a parliament, as you do in England, instead of by the will of the Czar only. I don't pretend to know anything about it myself, but papa has perhaps expressed his opinions too openly, and some enemy has carried them to the ears of the Czar. Nicholas is, you know, though it is treason to say so, very autocratic and absolute. Papa was never in favor, because mamma was a Pole, but these terrible opinions finished it. Papa was forbidden to appear at court, and ordered to live upon his estates, and it is even possible," she said anxiously, "that this will not be all. You don't know Russia, or how dreadful it is to be looked upon as disaffected here. Papa is so good and kind! His serfs all love him so much, and every one says that no estates in Russia are better managed. But all this will avail nothing, and it is only because we have powerful friends at court that worse things have not happened."

"Unless you are very fond of gayety and society," Jack said, "I don't think it can matter much being sent away from St. Petersburg, when you have such a nice place here."

"Oh, no," the girl said. "It would not matter at all, only, you see, when any one gets into disgrace there is no saying what may happen. An enemy misrepresents some speech, some evil report gets to the ears of the Czar, and the next day papa might be on his way to Siberia," she dropped her voice as she uttered the dreadful word, "and all his estates confiscated."

"What?" said Jack indignantly, "without any trial, or anything? I never heard such a shame."

The girl nodded.

"It is dreadful," she said, "and now, to make matters worse, that odious Count Smerkoff wants to marry Katinka. She will be rich, as she will inherit large estates in Poland. Of course, papa and mamma won't consent, and Katinka hates him, but, you see, he has got lots of powerful relations at court. If it hadn't been for that, I hear that he would have been dismissed from the army long since; and, worst of all, he is governor here, and can send to headquarters any lying report he likes, and do papa dreadful harm."

Jack did not understand anything like all that Olga said, but he gleaned enough to understand the drift of her conversation, and he and Dick chatted over the matter very seriously that night.

Both agreed that something ought to be done. What that something was to be, neither could offer the remotest suggestion. They were so happy in the family now, were so kindly treated by the countess and her daughters, that they felt their troubles to be their own, and they would have done anything which could benefit them.

"We must think it over, Jack," Dick said, as he turned into bed. "It's awful to think of all these nice people being at the mercy of a brute like that. The idea of his wanting to marry the pretty Katinka! Why, he's not good enough to black her boots. I wish we had him in the midshipmen's berth on board the 'Falcon'; we would teach him a thing or two."

The lads had not availed themselves of the offer of riding-horses, as they were neither of them accustomed to the exercise, and did not like the thought of looking ridiculous. But they had eagerly accepted the offer to have some wolf-shooting.

One night, everything having been prepared, they took their seats in a sledge drawn by two of the fastest horses in the stables of the countess. A whole battery of guns was placed in the seat with them. The sledge was larger than that which they were accustomed to use, and held four, besides the driver. Two woodmen—experienced hunters—took their places on the seat facing the midshipmen. A portion of the carcase of a horse, which had broken its leg and been shot the previous day, was fastened behind the sledge.

A drive of an hour took them far into the heart of the forest, although the coachman drove much slower than usual, in order that the horses might be perfectly fresh when required. Presently the woodmen told the driver that they had gone far enough, and the sledge was turned, the horses facing homeward. The great lump of meat was then unfastened from behind the sledge, and a rope some forty yards long attached to it, the other end being fastened to the sledge. The horses were next moved forward until the rope was tight.

They were then stopped, rugs were laid across their backs to keep them warm, and the party awaited the result.

The young moon was shining in the sky, and dark objects showed clearly over the white snow for a considerable distance. Half an hour passed without a word being spoken, and without a sound breaking the silence that reigned in the forest. Presently a low whimpering was heard, and the boys fancied that they could see dark forms moving among the trees. The horses became restless and excited, and it was as much as the man standing at their heads could do to quiet them.

The coachman sat looking back, whip in hand, ready for an instant start.

All at once a number of dark objects leaped from among the trees on to the broad line of snow which marked the road.

"Jump in, Ivan!" the coachman exclaimed. "Here they come. Keep a sharp look-out on both sides. We can leave those fellows behind standing still. The only danger is from a fresh pack coming from ahead."

The peasant leaped into the car, and in an instant the horses dashed off at a speed which would have taken them far away from the wolves had not their driver reined them in and quieted them with his voice.

They soon steadied down into a long sweeping gallop, the coachman at times looking back and regulating their speed so as to keep the bait gliding along just ahead of the wolves.

The peasant now gave the signal to the midshipmen, who with their guns cocked were standing up with one knee on the seat to steady themselves, ready to fire, and the two barrels at once rang out.

One of the leading wolves, who was but a few yards from the bait, dropped and rolled over, while a sharp whimpering cry told that another was wounded.

The boys had an idea that the wolves would stop to devour their fallen comrade, but the smell of the meat was, it appeared, more tempting, for without a pause they still came on. Again and again the lads fired, the woodmen handing them spare guns and loading as fast as they discharged them.

Suddenly the driver gave an exclamation, and far ahead on the white road, the boys, looking round, could see a dark mass. The peasant, with a stroke of his knife, cut the rope which held the bait.

The coachman drove forward with increased speed for fifty yards or so, and then suddenly drew up the horses. The peasants in an instant leaped out, each with a rug in his hand, and running to the horses' heads, at once blindfolded the animals by wrapping these around them. Then the men jumped into the sledge again.

A hundred and fifty yards behind, their late pursuers, in a mass, were growling, snarling, and fighting over the meat, but already many, finding themselves unable to obtain a share, had set off in pursuit of the prize ahead, which promised to be ample for all.

To these, however, the peasants paid no attention, but each taking a double-barrel gun, poured heavy charges of shot in above the bullets. Handing them to the boys, they performed the same operation to the other two guns, which they intended this time to use themselves.

Standing on the seat, the men prepared to fire at the wolves directly ahead, signing to the boys to lean over, one on each side, and take those on the flanks of the horses. All this was done in a very few seconds, as the sledge glided steadily along towards the fast-approaching foes. When these came within fifty yards, the horses were sent forward at full gallop. In another second or two the four barrels of the woodmen poured their contents into the mass of wolves. The boys waited until the horses were fairly among them, and then they fired.

A hideous chorus of yells arose, and the horses at full speed dashed in upon the pack. Already a lane had been prepared for them, and, trampling over dead and dying, they rushed through. In spite of the execution done by the heavy charges of the midshipmen's double-barrel guns, several wolves tried to spring into the sledge as it went past, and one of them succeeded in leaping upon one of the horses. The animal made a wild plunge, but in an instant one of the woodmen sprang to the ground, and buried his long knife in the beast; then, as the sledge swept on again, he caught at the side and clambered into the car before the wolves, who had already turned in pursuit, could come up to him.

The guns were quickly loaded again, and another volley poured into the wolves. Then the coachman, knowing that one of the horses was hurt, and both nearly mad with fright, let them have their heads, and the sledge darted away at a pace which soon left the wolves far in the rear. So rapid was the motion indeed, that the boys held on to the sides, expecting every moment that the sledge would be dashed against the trees which lined the road. The coachman, however, kept the horses straight, and, quieting them down, again brought them to a standstill, when the cloths were taken off their heads, and the journey to the chateau completed at a steady pace.

"That's sharp work," Jack said, when the wolves had been fairly left in the rear. "They call that wolf-hunting. I call it being hunted by wolves. These are fine fellows; they were as cool as cucumbers."

"I've nearly broken my shoulder," Dick grumbled, "The gun with those tremendous charges kicked like a horse. Well, it's fine fun anyhow, but its rather too risky to be often repeated. If two or three of those fellows had got hold of the horses' heads, they would all have been upon us, and very short work they would have made of us if they had."

"Ugh!" Jack said with a shudder. "What teeth they have! and what mouths! It seemed like a sort of nightmare for a moment with those great open mouths and shining teeth, as they leaped towards us, as we rushed past. I hope I shan't dream about them."

"No fear of that," Dick said laughing. "The countess said that some supper should be ready for us when we got back. I feel tremendously peckish. After the night air, and plenty of hot tea and a good tuck-in, we shall sleep without dreaming, I can venture to say."

The countess and her daughters had gone to bed long before the return of the sportsmen. At breakfast next morning the boys attempted to relate their adventures, but their vocabulary being wholly insufficient, the coachman was sent for, and requested to give a full account of the proceedings. This he did, and added on his own account that the little lords had been as cool and collected as if they had been wolf-hunting all their lives.

After breakfast, the letter-bag arrived, and the countess, having opened her correspondence, said that her husband would return the next day. Great as was the pleasure of the ladies, the boys hardly felt enthusiastic over the news; they were so jolly as they were, that they feared any change would be for the worse.

Next day the count arrived, and the boys soon felt that they had no cause for apprehension. He greeted them with much cordiality, and told them that he had heard from the countess that he had to thank them for having made the time of his absence pass so cheerfully, and that she had said she did not know how they would have got through the dull time without them. The boys, after the manner of their kind, were bad hands at compliment; but they managed to express in their best Russian their thanks for the extreme kindness which they had received.

The days went on after the count's arrival much as they had done before, except that the boys now took to horse exercise, accompanying their host as he rode round his estate, and visited the various villages upon it.

The houses in these villages astonished the boys. Built of mud, of one story only and flat-roofed, they each occupied a large extent of ground; for here whole families lived together. As the sons grew up and married, instead of going into separate houses, and setting up life on their own account, they brought their wives home, as did their children when their turn came also to marry, so that under one roof resided as many as four generations, counting some forty or fifty souls altogether.

Each village had its headman, who settled all disputes, but against whose decision, if it failed to give satisfaction, there was an appeal to the master. The serfs worked, the count told the boys, without pay, but they had so many days in each month when they cultivated the land which was common to the village. They could, the count said, be sold, but in point of fact never were sold except with the land.

"It's a bad system, and I wish that they were as free is your laborers are in England."

"Of course our people cannot be sold," Jack said, "but after all there's not so much difference in that respect, for if an estate changes hands, they work for the new owner just as yours do."

"Yes, but your laborers cannot be killed or even flogged by their masters with impunity."

"No, I should think not," Jack exclaimed. "We should have a revolution in no time, if masters were to try that sort of thing."

"I fear that we shall have one too, some day," the count said, "unless the serfs are emancipated. The people are terribly ignorant, but even among them some sort of enlightenment is going on, and as they know better they will refuse to live and to work as mere beasts of burden."

"Will they be better off, sir, than before?" Dick Hawtry asked. "I have heard my father say that the negroes in the West Indian islands are worse off than they were in the days when they were slaves. They will not work except just enough to procure themselves means of living, and they spend the rest of their lives lying about and smoking."

"It would no doubt be the same thing here," the count said, "for a time. The Russian peasant is naturally extremely ignorant and extremely fond of 'vodka.' Probably at first he would be far worse off than at present. He would be content to earn enough to live and to get drunk upon, and wide tracts of land would remain untilled. But it is of the future we must think; and who can doubt that in the future, Russia, with a free people and free institutions, with her immense resources and enormous population, must become the grandest empire on earth?"

CHAPTER XIV. A SUSPECTED HOUSEHOLD

Cheerful though their hosts were, the midshipmen could see that a cloud of anxiety hung over them. To be "suspected" in Russia is equivalent to being condemned. Secret police spies in the very bosom of the household may be sending denunciations. The man who meets you and shakes hands with you in the street may have reported on your conduct. The letters you write are opened, those you should receive stopped in the post. At any moment the agent of the authorities may appear and conduct you to a prison which you may leave only for the long journey to Siberia.

Count Preskoff did not think that matters had yet reached this point. He was in disgrace at court, and had enemies who would injure him to the utmost with the emperor, but he believed that no steps would be taken until Count Smerskoff had received his final refusal of Katinka's hand. He had already once proposed for it, but would not consider the answer which her father then gave him as final.

"I cannot accept your refusal, count," he had said. "The marriage would be for the advantage of all parties concerned. My family is, as you are aware, not without influence at court, and they would, were I the husband of your daughter, do all in their power to incline the emperor favorably towards you; while, were I rejected, they would probably view your refusal to accept my offers as a slight to the family, and resent it accordingly. I cannot but think that when you have given the matter calm consideration, you will see the advantages which such an alliance would offer. I shall therefore do myself the honor to renew my proposals at some future date."

This conversation took place in the beginning of December; Count Preskoff had shortly afterwards left for his estates in the north, and he felt sure that upon his return the subject would be renewed, and that upon his announcement of his continued determination to refuse his daughter's hand to this pressing suitor, the latter would use every means in his power to ruin him, and that the cloud which had so long threatened would burst over his head.

From Olga, who, being about his own age, a little under sixteen, was his special chum in the family, Jack gathered a general idea of the situation. Olga was an adept at pantomimic action, and a natural mimic; hence, although he could only understand a word here and there, he obtained an accurate idea of the conversation between her father and the governor, and of her father's calm manner, and the gestures and intonations of apparent friendship but veiled menace. By putting her ears to a keyhole and hiding behind a curtain, she expressed the possibility of there being a spy in the very household, who would listen to the unguarded talk of her father and report it to the governor. Jack determined that he would watch every movement of the domestics, and especially observe if he could detect any sign of an understanding between one of them and the governor.

It was some four or five days after the count had returned that Count Smerskoff rode up to the door. Orders had already been given that if he arrived he should be shown to the count's private study. The midshipmen saw him riding up, and, according to the plan they had agreed upon, one stood near the entrance to observe whether any sign of recognition passed between him and any of the servants gathered upon the steps to receive him, the other took his place in the hall. The interview was not a long one.

"I am come, Count Preskoff," the governor said, "to renew my request for the hand of your daughter. I trust that upon consideration you will have thought it better to overlook the objections you preferred to my suit."

"Upon the contrary," the count said calmly, "I have thought the matter over in every light, and am more convinced even than before that such a marriage would not conduce to the happiness of my daughter. She herself is wholly repugnant to it, and even were it otherwise, I should myself most strongly object."

"On what grounds, count?" the officer said angrily. "Noble as your family is, my own is fully equal to it."

"That I am perfectly willing to allow, sir, and will frankly own that my objection is a purely personal one. The incidents of your past career are notorious. You have killed two men in duels, which, in both cases, you forced upon them. You have been involved in gambling transactions of such a description that it needed all the influence of your family to save you from public disgrace. To such a man it is impossible that I could intrust my daughter."

Count Smerskoff rose to his feet, bursting with passion.

"Since you know my reputation, count, it would have been wiser to abstain from insulting me. You shall hear from me before night."

"It is useless your sending your second to me," the count said calmly, "for I absolutely refuse to meet you. I shall publish my refusal, and state that the grounds upon which I base it are that you are a notorious ruffian; but that if you can find any man of honor to take up your quarrel, I shall be prepared to meet him."

"I will force you to it," the soldier said, burning with passion. "I will publicly insult you. I will strike you," and he drew a step nearer.

"You will do so at your peril," the count said, drawing a pistol from his pocket. "I know your method, sir, and am prepared for it. If you lay a finger upon me, if you insult me in public, I will shoot you dead where you stand, and take the consequences."

"You shall repent this," Count Smerskoff exclaimed. "There are lives worse than death, and you shall have cause to remember your words of to-day," and turning round he strode from the room.

Jack was still lounging in the hall as he passed out. One of the servants had also remained there, and when the governor was seen striding down the staircase, the man hastened to open the door. Jack saw the officer pause for a moment, "At eight to-night at the cross roads," he said, and passed out, and flinging himself upon his horse, rode off. Among the Russian words learned by the midshipmen were all words connected with roads. They had been specially desirous of asking questions which might enable them to find their way across country, and every word which would be likely to be included in a direction as to route had been learned. This was the more easy, as on their march there had been but few objects of interest to attract their attention. The expressions therefore "the road to the right," "the road to the left," "the turning by the wood or stream," "the cross roads," and other similar expressions had been learned by heart. Jack's quick ears, consequently, gathered the purport of the brief order.

"I have found the spy," he said triumphantly, when he joined his comrade outside. "Come for a stroll, Dick. I don't want to be seen talking here."

When well away from the house, Jack repeated the words he had overheard, and they determined that they would be present at the interview between the governor and his spy. They had a long discussion whether it would be better to invite the count himself to be present; but they agreed at last that it would be better not to do so, as he might break in upon the interview, and possibly only bring matters to a climax at once, which they agreed had better be avoided, as even if the men fought then and there, the fact of the governor being killed by the count would only precipitate the danger which already threatened. Still they agreed that it was absolutely necessary that the conversation should be thoroughly understood, and the few words which they would glean here and there might be insufficient to put them in possession of the full details of the plot.

They therefore resolved to take the coachman into their confidence. They knew that he was warmly attached to the count, and that he could be relied upon in an emergency. As they had full permission to take the horses or carriage whenever they pleased, they now went to the stable and told the coachman that they should like to go for a drive in the sledge, as the weather showed signs of breaking, and the snow would probably shortly disappear.

The horses were at once put to, and, in a few minutes they were whirling over the snow. They directed the coachman to drive into the forest where they had had the encounter with the wolves, and when well in its shelter they stopped the sledge and alighted, and requested the coachman to do the same. Much surprised, the unrolled the sheepskin wrappings from his legs and got down from his seat.

"Alexis, you love the count, your master, do you not?"

"Yes, young lord," the Russian said earnestly, though much surprised at the question. "His fathers have been the masters of mine for many generations. My good lord is always kind and considerate to his serfs. I drove his father before him. I drove him when he was a boy. He has never said a harsh word to me. I would give my life for him willingly. Why do the young lords ask?"

"Your master has enemies, Alexis. There are many who think that he is too kind to his serfs. They have poisoned the ear of the Czar against him. They have told him that your master is a dangerous man. They have turned the face of the Czar from him."

The Russian nodded. It was no secret that the count was banished from the capital.

"The chief of his enemies," Jack went on, "is the governor, Count Smerskoff. He wishes to marry the Countess Katinka, and because the count refuses he will try to injure him and to obtain his exile to Siberia."

"I will kill him," the coachman said. "I will slay him in the middle of his soldiers. They may kill me, but what of that, it is for my master."

"No, Alexis, not now," Jack said, laying his hand upon the arm of the angry Russian. "Perhaps later, but we will see. But I have found out that Paul, the hall servant, is acting as his spy. I heard the governor order him to meet him at the cross roads at eight o'clock to-night. I suppose he means where the road crosses that to town, about half-way along. We mean to be there, but you know we don't understand Russian well enough to hear all that is said. We want you to be there with us, too, to hear what they mean to do."

"I will be there," the Russian said; "and if the young lords think it well, I will kill them both."

"No, Alexis," Jack said; "that would never do. It might get about that the governor had been killed by order of the count, and this would do more harm than if he were alive. Will you be in the stables at seven o'clock? We will join you there. There are plenty of bushes at the cross-roads, and we shall be able to hide there without difficulty."

The coachman assented, and taking their seats, they again drove on. It must not be supposed that the conversation was conducted as simply and easily as has been narrated, for it needed all the efforts of the boys to make the Russian understand them, and they had to go over and over again many of the sentences, using their scanty vocabulary in every way, to convey their meaning to their hearer. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. The count himself was tranquil and even cheerful, although his face wore an air of stern determination. The countess looked anxious and careworn. The eyes of the three girls were swollen with crying, and the lads afterwards learned that Katinka had gone down on her knees to her father, to implore him to allow her to sacrifice herself for the common good by marrying Count Smerskoff. This, however, the count had absolutely refused to do, and had even insisted upon her promising him that, should he be exiled and his estates confiscated, she would not afterwards purchase his release by consenting to marry her suitor. Respecting the grief and anxiety into which the family were plunged, the midshipmen kept apart from them all the afternoon, only joining them at the evening meal at six o'clock. As they withdrew, saying, in answer to the count's invitation that they should stop with them, that they were first going for a little walk, Jack whispered in Olga's ear, "Keep up your courage. All may not be lost yet."

The coachman was waiting for them in the stable, and they started at once in an opposite direction to that at which the meeting was to take place, in case Paul might by any possibility observe their departure. Taking a long détour, they reached the cross-roads, and lay down under cover of the brushwood. It was nearly half an hour later before they heard footsteps approaching along the road from the chateau. On reaching the junction of the roads, the man stopped, and from their place of concealment they could dimly see his figure.

The boys had taken the precaution of abstracting a brace of pistols and two swords from the count's armory. The coachman they knew would have his knife. This they had done at Jack's suggestion that it was possible that their presence might be betrayed by a cough or other accidental noise, in which case they knew they would have to fight for their lives. A few minutes later they heard the tramp of a horse's hoof. It approached quickly, and the rider halted by the standing figure.

"Is that you, Paul?"

"It is, my lord," the serf said, bowing.

"You are alone?"

"No one had approached the place since I came here a quarter of an hour ago."

"It is time for action," the horseman said. "To-morrow you will come boldly at twelve o'clock to my house, and demand to see me on important business. You will be shown to my room, where two officers who I wish to have as witnesses will be present. You will then state to me that you wish to make a denunciation of your master, Count Preskoff. I shall ask what you have to say, and tell you that you are of course aware of the serious consequences to yourself should such statements be proved untrue. You will say that you are aware of that, but that you are compelled by your love for the Czar, our father, to speak. You will then say that you have heard the count using insulting words of the Czar, in speaking of him to his wife, on many occasions, and that since his return, on one occasion, you put your ear to the keyhole and heard him telling her of a great plot for a general rising of the serfs, and an overthrow of the government; that he said he had prepared the serfs of his estates in the north for the rising; that those of his estates here would all follow him; that many other nobles had joined in the plot, and that on a day which had not yet been agreed upon a rising would take place in twenty places simultaneously; and that the revolt once begun he was sure that the serfs, weary of the war and its heavy impositions, would everywhere join the movement. I shall cross-question you closely, but you will stick to your story. Make it as simple and straightforward as you can; say you cannot answer for the exact words, but that you will answer that this was the general sense of the conversation you overheard. Now, are you sure you thoroughly understand?"

"I quite understand, my lord," the man said humbly, "and for this your Excellency has promised me?"

"Five hundred roubles and your freedom."

"But when am I to be paid?" the man said doubtfully.

"Do you doubt my word, slave?" the horseman said angrily.

"By no means, your Excellency. But things might happen, and after I had told my story and it had been taken down before witnesses, your Excellency's memory might fail. I should prefer the money before I told my story."

The horseman was silent a moment.

"You are an insolent dog to doubt me," he said in an angry tone; "but you shall have the money; when you call to-morrow the sergeant of the guard will have instructions to hand you a letter which will contain notes for five hundred roubles."

"I thought," the man said, "your Excellency said gold. Five hundred roubles in notes are not worth two hundred in gold, and you see I shall have much to do to earn the money, for I may be sent to St. Petersburg and cross-questioned. I may even be confronted with my master; and after it is over and I am freed, I must, in any case, leave this part of the country, for my life will not be safe for a day here."

"Very well," the count said, "you shall have a thousand roubles in paper; but beware! if you fail me or break down in cross-examination, you shall end your life in the mines of Siberia."

So saying, without another word he turned and rode back, while the serf strode off towards the chateau. During this conversation, which the boys imperfectly understood, they had difficulty in restraining the count's faithful retainer, who, furious at hearing the details of the plot against his master, would have leaped up to attack the speakers, had not the boys kept their restraining hands on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "Be quiet, for the count's sake."

Waiting long enough to be sure that the two men had passed not only out of sight but of the sound of their voices, the lads suffered their companion to rise, and to indulge his feelings in an explosion of deep oaths. Then, when he was a little calm, they obtained from him a repetition of the leading facts of the conversation.

The boys consulted among themselves, and agreed that it was necessary to acquaint the count with all the facts that they had discovered, and to leave him to act as seemed best according to his judgment.

They entered the house alone, telling the coachman to call in half an hour, and to say that the count had given orders that he was to see him to take instructions for the horses in the morning. Then they joined the family in the drawing-room. There all proceeded as usual.

Katinka, at her father's request, played on the piano, and a stranger would not have dreamed of the danger which menaced the household. When the half-hour had nearly expired, Jack said to the count,—

"I have told Alexis to call upon you for orders for to-morrow. Would you mind receiving him in your study? I have a very particular reason for asking it."

"But I have no orders to give Alexis," the count said, surprised.

"No, sir, but he has something he particularly wishes to say to you—something really important."

"Very well," the court replied, smiling; "you seem to be very mysterious, but of course I will do as you wish. Is he coming soon?"

"In two or three minutes, sir, I expect him."

"Then," the count remarked, "I suppose I had better go at once, and learn what all this mystery is about. He isn't coming, I hope, to break to me the news that one of my favorite horses is dead." So saying, with a smile, he left the room. No sooner had he gone than the girls overwhelmed the midshipmen with questions, but they told them that they must not be inquisitive, that their father would, no doubt, tell them the secret in due time.

"If you will allow me, countess," Dick said, "I will leave this door a little open, so that we may hear when Alexis goes in." The door was placed ajar, and a few minutes later the footsteps of two men were heard coming along the corridor. Paul opened the door. "Is his Excellency here?" he asked. "Alexis wishes to see him."

"He is in his study," the countess answered.

The study door was heard to close, and when the sound of Paul's feet returning along the corridor ceased Dick said, "You will excuse us, countess, we are going to join the conference."

"It is too bad," Katinka exclaimed, "to keep us in the dark in this way. Mind, if the secret is not something very important and delightful, you will be in disgrace, and we shall banish you from this room altogether."

The lads made a laughing reply, and then, promising they would soon be back, they went to the study. Alexis was standing silent before his master, having explained that he would rather not speak until the young English lords appeared. Jack began the narrative, and said that fearing Count Smerskoff, whom they knew to be his enemy, might have suborned one of the servants to act as his spy they had watched him closely, and had heard him make an appointment with Paul to meet him that evening at the cross-roads; that they had taken Alexis into their confidence, and had with him been concealed spectators of the interview; that they themselves had been able to gather only the general drift of the conversation, but that Alexis would give him a full report of it.

The count's face had at first expressed only surprise at Jack's narration, but the expression changed into one of fierce anger as he proceeded. Without a word he motioned to Alexis to continue, and the latter detailed word for word the conversation which he had overheard. When he had concluded, he added, "Your Excellency must pardon me for not having killed your enemies upon the spot, but the young English lords had told me that it was necessary to lie quiet, whatever I heard, and besides, the governor might have ridden off before I could reach him."

The count stood for a minute silent when the narration ceased. "You did well, Alexis," he said in a stern voice. "It is for me to judge and sentence. I had thought that I, at least, was safe from treachery among those around me. It seems I was wrong, and the traitor shall learn that the kind master can be the severe lord, who holds the life and death of his serfs in his hand." He was silent, and remained two or three minutes in deep thought. "Go to the stable, Alexis. You will be joined there soon by Ivan and Alexander. They will have their instructions. After that Paul will come out; seize him and bind him when he enters the stable. Now go. You have done well. Tell Paul, as you go out, that I wish to see the steward."

A minute or two later the steward, a white-headed old man, who had from childhood been in the service of the family, entered. "Demetri," he said, "will you tell Ivan and Alexander to go out into the stable? They will find Alexis waiting for them. Order them, when Paul joins them there, to aid Alexis in seizing him instantly. Give them your instructions quietly, and without attracting notice. Above all do not let Paul see you speaking to them. When you have seen them out, find Paul, and order him to go to the stable and tell Alexis that I wish to speak to him; when he has gone, join me here."

CHAPTER XV. A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE

Count Preskoff's old steward received his orders with scarce a look of surprise, singular though they must have seemed to him. A Russian is accustomed to unquestioning obedience to the orders of his superior, and although never before had Count Preskoff issued such strange and unaccountable commands to the steward, the thought never occurred to the latter of questioning them for a moment.

When he had left the room, the Count turned to the midshipmen, and his brow relaxed. "I cannot tell you," he said, "under what obligation you have placed me and my family. Little did we think that any little kindness we might show to you, strangers and prisoners here, would be returned by a service of a hundredfold greater value. The danger which hangs over us may for the time be averted by your discovery. I know my enemy too well to suppose that it is more than postponed, but every delay is so much gained. I have news to-day that the Czar is alarmingly ill. Should Heaven take him, it would be the dawn of a better era for Russia. His son is a man of very different mould. He has fallen into disgrace with his father for his liberal ideas, and he is known to think, as I do, that serfdom is the curse of the empire."

"But surely," Dick Hawtry said, "if we draw out a document signed by us and Alexis, saying that we overheard the plot to obtain false evidence against you, the emperor would not believe other false accusations which your enemies might invent?"

"You little know Russia," the count said. "I believe that Nicholas, tyrannical and absolute as he is, yet wishes to be just, and that were such a document placed in his hands, it would open his eyes to the truth. But my enemies would take care that it never reached him. They are so powerful that few would dare to brave their hostility by presenting it. Nor, indeed, surrounded as Nicholas is by creatures whose great object is to prevent him from learning the true wishes of his people, would it be easy to obtain an opportunity for laying such a document before him. Even were the attempt made, and that successfully, such doubts would be thrown upon it, that he might well be deceived. It would be said that the evidence of Alexis, a serf devoted to his master, was valueless, and that you, as strangers, very imperfectly acquainted with the language, might well have misunderstood the conversation. Count Smerskoff would swear that he was only repeating statements which Paul had previously made to him, and that he only promised money because Paul insisted that, as a first condition of his informing against me, he should receive funds to enable him to leave this part of the country, where his life would assuredly be unsafe. I will thankfully take such a document from you, my friends, for it may be useful, but I must not trust too much to it. Now come with me," he continued, as the steward reappeared. "You have seen how a Russian noble can be kind to his serfs; you will now see how he punishes traitors."

Followed by the steward and the two midshipmen, the count proceeded to the stables. Here, by the light of the lantern, they saw Paul standing, bound against the manger. His features were ghastly pale and contracted with fear. His conscience told him that his treachery had been discovered. Alexis and the two servants were standing by, in the attitude of stolid indifference habitual to the Russian peasant.

"Demetri, you, Ivan, and Alexander will be the court to try this man whom I accuse of being a traitor, who has plotted against my life and liberty, who would have sent me to the gallows or Siberia, and seen my wife and children turned beggared and disgraced on the world. You will form the court, and decide whether he is innocent or guilty. If the latter, I will pass sentence. Alexis and these English gentlemen are the witnesses against him."

The midshipmen first, and then Alexis related the conversation they had overheard.

"You have heard the evidence," the count said, turning to Demetri. "What is your opinion? is this man innocent or guilty?"

"He is guilty," the old man said, "of the basest treachery towards the best and kindest master in Russia, and he deserves to die."

"And so say we," said the other two together, looking with loathing horror at the prisoner; for in Russia for a serf to conspire against his master was a crime deemed almost equal in atrocity to parricide.

"You hear, Paul," his master said, sternly looking at him; "you have been found guilty, and must die. Alexis, you restrained yourself for my sake from taking the life of this wretch when you heard him plotting against me; you will now act as executioner."

"Right willingly," the man replied, taking down a huge axe which hung by the wall.

The wretched prisoner, who had hitherto maintained an absolute silence, now burst into an agony of cries, prayers for mercy, and curses. Seeing in the unmoved countenances of his judges that nothing would avail, and that Alexis was approaching him; he screamed out a demand for a priest before he died.

"That is reasonable," the count said. "Go into the house, Demetri, and ask Papa Ivanovitch to come hither"—for in the family of every Russian noble a priest resides, as a matter of course.

Presently the priest arrived with the steward.

"Papa Ivanovitch," the count said, "you are, I know, devoted to the family in which your father and grandfather were priests before you. You can, therefore, be trusted with our secret, a secret which will never go beyond those present. You are here to shrive a man about to die."

Then the count related the incidents of the discovery of the treachery of the prisoner, and the priest, who shared with the serfs their veneration and affection for their lord, could scarcely overcome his repugnance and horror of the prisoner so far as to approach and listen to him.

For five minutes all present withdrew from the stable, leaving the priest and the prisoner alone together. Then the door opened and the priest came out.

"It is finished," he said. "May God pardon the sinner!" and he moved away rapidly towards the house.

Alexis spoke a word to his fellow-servants, and these lifted a heavy log from the wood-pile in the courtyard, and carried it into the stable. Then they seized Paul, and in spite of his screams and struggles laid him with his head across the log. Alexis raised the heavy axe in the air; it flashed in the light of the lantern; there was a dull, heavy thud, and the head of the traitor rolled on the ground.

"Now," the count said, unmoved, "put a horse into a cart, take picks and shovels, and carry the body of this traitor out to the forest and bury it there. Dig a hole deeply, that the wolves may not bring it to light. Demetri will give each of you to-morrow fifty roubles for your share in this night's work, and beware that you never let a syllable concerning it pass your lips, even when you are together and alone. Alexis, on you I bestow your freedom, if you care to have it, and also, as a gift to yourself and your heirs after you, the little farm that was vacant by the death of Nouvakeff last week."

So saying, followed by the two midshipmen who had been awed, but not disapproving spectators of the tragedy, he returned to the house, and led the way back to his study.

"You do not disapprove," he asked gravely, "of what I have done? It is not, I know, in accordance with your English ideas, nor even in Russia may a noble take a serf's life, according to law, though hundreds are killed in fits of hasty passion, or by slow ill-treatment, and no inquiry is ever made. Still, this was a case of life against life. My safety and happiness and that of my dear wife and daughters were concerned, and were the lives of fifty serfs at stake, I should not hesitate."

Although the boys felt that the matter, if brought before an English court of justice, might not be favorably considered, their sympathies were so thoroughly with the count, that they did not hesitate to say that they thought he could not have acted otherwise than he had done, and that the life of the traitor was most justly forfeited.

"I shall now have a respite for a short time," the count said. "Count Smerskoff will of course be perturbed and annoyed at the non-appearance of his spy, and will after a time quietly set inquiries on foot. But I will tell Demetri to give it to be understood that Paul has asked for leave of absence for a few days to go to a distance to visit a friend who is ill. He was always a silent and unsociable fellow, and the others will not wonder at his having started without mentioning his intention to any of them."

"What are we to say to the ladies, sir?" Jack asked. "We must invent some reason for our mysterious absence."

"Yes," the count agreed. "I would not burden them with such a secret as this on any account."

"I have an idea, sir," Jack said after a pause. "You know that beautiful pair of ponies which were brought here yesterday for sale? The ladies were in raptures over them, but you said that the price was preposterous, and that the owner wanted as much for them as you had given for your best pair of carriage horses. Now, sir, if you were to order Alexis to go over at daybreak to the town to purchase them, and have them at the door in a pony-carriage by breakfast-time, this would seem to explain the whole mystery of the coachman's coming to see you, and our private conference."

"It is a capital plan," the count assented; "admirable, and I will carry it out at once. It is true I refused to buy them, for we have all contributed to the extent of our means to enable the emperor to carry on the war, and I am really short of money. But of course the purchase of the ponies is not a matter of importance, one way or the other."

Upon the party returning to the drawing-room, they were assailed with questions; but the count told his daughters that their curiosity must remain unsatisfied until after breakfast on the morrow; and with this assurance they were obliged to be satisfied, although Olga pouted and told Jack that he had entirely forfeited her confidence. Fortunately it was now late, and the lads were not called upon long to maintain an appearance of gayety and ease which they were very far from feeling.

When they retired to their rooms, they had a long talk together. Both agreed that, according to English law, the whole proceeding was unjustifiable; but their final conclusion was that things in Russia were altogether different to what they were in England, and that, above all things, it was a case in which "it served him right."

Nevertheless it was long before they got to sleep, and for weeks the scene in the stable was constantly before their eyes, and the screams and entreaties of the dying man rang in their ears.

The next morning the sight of the ponies delighted the girls, and in their pleasure at the purchase they accepted at once the solution of the mystery, and never thought of questioning whether the long conference between their father and the midshipmen on the preceding evening was fully accounted for by the gift of the ponies.

Five days elapsed, and then one morning a sergeant rode up with an official letter for the count. The latter opened it and read an order from the governor for him to transfer the English prisoners in his charge to the bearer of the letter, who would conduct them to the quarters assigned to them. Most reluctantly the count ascended the stairs and informed the boys of the order which he had received.

"It is simply done to annoy me," he said. "No doubt he has heard that you ride about the estate with me and are treated as members of the family, and he thinks, and rightly, that it will be a serious annoyance to me if you are transferred elsewhere. However, I can do no less than obey the order, and I can only hope that you will spend most of your time here. Alexis shall bring the carriage over every morning for you, wherever you may be quartered."

The girls were as indignant and aggrieved as even the midshipmen could wish to see them, but there was no help for it. A quarter of an hour later a carriage was at the door, a portmanteau well filled with clothes placed behind, and with the sergeant trotting alongside, the boys left the chateau where they bad been so hospitably entertained, promising to come over without fail the next morning.

They were conducted to the governor's house, and taken not to the large room where he conducted his public business, and where they had before seen him, but to a smaller room, fitted up as a private study on the second floor. The governor, who looked, Jack thought, even more savage and ill-tempered than usual, was seated at a writing-table. He signed to the sergeant who accompanied them to retire, and pointed to two chairs. "So," he said, "I am told that you are able to converse fairly in Russian, although you have chosen to sit silent whenever I have been present, as if you did not understand a word of what was being said. This is a bad sign, and gives weight to the report which has been brought to me, that you are meditating an escape."

"It is a lie, sir," Dick said firmly, "whoever told it you. As to our learning Russian, we have, as you see, picked up a little of the language, but I'm not aware of any rule or law by which gentlemen, whether prisoners or otherwise, are obliged to converse, unless it pleases them to do so. You never showed any signs of being even aware of our presence in the room, and there was therefore no occasion for us to address you."

"I do not intend to bandy words with you," the governor replied savagely. "I repeat that I am informed you meditate attempting an escape, and as this is a breach of honor, and a grave offence upon the part of officers on parole, I shall at once revoke your privilege, and you will be confined in the same prison with common soldiers."

"In the first place," Jack said, "as my friend has told you, the report of our thinking of escaping is a lie. If we had wanted to escape, at any rate from this place, we could have done it at any time since we have been here. In the second place, I deny that we are prisoners on parole. We did not give you our promise, because you did not ask for it. You said to Dr. Bertmann, in our hearing, that our parole was no matter, one way or the other, as it would be impossible for us to escape. The doctor can of course be found, and will, I am sure, bear out what I say."

"Silence, sir!" shouted the governor. "I say that you were prisoners on parole, and that I have discovered you intended to break that parole. You will be committed to prison, and treated as men who have forfeited all right to be considered as officers and gentlemen."

The boys sat silent, looking with contempt at the angry Russian. The latter believed that he had now cowed them. He sat for a few minutes silent, in order to allow the prospect of imprisonment and disgrace to produce its full effect. Then he continued in a milder voice, "I do not wish to be severe upon such very young officers, and will therefore point out a way by which you may avoid the imprisonment and disgrace which your conduct has merited, and be enabled still to enjoy your freedom as before."

"What is it?" Dick asked briefly.

"It is this," the governor said. "I have here before me," and he touched some documents lying on the table, "a report which I am about to forward to the Czar respecting Count Preskoff. The report is not altogether favorable, for the count is a man of what are called advanced opinions. He has curious ideas as to the treatment of serfs, and has, no doubt, in your hearing expressed himself favorable to their emancipation."

The boys were silent.

"He has, I doubt not, done so, for he is rash and open of speech. I have here before me an information sworn to that effect, and if you will place your names as witnesses to it, I will not only pardon the indiscretion of which you have been guilty, but will do all in my power to make your stay pleasant."

The boys were speechless with indignation at the infamy of the proposal, and doubted not that the document contained far weightier charges than those specified by the governor.

"Who has signed that document?" Jack asked.

"I do not know that the name can matter to you," the governor said, "but it is one of the servants of the count, one Paul Petrofski."

"Then," Dick said, starting to his feet, "it is a forgery. Paul Petrofski never signed that document."

"What do you mean?" the governor exclaimed, leaping to his feet also, and laying his hand on his sword, while his face grew white with passion. "Do you accuse me of forgery?"

"I repeat," Dick said, his indignation altogether mastering his prudence, "that it is a forgery. You have never seen Paul Petrofski since I heard you offer him one thousand roubles at the cross-roads that night to betray his master."

With a short cry which reminded Jack of the sharp snarl of the wolves in the night in the forest, the Russian drew his sword and rushed upon Dick. The latter threw up his arm to defend himself, but the blow fell, cutting his arm severely, and laying open a great gash on his cheek.

The Russian raised his arm to repeat the blow, when Jack sprang upon him from behind, seizing him round the waist, and pinning his arms to his side.

The count struggled furiously, but Jack was a strongly built English lad of nearly sixteen years old, and he not only retained his grasp, but lifted his struggling captive from his feet. "Open the window, Dick!" he shouted. "It's his life or ours now." Dick though nearly blinded with blood, sprang to the window and threw it up.

There was a short, desperate struggle, as the Russian shouting furiously for aid, strove with his feet to keep himself away from the window, but Dick struck these aside. With a mighty effort Jack pushed his captive forward, and in another moment he was thrown through the open window. A rush of heavy steps was heard on the stairs. In an instant Jack darted to the table, seized the documents upon it, and cast them into the fire in the stove, slammed the door, and was standing by the window with Dick, when an officer and several soldiers burst into the room.

"What is the matter?" the former exclaimed; "and where is the governor?"

"The matter is," Jack said, quietly turning round, "that the governor has drawn his sword, and, as you see, tried to kill my friend. In order to prevent his doing so, my friend and I have thrown the governor out of the window."

"Thrown the governor out of the window!" gasped the astonished officer.

"Yes," Jack said. "It was painful, but we had to do it. If you look out, I fancy you'll see him."

The officer ran to the window.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed; "it is true. They are lifting him up already. He seems to me to be dead. You will have to answer for this," he said, turning to the lads.

"Of course we shall answer for it," Jack said. "He brought it on himself. His temper, as no doubt you are aware, was not always under strict control."

The officer could not help smiling. He had himself often experienced the effects of that want of control of his temper on the part of his superior, and was at heart by no means sorry at the prospect of a new governor.

"His Excellency's temper was hasty," he said. "However, gentlemen, that is no business of mine." Then, turning to the soldiers, he continued, "You will take these officers into custody, and remain here in charge of them until you have further orders." He then left them, to inquire into the state of the governor. The soldiers muttered remarks to each other, by no means indicative of sorrow, for the tyranny of the governor had made him hated by all below him. One of them at Jack's request at once went out and returned with a jug of cold water and a towel, with which Jack bathed Dick's wounds, which were bleeding severely, and the midshipman was scarcely able to stand from loss of blood. Jack vainly attempted to stop the bleeding. "We must have a surgeon," he said, turning to the soldiers, "or, as you see, my friend will bleed to death. No doubt there are plenty of them below. Will one of you go and ask one of them to come up here, telling him how urgent is the need?"

After a consultation among themselves, one of the soldiers retired, and in a minute or two returned with a surgeon, in whom, to his great delight, Jack recognized Doctor Bertmann, who upon seeing Dick's state at once proceeded to attend to him. Cutting off his coat and shirt-sleeve, he examined his arm, from which the blood was flowing in a stream.

"One of the small arteries is cut," he said. "It is lucky that aid was at hand, or he would have assuredly bled to death." The severed artery was speedily found and tied up, and then the wound on the face was plastered and bandaged, and Dick, as he lay on the couch, for he was far too weak to stand, felt comparatively comfortable.

CHAPTER XVI. AN ESCAPE FROM PRISON

When he had dressed Dick's wounds, Doctor Bertmann said he would go down and see the governor. He had already told the lads that he had received fatal injuries, and was unconscious, and that he might, or might not, recover his senses before he died. It was an hour before he returned, accompanied by the other officer. Both looked grave.

"I'm sorry to say, my young friend," the doctor said to Jack, for Dick had now gone off in a quiet doze, "that the affair has assumed a very serious aspect. The count is dead. He recovered consciousness before he died, and denounced you both as having made a sudden and altogether unprovoked attack upon him. He had, he affirmed, discovered that you were meditating a breach of your parole, and that he had informed you that the privileges extended to you would, therefore, be withdrawn. Then, he said, transported by rage, you sprang upon him. He drew his sword and attempted to defend himself, but the two of you, closing with him, hurled him through the window, in spite of his struggles."

The other officer had, while the doctor was speaking, been examining the writing-table.

"I do not see the papers he spoke of," he said to the doctor.

Then, turning to the sergeants of the guard, he asked if any papers upon the table had been touched. The sergeant replied that no one had gone near the table since he had entered the room.

"In that case," the officer said, "his mind cannot have been quite clear, although he seemed to speak sensibly enough. You heard him order me, doctor, to fold up a report and attesting statement directed to the Minister of the Interior, and to post them immediately? It is clear that there are no such documents here. I entered the room with the sergeant almost at the moment when the struggle ended, and as no one has touched the table since, it is clear that they cannot have been here. Perhaps I may find them on the table downstairs. It is now," he said, turning to Jack, "my duty to inform you that you are in custody for the deliberate murder of Count Smerskoff, as sworn to by him in his last moments."

"He was a liar when he was alive," Jack said, "and he died with a falsehood on his lips. However, sir, we are at your orders."

A stretcher was brought in, Dick was placed upon it, and under a guard the midshipmen were marched to the prison, the soldiers with difficulty keeping back the crowd who pressed forward to see the English prisoners who had murdered the governor.

Doctor Bertmann walked with Jack to the prison door. Upon the way he assured Jack that he entirely believed his version of the story, as he knew the governor to be a thoroughly bad man.

"Singularly enough," he said, "I had intended to see you to-day. I went back to Sebastopol on the very day after you arrived here, with a regiment marching down, and left again with a convoy of wounded after only two days' stay there. I got here last night, and I had intended coming out to call upon you at Count Preskoff's to-day. You would, no doubt, like me to see him at once, and inform him of what has taken place."

Jack said that he would be very much obliged, if he would do so.

"I will return this afternoon to see my patient," Doctor Bertmann said, as they parted, "and will then bring you news from the count, who will, no doubt, come to see you himself."

The cell to which the boys were conducted was a small one, and horribly dirty. Jack shrugged his shoulders, as he looked at it.

"It is not fit for a pig," he said to himself. "After all, Russia is not such a pleasant place as I thought it yesterday."

When they were left alone, Jack set to work to cheer up his companion, who was weak, and inclined to be despondent from the loss of blood which he had suffered.

"At any rate, old boy," Jack said, in reply to Dick's assertion of his conviction that they would be shot, "we shall have the satisfaction that we have procured the safety of our friends at the chateau. Now that their enemy is gone, the count will no doubt be let alone. It was dreadful to think what would have become of the countess and the three girls if their father had been sent to Siberia, and they turned out penniless. Besides, old fellow, we are a long way from being dead yet. After all, it is only the governor's word against ours, and you may be sure that the count will move heaven and earth to bring matters right."

It was dusk before the doctor returned.

"I have seen the count," he said, "and the ladies and he were greatly distressed at my news. It is plain to see that you are prime favorites. The young ladies were very Niobes. The count was most anxious to learn all particulars, but I could only tell him that you asserted the governor had attacked you first. He drove in at once, and made no doubt that he should be allowed to see you. In this, however, he was disappointed, and indeed you have had a most fortunate escape. The officer second in command here is a relative of the late governor. Fortunately he was absent this morning, and only returned this afternoon. Like the late count he is of a violent and passionate temper, and when he heard the news swore that had he been here, he would have instantly had you brought out and shot in the square. Indeed, it was with difficulty that the other officers dissuaded him from doing so upon his return. He has ordered that a court-martial shall assemble to-morrow, and that you shall be at once tried and executed."

"But surely," Jack said, "no court-martial of officers would find us guilty. The count's violent temper was notorious, and it is against all reason that two unarmed men should make an attack upon one armed with a sword, and within call of assistance. You yourself know, Doctor Bertmann, that the reason which he alleged for the attack is a false one, as we were not asked for our parole."

"I am, of course, aware of that," the doctor said, "and should attend to give evidence, but the case is a doubtful one. The officers of our line regiments are, for the most part, poor and friendless men. Promotion is almost entirely by favoritism, and it would need a very considerable amount of courage and independence to give a verdict in the teeth of their commanding officer. In the next place, for I have heard them talking it over among themselves, there is a sort of feeling that, for the honor of the Russian army, it is almost necessary that you should be found guilty, since it would throw discredit upon the whole service were it published to the world that two unarmed young English officers had been attacked with a sword by a Russian officer of rank."

"Then things look rather badly for us," said Jack. "Well, it can't be helped, you know, and the count will, no doubt, write to our people at home, to tell them the truth of the case."

"Oh," said the doctor, "you must not misunderstand me. I only said that the new commandant had ordered that you should be tried by court-martial, but that is a very different thing from its being done. We must get you out of prison to-night."

"You speak very confidently," Jack said, laughing, "but how is it to be done?"

"Oh," answered the doctor, "there is no great difficulty on that score. It may be taken as certain that as a rule every Russian official, from the highest to the lowest, is accessible to a bribe, and that no prisoner with powerful friends outside need give up hope. This is a military prison. The soldiers at the gate are open to imbibe an unlimited amount of vodka, whoever may send it. The officer in command of them will be easily accessible to reasons which will induce him to shut his eyes to what is going on. Your warder here can of course be bought. The count is already at work, and as his means are ample, and, although under a cloud at present, his connections powerful, there is little fear that he will fail in succeeding. By the way I have news to tell you. Do you hear the bells tolling? The news has arrived that Nicholas is dead. Alexander, our new Czar, is known to be liberally disposed, and, were there time, the count would go to St. Petersburg, obtain an audience with him, and explain the whole circumstances, which, by the way, he has related to me. This, of course, is out of the question, and even were there time for him to go and return, it would not be possible for him to obtain an audience with the new emperor just at present."

"I wish it could have been so," Jack said. "Of course Dick and I will be glad enough to avail ourselves of the chances of escape, for it would be foolish to insist upon waiting to be tried by a tribunal certain beforehand to condemn us. Still, one doesn't like the thought of making one's escape, and so leaving it to be supposed that we were conscious of guilt."

"Oh," the doctor said, "you need not trouble yourself upon that score. The governor was hated by every one, and no one really doubts that he attacked you first. Upon the contrary, the population are inclined to look upon you as public benefactors. There will then be no feeling against you here, but even if there were, it would make but little difference. At present every one in Russia is talking and thinking of nothing but the death of the Czar, and of the changes which may be made by his son, and the details of a squabble in an obscure town will attract no attention whatever, and will not probably even obtain the honor of a paragraph in the Odessa papers. The first thing for us to do is to get your friend into a fit state to walk. How do you feel?" he asked, bending over Dick and feeling his pulse.

"Ever so much better," Dick said cheerfully, "since I have heard from you that there is a chance of escape. I have been fretting so at the thought that I have got Jack into such a wretched mess by my folly in telling the governor that I knew of his treachery. If it had been only myself, I shouldn't have cared."

"Why, my dear Dick," Jack said cheerfully, "I never dreamt of blaming you, and if you hadn't spoken out, I have no doubt I should have done so. No, no, old fellow, whatever comes of it, don't you blame yourself."

"Can you stand, do you think?" the doctor asked.

"Oh, I think so," Dick said; and rising, he managed to totter across the cell.

"That is all right," the doctor said. "In a quarter of an hour you shall have a good dinner sent in from a restaurant. I have arranged for that. It is of course contrary to rule, but a few roubles have settled it. There will be supper, too, at eleven o'clock; there will also be a couple of bottles of first-rate Burgundy from the count's cellar. You are to eat two good meals, and drink a third of a bottle at each of them. Your wounds are not in themselves serious, and the only thing that ails you is loss of blood. We must risk a little accession of fever for the sake of giving you strength. When you have had your supper, you had best both get to sleep, if you can, for an hour or two. Whatever arrangements we make will be for about two o'clock in the morning. And now good-bye for the present; keep up your spirits, and remember that even should any unexpected accident upset our plans for to-night, we will carry them out to-morrow night, as the court-martial will not take place till the afternoon, and there will be at least twenty-four, probably forty-eight hours, between the sentence and its execution."

So saying, the doctor took his departure, leaving the lads far more cheerful and confident than they had been when he entered. He seemed indeed to regard the success of the attempt which would be made for their evasion as secured. The meal, which consisted of some strong and nourishing soup, and a dish of well-cooked meat, shortly arrived, and Dick, after partaking of it, and drinking his prescribed allowance of Burgundy, announced that he felt a man again, and ready for a tussle with the commandant. After his meal he dozed quietly, for some hours, until aroused by the arrival of supper which consisted again of soup with some poached eggs served on vegetables.

Jack had not tried to sleep, but had enjoyed a pipe which the doctor had, with tobacco, handed to him, his own having been confiscated upon his entrance into the prison. After supper, however, he threw himself upon the straw and slept soundly, until awakened by a hand being placed on his shoulder. He leaped to his feet, and saw the warder beside him. The man carried a lantern. The candle with which the boys had been furnished by the doctor's arrangement had burned out. Jack aroused his comrade, and the two followed the warder, who led the way along the corridor and down the stairs into the courtyard of the prison.

The man did not walk with any particular caution, and the lads judged from his movements that he had no fear whatever of interruption. The door of the guard-room stood open, and by the light of the fire which blazed within, they could see the soldiers lying about in a drunken sleep. At the gate itself the sentry on duty was sitting on the ground with his back against a wall, and his musket beside him, in a heavy drunken sleep.

The warder unlocked the door, the key being already in the lock; the three issued out; the gate was closed and locked on the outside, and the key thrust under the gate. The warder then led the way through the streets, until he reached a small house near the outskirts. The door opened as their footsteps approached, and Count Preskoff came out.

"My dear boys," he exclaimed embracing them as if he had been their father, "how much you have suffered for the sake of me and mine! Here," he continued, turning to the warder, "is the reward I promised you. Go straight on to the chateau. You will find my coachman with a light carriage ready for starting. He will drive you twenty-five miles on your way, and you will then only have fifteen to walk before morning to the house of the woodman, your brother, where I hear you intend to remain hidden for the present. You can rely upon my protection after the affair has blown over. Now come in, lads, this is the house of a faithful serf of mine, who works here on his own account as an artisan, and you will be safe from interruption for the next hour or two."

Upon entering the cottage, the midshipmen were surprised to find the countess and her daughters, who greeted them no less warmly than the count had done.

"My husband has told me all that you have done for us," the countess said, "and how you first discovered the plot between the governor and that miserable traitor for our ruin. I have blamed him for hiding it from us at first, for surely a wife should know of the dangers to which her husband is exposed. Besides, I and my daughters would have remained ignorant of the obligation we owe you."

"And to think of the way you took us in with the ponies," Olga laughed. "Papa said that was your invention, Master Jack. That's another score against you."

"I hope," Dick said, "that you are running no risks on our account, countess. I fear that there may be suspicions that the count has been concerned in our escape."

"The deputy-commandant may suspect," the count said, "but he can prove nothing. All in the chateau are, I believe, faithful, but even were they not, none know of our absence, as we did not leave until all were asleep, and shall return before daylight. Alexis will himself drive the warder to his destination. He has the best pair of horses, and will do the fifty miles in under four hours so that he will be back before any one is stirring. The others concerned will hold their tongues for their own sakes. The soldiers will not admit that they have been drunk, but will declare that no one has passed the gate. The lieutenant in charge will hang up the key on its hook in the guard-room, and will declare that every time he made his rounds he found the men alert and vigilant. It will therefore be supposed that the warder has let you out by a rope or in some other way. No doubt there will be a vigilant hue-and-cry in the morning, and the commandant will search every house, will keep a sharp watch over the chateau, and will scour the country for miles round. But it will die away in time. I wrote yesterday afternoon to my friends in St. Petersburg, urging them to obtain the appointment of some friend to this post. The party of reform will be in the ascendency in the counsels of the emperor, and I have every hope that I shall shortly be restored to favor at court, a matter, by the way, which I care for very much more for the sake of my daughters than for myself. The countess and I are well content with our life in the country, but the girls naturally look forward to the gayeties of life at the capital. Beside which," he added, laughing, "I must be looking for husbands for them, and I fear that I should not find satisfactory suitors in this neighborhood."

Jack could not help glancing at Olga, for, with a midshipman's usual inflammatory tendency, he was convinced that he was hopelessly in love with that damsel. Olga colored, and then turned away, from which Jack could gain no indication favorable or otherwise for his hopes.

The count now explained the plans that had been adopted for their escape. "It would," he said, "seem the natural course to aid you, as we have done the warder, by driving you far into the country. But the descriptions of you are sure to be sent to every place within fifty miles. I know no one to whom I could safely entrust you, and the doctor says that it is impossible that our friend Dick should walk for any distance for the next two or three days. The doctor has fortunately received orders to-day to start at daybreak this morning with a convoy going back to Sebastopol. No doubt the new commandant had heard that he was prepared to give evidence at the court-martial contradicting the governor's statement that you were prisoners on parole, and therefore wished to get him out of the way. There are several of my carts which have been requisitioned for the service, in the convoy. I have here peasants' dresses for you. These you will put on, and when the carts come along from the chateau half an hour before daybreak it is arranged that you will take the places of two of the drivers, who will at once return home. There will be no loading to do, as the carts will be laden with flour for the army before they leave to-night, so you will only have to go along with the others, and take your places in the convoy. After starting the doctor will come along the line, and seeing Dick limping, will order him to take his place in one of the carts under his immediate charge, with medicines and bedding for the hospitals. One driver more or less in a team of some hundreds of wagons all following each other along a straight road will not be noticed. So you will journey south for a week or so, until Dick has thoroughly recovered his strength. You had then, we think, better make to the west by the Odessa road. The doctor will take two uniforms, there are plenty obtainable in the hospital, for you to put on. You must of course run the risk of questioning and detection by the way, but this cannot be avoided, and at least you will be beyond the range of search from here, and will be travelling by quite a different road from that which you would naturally take proceeding hence. And now tell us all about your affair with the governor. We have only so far heard his version of the affair, which of course we knew to be false; but why he should have attacked you in the way he did, we cannot quite understand."

Dick gave an account of the struggle and the causes which led to it, owning himself greatly to blame for his imprudence in acquainting the governor with his knowledge of his secret. He also gave full credit to Jack for his promptness, not only in seizing the governor and so saving a repetition of the blow, which would probably have been fatal, but also in destroying the report and forged evidence of Paul before interruption. The lads gained great credit with all for their gallantry, and Katinka said, laughing, "It is wrong to say so, I suppose, now he is dead, but I should like to have seen the count struggling as Jack carried him along, like a little ant with a great beetle." They all laughed.

"Oh, come now," Jack said; "there was not so much difference as all that. He was not over six feet, and I suppose I am only about five inches less, and I'm sure I was not much smaller round the shoulders than he was."

"And now about your route," the count said. "You must not lose time. Do you both quite agree with me that it would be next to impossible for you to pass through the lines of our army and to gain your own?"

"Quite impossible," Dick agreed. "Jack and I have talked it over again and again, and are of opinion that it could not be done even in Russian uniforms. We should be liable to be questioned by every officer who met us as to the reason of our being absent from our regiment, and should be certain to be found out. We thought that it might be possible to get hold of a fishing-boat, and sail down to join the fleet. There would be of course the risk of being blown off the shore or becalmed, and it would be difficult to lay in a stock of provisions."

"Besides," the count said, "there is no blockade at Odessa, and our small war-steamers cruise up and down the coast, so that you would be liable to capture. No, I am sure your best way will be to go by land through Poland. There are still large bodies of troops to the southwest, facing the Turks, and it would be better for you to keep north of these into Poland. You can go as wounded soldiers on furlough returning home; and, being taken for Poles, your broken Russian will appear natural. I will give you a letter which the countess has written to the intendant of her estates in Poland, and he will do everything in his power."

"I would rather not carry a letter," Dick said, "for it would compromise you if we were taken. It would be better, if I might suggest, for the countess to write to him direct, saying that when two persons arrive and give some pass-word, say, for instance, the names of your three daughters, we shall not forget them, he is to give us any help we may require."

This was agreed upon, and the party chatted until the count said that it was time for them to dress. Going into another room, the boys clad themselves in two peasant costumes, with the inseparable sheepskin coat which the Russian peasant clings to until the full heat of summer sets in, and which is, especially during a journey, invaluable. The count then insisted upon their taking a bundle of rouble notes to the value of 200 l., and upon their urging that they could have no possible need of so much money, he pointed out that there was no saying what emergencies might occur during their journey, and that after passing the frontier they would require a complete outfit, and would have to pay the expenses of their journey, either to England or the east, whichever they might decide upon. They rejoined the party in the front room just as a rumble of carts was heard approaching. There was a hasty parting. Father, mother, and daughters kissed the midshipmen affectionately. Jack squeezed Olga's hand at parting, and in another minute they were standing in front of the door.

"Yours will be the last two carts," the count said.

When these arrived opposite the house the count stepped forward and said a word to the drivers, who instantly fell behind, while the boys took up their places by the oxen and moved along with the procession of carts.

CHAPTER XVII. A JOURNEY IN DISGUISE

The start was accomplished. Many hundreds of carts were assembled in the great square. A mounted officer and a small guard of soldiers had formed across the road which they were to follow, and as soon as daylight had fairly appeared he gave the word, and the carts began to file off along the southern road, an account being taken of each cart, as it passed out, by an officer on duty, to see that the number which had been requisitioned were all present. No question was asked of the boys.

As the driver of the first of those belonging to the count reported twelve carts, each laden with thirty sacks of flour supplied by Count Preskoff, the officer, seeing the number was correct, allowed them to pass without further question. Dick found himself still extremely weak, and could not have proceeded many hundred yards, if he had not taken a seat on the cart behind his oxen.

After two hours' travelling there was a halt for a quarter of an hour, and the doctor, passing along, spoke to Dick, and then walked with him back along the line to the hospital carts which were in the rear. Here Dick took his place among some bales of blankets, and another was thrown over him, in such a way that his presence there would not be suspected by any one riding past the cart. Upon the train proceeding Jack took charge of the two carts. This was an easy task, the oxen proceeding steadily along without deviating from the line, and requiring no attention whatever beyond an occasional shout and a blow of the stick when they loitered and left a gap in the line.

Alongside the drivers walked in groups of three or four, talking together, and thus the fact that one of the wagons was without its driver passed unnoticed. Alexis had told the count's serfs who accompanied the carts that their master had arranged at the last moment for hired men to take the places of two of their number, one of whom had a wife sick at home, and the other was engaged to be married shortly. He had also told them that it was their master's wish that they should enter into no conversation with the strangers, as these were from a northern province, and scarcely understood the southern dialect.

Accustomed to obey every command of their master without hesitation, the serfs expressed no wonder even among themselves at an order which must have appeared somewhat strange to them. It was the count's pleasure, and that was sufficient for them. At the end of the day, Dick rejoined his comrade, and assisted him to feed the oxen, who required no further attention except the removal of the yoke, when they lay down upon the ground and slept in their places. Dick brought him a supply of cold meat and white bread, and a bottle of wine; and the lads, choosing a place apart from the others, enjoyed their meal heartily, and then, climbing up on to the top of their flour sacks, wrapped themselves in their sheepskins and were soon sound asleep.

That evening a soldier brought a message to the officer in charge of the escort, telling him that the two English prisoners had by the aid of their warder effected their escape, bidding him search the convoy, and keep a sharp lookout along the road and ordering him to give information to all village and military authorities, and instruct them to send messages to all places near, warning the authorities there not only to keep a sharp lookout, but again to forward on the news; so that in a short time it would be known in every village in the province.

In the morning, before starting, the officer in charge of the escort rode along the line, examining every wagon carefully, asking the names of the drivers, and referring to a paper with which he had been furnished by the owners of the carts, at starting, giving the names of the drivers. The head man of the party from Count Preskoff's responded at once for the twelve men under him; and satisfied that the fugitives were not in the convoy, the officer gave orders to proceed.

This time Dick was able to walk two or three miles before dropping back to the hospital wagon. The next day he went still farther, and by the end of a week announced himself to be as strong as ever, and the doctor allowed that he could now be trusted to travel.

On this night they had halted at a point where a road, running east and west, crossed the great road to the Crimea. Before starting, the boys had a long chat with their friend the doctor, who furnished them with military passes which he had procured from an officer. These testified that Ivan Petrofski and Alexis Meranof, of the 5th Polish Regiment, were proceeding home on sick-furlough.

The signature of the colonel was no doubt fictitious, but this mattered but little. Jack inquired whether their absence in the morning would not be likely to be remarked; but the doctor said that the head of the party had been informed by Demetri that the two strangers would only accompany them for a few days' march, and had only been hired to satisfy the authorities that the right number of men had been furnished, for the want of hands on the estate was now so great owing to the heavy drain of conscripts to fill up the losses caused by the war, that the count had been glad to retain the services of the two who had been left behind. There was therefore to be no remark concerning the disappearance of the new hands, but the others were to take charge of their carts, and if possible the authorities were to be kept unacquainted with the fact that their number was incomplete.

The peasants' dresses were now exchanged for the uniforms of Russian soldiers. Dick's head was wrapped in bandages, and his arm placed in a sling. Jack's leg was also enveloped in bandages, the trousers being slit up to the hip, and the sides loosely tied together by a piece of string, and the doctor gave him a pair of crutches, the same as those used in regimental hospitals.

"Now you will do," he said, surveying them by the light of a lantern. "Many of the soldiers who have joined since the outbreak of the war are mere boys, so your age will not be against you, only pray for a time give up all idea as to the necessity of washing. The dirtier your hands and faces, the better, especially if the dirt will hide your clear healthy color, which is very unlike the sallow complexions almost universal among our peasantry. And now, good-bye. I move about too much to hope to receive any letter from you, but as you have of course arranged with Count Preskoff to send him word when you have safely crossed the frontier, I shall hear of you from him."

With many deep and hearty thanks for the kindness he had shown them, the boys parted from him, and, setting their faces to the west, took the road to Odessa. Jack carried his crutches on his shoulders, as also the long strap which, when he used them, was to pass over his neck, and down under his foot, keeping it off the ground.

They had made many miles before morning, and as they had retained their sheepskin cloaks, which had been served out to many of the troops, they were able to get a comfortable sleep under shelter of a protecting wall. Five days' walking took them to Odessa. This town was not upon the direct road, but they still clung to the hope of getting away by sea.

On the journey they had met several bodies of troops and many convoys of provisions and stores. Whenever they observed the former to be approaching, they left the road, and sheltered themselves behind bushes or inequalities of the ground at a distance from the road, as they knew they would be liable to be questioned as to the state of things at the front. They did not, however, go out of their way for convoys, as they passed these with short salutations in reply to the greetings or pitying remarks from the drivers. Their Russian was good enough to pass muster when confined to short sentences of a formal kind. Their hearts beat when, on passing over a rise, they saw the blue water stretching out far before them, and they again debated the possibility of seizing a boat. But the sight of two gun-boats steaming slowly along the shore convinced them that the attempt would be an extremely dangerous one.

Odessa is not a fortress, and the boys consequently entered it unquestioned. The town was crowded with wounded and sick soldiers, and their appearance attracted no attention whatever. In the principal streets the lads saw many names of English firms over offices, and the majority of the shops appeared to be kept by Frenchmen and Germans. They walked down to the wharves and saw how great must have been the trade carried on before the war. Now all traffic and business was at an end.

The great foreign merchants interested in the corn trade had all left, and many of the shops were closed.

The harbor was deserted, save that a score or two of brigs employed in the coasting-trade, in the Black Sea lay moored by the wharves with hatches battened down and deserted decks. A little farther out lay at anchor two or three frigates and some gun-boats. Looking seaward, not a single sail broke the line of the horizon.

Returning into the town, they went up some small streets, entered a small eating-house, and asked for food, for the stock with which they had started four days before had been exhausted the previous evening. The landlord served them, and as they were eating he entered into conversation with them.

"I suppose you have leave out of hospital for the day?"

"No," Dick said, "my comrade and I have got leave to go home to Poland till our wounds are cured."

"Oh," the landlord said. "You are Poles. I thought you did not look quite like our men; but you speak Russian well for Poles. There is a regiment of your countrymen in the town now, and some of them come in sometimes for a glass of brandy. They like it better than vodka; curious, isn't it? Your true Russian thinks that there's nothing better than vodka."

Rather disturbed at the intelligence that there was a Polish regiment in the town, the boys hastened through their meal, and determined to lay in a stock of bread and meat sufficient for some days' consumption, and to leave Odessa at once. Just as they had finished, however, the door opened, and a sergeant and two soldiers entered.

"Ah, my friend," the landlord said to the former. "I am glad to see you. Are you come as usual for a glass of brandy? Real French stuff it is, I promise you, though for my part I like vodka. Here are two of your compatriots wounded; they have furlough to return home. Lucky fellows, say I. There are thousands at Sebastopol would be glad to change places with them, even at the cost of their wounds."

The sergeant strode to the table at which the lads were sitting, and, drawing a chair up, held out his hands to them. "Good-day, comrades," he said in Polish. "So are you on your way home? Lucky fellows! I would give my stripes to be in your place, if only for a fortnight."

Dick for a moment was stupefied, but Jack recalled to mind three sentences which the countess had taught him and which might, she said, prove of use to them, did they happen to come across any insurgent bands in Poland; for vague reports were current, in spite of the efforts of the authorities to repress them, that the Poles were seizing the opportunity of their oppressors being engaged in war, again to take up arms. The sentences were pass-words of a secret association of which the countess's father had been a member, and which were widely whispered among patriotic Poles. "The dawn will soon be at hand. We must get up in the morning. Poland will yet be free." The sergeant stared at them in astonishment, and answering in a low tone in some words which were, the boys guessed, the countersign to the pass, sat down by them. "But you are not Poles?" he said in a low voice in Russian. "Your language is strange. I could scarce understand you."

"No," Jack said, in similar tones, "we are not Poles, nor Russians. We are English, and England has always been the friend of Poland."

"That is so," the sergeant said heartily. "Landlord," he said, raising his voice, "a glass of vodka for each of my friends. I fear that my money will not run to brandy. And now," he said, when the landlord had returned to his place, "what are you doing here? Can I help you in any way?"

"We are English officers who have escaped, and are making our way to Poland. We expect to find friends there. Do you know the intendant of the Countess Preskoff at—?"

"Do I know him?" the soldier repeated. "Why, I belong to the next village. I have seen him hundreds of times. And the countess, do you know the countess?"

"Certainly we do," Jack said. "We have been living for six weeks in her chateau, it is she who has written to the intendant to aid us."

"You will be welcome everywhere for her sake. She is a kind mistress, and greatly beloved. It is a pity that she married a Russian, though they say he is a good fellow. Tell me, can I do anything for you? Do you want for money?"

"No, indeed," Jack replied. "The countess has taken care of that."

"Look here," the sergeant said. "I will give you a note to my brother, who is a horse-dealer at Warsaw. It may be useful to you. He knows every one, and if, as they say, there is trouble in Poland, he is sure to be in the thick of it, and at any rate he will be able to give you advice which may be useful, and addresses of safe people in different towns to whom you can go. Landlord, give me some paper and pen and ink. My comrades here know friends of mine at home, and will carry a letter for me."

"Please be careful," Dick said, as the soldier began to write. "It is possible we may be searched on the way; so do not say anything that a Russian official might not read."

"Trust me," the sergeant answered, laughing. "We Poles have been learning to conceal our feelings for generations. Trust me to write a letter which my brother will understand at once, but which will seem the most innocent thing in the world to any Russian official who may read it."

In a few minutes the letter was finished, and the three left the place together, the sergeant telling his comrades that he would return shortly for them. He then accompanied the midshipmen, and did their shopping for them, and, bidding him a hearty adieu, they were soon on their way out of Odessa, Jack swinging along upon his crutches at a fair pace. Once fairly away from the town, he took his foot from the strap, shouldered his crutches and again they trudged along upon their journey.

They found their walking powers improve day by day as they went on, and were soon able to make thirty-five miles a day without inconvenience. Travelling in this way, without any interruption or incident save an occasional demand for a view of their passport by some Russian official, they journeyed across the south of Russia, and ten days after leaving Odessa they entered Poland.

Here they foresaw that their difficulties would be far greater than before, and that their characters as Polish soldiers on their way home could no longer be sustained. They took, therefore, the first opportunity of purchasing two suits similar to those worn by Polish peasants, and, entering a wood, dressed themselves in their new attire, and, rolling their dirt-stained uniforms into a bundle, thrust them into a clump of underwood. Into this Jack also joyfully tossed his crutches and strap. Dick had long been able to dispense with his sling, but the wound on his face was scarcely healed, and was still angry-looking and irritable.

They now trudged steadily along, avoiding all conversation as much as possible, and making their purchases only in a quiet villages. They met many bodies of troops moving about the roads, and although they could understand nothing of the language, and were wholly ignorant of what was going on, they judged from the manner in which these troops marched, by the advance guard thrown out in front, the strong detachments which accompanied the baggage, and the general air of vigilance which marked them, that the country was in a troubled state.

Once convinced of this, they took care to conceal themselves whenever they saw troops approaching, as they feared that questions might be addressed to them which they might find it difficult to answer. There was the less difficulty in their doing this as the country was for the most part thickly wooded, the roads sometimes running for miles through forests. Upon one occasion, when, just as it was dusk, they had gone in among the trees, having seen a Russian column moving along the road, they were astonished at being suddenly seized, gagged, and carried off through the wood. So suddenly had this been done, that they had time neither to cry nor struggle.

After being carried some distance, they were thrown down on the ground, and the men who had carried them hurried away. Just as they did so there was a sudden outburst of musketry, mingled with loud yells and shouts; then, after a moment's pause, came the rattle of a rolling musketry fire. The first, Jack judged to be the fire of insurgents upon the column; the second, that of the troops. For a while the din of battle went on. Sharp ringing volleys, heavy irregular firing, the fierce, wild shouts of the insurgents, and occasionally the hoarse hurrah of Russian soldiery.

Presently the sounds grew fainter, and the lads judged by the direction that the Russian column was falling back in retreat. Ere long the sounds of firing ceased altogether, and in scattered knots of three and four, men came through the wood to the wide open space in which the midshipmen were lying bound. No attention was paid to them for some time, until a large body of men were collected. Then the lads were suddenly raised and carried to a large fire which was now-blazing in the centre of the clearing. Here the gags were taken from their mouths, and the cords unbound, and they saw confronting them a young man evidently by his dress and bearing a person of rank and authority, and, as they judged by the attitude of those standing round, the leader of the insurgent band.

"Where do you come from, and what are you doing here?" he asked in Polish.

The boys shook their heads in token of their ignorance of the language.

"I thought so," he said angrily in Russian. "You are spies, Russian spies. I thought as much when the news came to me that two peasants had entered a village shop to buy goods, but had been unable to ask for them except by pointing to them, and had given a rouble note and allowed the woman who served them to take her own change. You are detected, sirs, and may prepare for the death you deserve. Hang them at once," he said in Polish, to those standing near. "But first search them thoroughly, and see if they are the bearers of any documents."

The lads in vain endeavored to explain, but their voices were drowned in the execrations of the angry peasants, fresh from the excitement of the battle, and in many cases bleeding from bullet and bayonet wounds, for the Polish peasants always rush to close quarters. Concealed in Dick's waistband was found a heavy roll of Russian notes, and the yell which greeted its appearance showed that it was considered confirmatory of the guilt of the prisoners.

Upon Jack was found only the letter which the sergeant had given him to his brother, the horse-dealer. This was taken to the leader, and he opened and read it by the light of a blazing brand which one of his followers held beside him. "Stop!" he shouted, after reading the first line or two, to the men who were already hurrying the lads towards the nearest tree. "Wait till I have read this through." He read it to the end, and then beginning afresh again, went carefully through it. "Bring the prisoners here," he said. "Young men," he went on, when the lads were again placed before him, "there may be some mistake here. This letter purports to be from a sergeant of the 12th Polish regiment to his brother, Horni Varlofski. Now Varlofski is well known to many of us. I do not know whether he has a brother a sergeant. Does any one here know?"

Two or three of the men raised their voices to say that they knew that Varlofski the horse-dealer had a brother who was drafted into the army as a punishment for having struck a Russian sergeant in a brawl.

"This must be the man, then," the leader said. "The letter is written carefully, apparently with a view to avoid any suspicion, should it be opened and read by any but him for whom it is intended; but in fact it contains assurances couched in language which I understand, that the bearers are enemies of Russia and friends of Poland, and that every confidence may be placed in them. Now, sirs, will you explain to me how you, who speak no Polish come to be in the middle of the forest, dressed as Polish, peasants, and the bearers of a letter such as this?"

"We are English officers," Dick began, "who were taken prisoners at Sebastopol, and have since escaped."

He then proceeded to explain the circumstances of their residence at Count Preskoff's, of their recommendation to the intendant of the countess's estates in Poland, of their acquaintance with the insurgent pass-words, and their meeting with the sergeant at Odessa. When they had concluded, the young leader held out his hand to them.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I ask your pardon for the roughness with which you have been treated, and shall never forgive myself for having without sufficient inquiry condemned you to death. It will be a lesson to me never to judge by appearances in future. I knew the countess well before her marriage. Her estates are but a few miles distant from my own, and I last saw her some three years since, when she was there with her husband and daughters. By the way," he said carelessly, "what are their names?"

Dick instantly repeated them.

"Right," the Pole answered. "Pardon me this last test, but one cannot be too particular when the lives of hundreds depend upon a mistake not being made. I am satisfied now. Welcome, heartily welcome to our camp."

CHAPTER XVIII. THE POLISH INSURGENTS

A few words from the leader explained to his followers that the new-comers were friends. Their money was instantly restored to them, and those who a few minutes before were so eager to hurry them to execution were profuse in their apologies and demonstrations of respect. The Poles regarded England as a friendly power, and were eagerly watching the war in the Crimea, hoping that the strength of Russia would be so exhausted there that she would be obliged to weaken her hold on Poland. So far, however, great as were the number of troops that Russia had poured down to meet the Allies, she had in no way weakened her hold upon Poland. Indeed even larger numbers of troops than usual were massed in that country. The insurrection at present going on was intended rather as a proof to Europe that Poland yet lived, ground down though she was under the heel of Russian tyranny, than as a movement from which success could be reasonably hoped for.

The lads were now able to look round at the wild group which filled the clearing. The greater portion were peasants, although the dress and bearing of several proclaimed that they belonged to a superior class. Some of the peasants were armed with guns, but these were quite in the minority, the greater portion carrying scythe blades fastened to long handles. These, although clumsy to look at, were terrible weapons in a close onslaught, and the Russian soldiers could seldom be kept firm by their officers when, in spite of their fire, the Polish peasantry rushed among them. The Poles were in high spirits. Their own loss had been small, and they had inflicted great slaughter upon the head of the Russian column, and had gained a considerable number of arms. A party which had attacked the rear of the column at the same moment when the main body fell upon its head, had for a time obtained possession of a wagon with spare ammunition, and had succeeded in carrying off the greater part of it.

The leader of the party, having given orders to his men and seen that the wounded were carried away on stretchers roughly formed of boughs, either to their own villages, or when these were too distant, to a collection of wood-cutters' huts in the heart of the forest, returned and took a seat by the lads near the fire.

"We have not introduced ourselves yet," he said in Russian, laughing. "My name is Stanislaus Chernatony."

Dick named himself and his comrades.

"Tell me now," the Pole said, "how you got here, and what are your plans."

Dick in reply gave him a narrative of their adventures, and said that they were making their way to the Austrian frontier.

"It would be absolutely impossible," the Pole said, "for you to succeed in making your way in safety. Every town is full of Russian troops, who are forever scouring the roads. It would be out of the question for any one except a native to succeed in getting through, and even a Pole would find difficulty, so strictly is every one questioned. Of course their object is to prevent our bands from increasing, and to capture any of us who may be returning to our homes. We only manage to assemble by marching constantly in the woods by paths known only to villagers. You would find it, too, a matter of extreme difficulty to cross the frontier, even should you gain it, as there is a perfect cordon of troops posted along the frontier, to prevent any one from escaping. Once in Austria, you would be safe, but you could not cross into Prussia, even if you succeeded in passing the Russian troops stationed along that line; for Prussia, who is as harsh a master to the Poles under her rule as is Russia, acts as policeman for the latter, and turns all fugitives back who may cross the frontier. At present I fear I can give you no assistance; but there is a talk of a union of several of our bands further west, and in that case you might travel with us, and we might pass you on, and see that you had guides. For the present I can either lodge you in the village where our wounded are now taken, and where it is not likely that the Russians will find you, at any rate for the present; or if you like to join us, I need not say how glad we shall be to receive you as comrades. England has always been the friend of Poland and more than one of your countrymen has fought in the Polish ranks. As England is at war at present with Russia, you will be doing as much service by fighting her here as in the Crimea. Here, too, you will have the satisfaction that you are fighting for an oppressed people struggling for freedom against tremendous odds."

The lads asked for twelve hours before giving a final answer, and then, having shared the Pole's rough meal, they chatted with him for a long time upon the progress and chances of the insurrection. The Polish leader told them that there were a score of bands like his own in the forests; but he admitted that he saw but little hope of final success unless Russia were completely crippled in the war with England and France.

"But," he said, "we in Poland do not rise only when we consider success possible. We take up arms when we are goaded to it. When some act of Russian tyranny more gross and brutal than usual goads us to desperation, we take up arms to kill and to die. You know not the awful persecution to which we Poles are exposed. Whole villages are destroyed, and the inhabitants banished to Siberia; our young men are taken and compelled to serve in the Russian army. Scores are shot down, after a mockery of a trial, on the pretence of discontent with Russian rule. Women, ay, and ladies, are publicly flogged. Priests are massacred, our churches closed, our very language proscribed. Death is a thousand times preferable to the living torture we undergo, and when we at last rise, it is vengeance and death that we seek rather than with any thought of finally freeing Poland from her oppressors. And now," he said, "you will excuse me if I suggest that we follow the example of my comrades, and turn off to sleep. We have marched fifty miles since yesterday evening, and shall be off before daybreak to-morrow."

For half an hour after the Polish leader had rolled himself in his cloak and gone off to sleep, the boys chatted together as to the course they should adopt, and finally resolved to throw in their fortunes with those of the Polish patriots. They saw that it would be impossible for them to make their way on to the frontier alone, and considered that their chance of life was no less if captured in action by the Russians than if found in a village with a number of wounded insurgents. The wrongs of Poland were in those days a subject which moved men's hearts in England, and the midshipmen rejoiced at the thought of striking a blow in so good a cause.

These were the reasons which, in talking the matter over, they assigned to each other, but in reality their love of adventure and excitement in no slight degree influenced them. To have taken part in a real Polish insurrection, to join in guerilla attacks and fierce onslaughts on Russian columns, to live a wild life in the woods, were things that appealed strongly to the imagination of the midshipmen; and in the morning they expressed to Stanislas Chernatony their willingness to join him, and fight against the Russians until an opportunity occurred for them to cross the frontier and rejoin the forces before the Sebastopol.

"Good," the Pole said. "I am heartily glad to have two English officers fighting under me. The warfare is of a kind very different to that to which you are accustomed, but I can guarantee that you shall see that we Poles, undisciplined, badly armed, and fighting a hopeless battle, can yet die as bravely as your own trained soldiers in the Crimea. We are now going back to the place we left the day before yesterday, and which we regard as our headquarters. We had news that the column we attacked was to set out, and as so far none of our bands had visited this neighborhood, we thought we might take them by surprise. We succeeded in doing them much damage, but our success was not as great as that which we gained in our last fight, when we succeeded in capturing two cannons. By the way," he said, "you as marine officers, are accustomed to artillery."

"Yes," Dick replied, "we are drilled, not only with heavy ship's guns, but with light field-pieces, of which every large vessel carries a few to be used in case of a landing."

"Capital!" the Pole exclaimed. "We have not a man who has any idea of artillery, and I will appoint you to the command of the guns. You shall each pick out as many men as you require, and train them as artillerymen. This will be an invaluable service to us."

Late at night they reached their halting-place. The guns had been hidden in a thicket, every man having marched with his leader to the attack of the column. The next morning thirty-six men were chosen, eighteen to each gun, in order that the places of those who might be killed could be filled at once, or, should some more pieces be taken, men would be available already trained to the work.

For four days drill went on without intermission. The lads found the Polish peasants very intelligent, although it was difficult for them to understand why each movement should be performed with mechanical regularity. At first, too, the boys' ignorance of Polish caused them great difficulty; but Stanislas wrote down for them the translation of the words of command, and the movements were taught by the boys themselves performing them, and insisting upon their motions being accurately imitated. They worked from morning till night, and by the end of the fourth day were satisfied that their men could serve the guns in a workmanlike and regular way.

The Poles themselves were delighted when they found how swiftly and smoothly the work could be done now that they had mastered it, and looked forward with anxiety to try the results upon the Russians. They had not long to wait. In a short time friends from the next garrison town brought the news that considerable bodies of fresh troops had arrived there, and that an attack was to be made on the following day by two heavy columns. Messengers were sent off at once, and during the night the insurgents were joined by three other bands, raising their numbers to nearly 1500 men. Stanislas told the lads that he intended to move before daybreak, so as to attack one of the columns as soon as it entered the forest, and while the other was too far away to arrive at the scene of action until all would be over.

"I propose," he said, "to fell some trees across the road, arranging them so that the guns can fire between them, while the trunks will afford the gunners some shelter. Half the men will be arranged among the trees on either side, so that while the guns sweep the column we shall attack it upon either flank. I will place a hundred of my best men at the barricade to defend the guns should the column press forward in spite of our efforts; but I believe that we shall have an easy victory. Our recent partial successes have considerably added to our stock of arms, and as this is the first time that we have brought cannon into play, we may rely upon their effect being considerable."

The lads begged that they might go forward with the party charged with felling the trees, in order that they might choose the spot, and themselves see to the construction of the defence. Stanislas chose one of his lieutenants who spoke Russian, and, giving him 200 men, ordered him to carry out the instructions of the lads. They set off an hour before daylight, and just as the dawn began, arrived at the spot where the struggle was to take place.

They selected a point where a rise of six feet afforded a view of the road far in advance, and placed the guns just so far behind the trees that while they would sweep the road, their muzzles only could be seen by an advancing foe. Two large trees felled and stripped of their boughs were placed across the road in front of the guns, being, when placed, just high enough for the gunners to look over them. A strong party were then set to work to cut sods, and with these an earthwork was thrown up across the road, four feet high. Embrasures were left for the guns, and these were made very narrow, as the fire would be directly in front. On either side trees were felled with their boughs outward, so as to form a chevaux-de-frise, extending at an angle on each side of the road for fifty yards in advance of the guns.

Fifty of the men were to remain in the road in the rear of the guns, in readiness to man the earthwork, should the Russians advance to take it by storm, while the rest were to lie down behind the chevaux-de-frise and to open fire upon both flanks of the advancing column. A few green boughs were scattered on the road in front of the battery, and the lads, going along the roads by which the Russians would advance, were pleased to see that at a distance the work was scarcely noticeable. Just as they had finished their preparations Stanislas with the main body arrived, and all were greatly pleased at the position which the boys had constructed. The guns and ammunition wagons had been dragged along by ropes to which hundreds of the peasants had harnessed themselves.

The Poles now took up the positions assigned to them for the attack. Stanislas and his principal officers held a consultation with the midshipmen, and it was agreed that the Russian column should be allowed to approach near to the guns before these opened fire, and that their doing so should be the signal for the general attack upon the column. Half an hour later a peasant who had been placed near the edge of the wood announced that the Russian column was in sight, that so far as he could judge from his observations made from a tree-top, it numbered about 2000 infantry, with a battery of artillery.

"That is just a fair match for us," Stanislaus said. "The 500 men extra do not count for much, and their superiority of arms will be counterbalanced by our advantages of surprise, and to the effect which cannon brought against them for the first time may exercise on the minds of the soldiers."

Presently along the straight road the black column of the enemy could be seen. They were advancing in a heavy mass, some forty men abreast, and were preceded at a distance of 300 yards by an advance guard of 200 men. When distant some 400 yards from them the midshipmen observed the advance guard halt, and guessed that an obstacle of some sort or other across the road had been made out. A mounted officer rode back from the advance guard to the main body, and was there joined by several other mounted men. After some conversation a movement was seen in the column. A mounted officer rode back, and as he did so the column divided, leaving a passage in the centre of the road.

There was a long pause, and then the lads could see the Russian guns coming through the line. They halted and formed across the road half-way between the main body and the advance guard, and, unlimbering, prepared to open fire upon the unknown obstacle in their front. The midshipmen had arranged with Stanislas that, as it would be difficult for the parties on the flank of the Russian column to distinguish between the sound of the enemy's guns and their own, a white handkerchief should be hoisted on a long pole when they themselves opened fire, and a chain of men were placed along back in the wood to repeat the signal down to the spot where the Poles were lying ready for attack.

The Russians opened fire over the heads of their advance guard, who lay down in the road. The shot for the most part either struck the slope or flew overhead, very few striking the upper part of the battery face, which was alone exposed to their fire. For five minutes the Russians continued to fire. Then, deceived by the absolute silence which reigned, and supposing the obstacle was an accidental one, or that the insurgents had retired, the guns were limbered up, the advance guard again moved forward, and the main column marched on close behind the guns.

The whole of the 200 men who had been placed behind the barricade were armed with muskets, and each hidden behind the leafy screen rested his piece on a branch, and prepared to pour his fire into the column as it advanced. It was not until the advance guard was within fifty yards of them that the lads, who had themselves trained the guns to sweep the road, gave the signal, and the silence was broken by the roar of the two guns loaded to the muzzle with grape-shot. The effect was tremendous. Two lanes were literally mown through the ranks of the Russian infantry, the shot which flew high doing terrible execution among the artillery behind them.

The echoes had not died away when a tremendous fire of musketry was opened by the Poles hidden behind the abattis. More than half of the advance guard fell under that terrible discharge, and the artillery crowded behind them fell into confusion.

The Russian officers strove by voice and example to gather the survivors of the advance guard together; but the consternation which the slaughter had caused was heightened by the sound of a tremendous yell far behind, followed by a steady roll of musketry, showing that the column was hotly engaged there also. The artillery attempted to unlimber and to bring their guns to bear again, but the confusion that prevailed in the crowded spot rendered this next to impossible, and long before it could be accomplished the iron hail again swept through the ranks, and two rattling volleys from their invisible foes behind the flanking abattis again flashed out. The advance guard were annihilated, the artillery in confusion, but the general commanding the main column pushed his men on through the frightened horses of the artillery, and, opening a heavy musketry fire on their unseen foes, pressed forward to the assault.

The conflict now became a desperate one. The midshipmen fired their guns alternately as fast as they could load, the Poles working as steadily and coolly as if they had been long-trained artillerymen. Several times the Russians advanced to within twenty yards of the defences, but each time, shattered by the fire of grape-shot and by the storm of bullets from the abattis, they recoiled. In vain they flung themselves upon the trees and tried to hew a way through them. In vain the officers called upon them to gather themselves together and carry the battery at a rush. Receiving no aid from their own artillery, which, mingled in the throng of infantry, were helpless, shaken by the shouts of the assailants, and by the battle raging in their rear which told them their retreat was menaced, the Russians lost heart and began to fall back. Then, retaining only fifty men as a guard to the battery, the midshipmen ordered the rest of the defenders of the abattis to move forward among the trees on the flanks of the Russians, keeping up a constant fire, until they joined the main body in their attack on the Russian rear.

In the battery now they could see little of what was going forward. The woods were full of dense smoke. The whole Russian column as it fell back was maintaining a wild fire at random into the bushes around them.

But though the lads could see nothing, the road in front afforded them a sure guide for their aim, and ceaselessly the guns kept up their fire into the retreating mass of Russians.

For half an hour the roar of guns continued unabated, and then, as it died away, the triumphant shouts of the Pole told them that the victory was won, and that the Russian column, defeated and shattered, had retired from the forest and gained the open country beyond. Then the defenders of the battery raised an answering cheer to their friends in the distance, and, exhausted with their exertions, threw themselves on the ground.

Of those working the guns but three had been wounded by rifle bullets which had passed through the embrasures.

Several of the riflemen had fallen shot through the head, as they fired over the top of the battery, while thirty or forty lay killed and wounded behind the abattis.

After a few minutes' rest the party advanced, and soon joined their friends, who saluted them with loud acclamations. The victory had been a complete one. The whole of the spare ammunition and stores had fallen into the hands of the victors, upon overpowering the rear-guard, had cut the traces and carried off the horses. The column had made a sturdy resistance at this point, and although the desperate onslaughts of the scythe-armed Poles had several times broken their ranks and carried slaughter among them, they had yet stood firm, and it was only the crushing of the head of the column, and its subsequent retreat, which had at last decided the day.

For some hundred yards in front of the guns the ground was covered with Russian dead. Most of the artillery horses had fallen, and but two of the guns had been carried off the field. The loss of the enemy in killed and wounded left upon the ground amounted to nearly 800, and the wounded were all killed as soon as discovered by the infuriated peasants.

Of the Poles some 250 had been put hors-de-combat. The delight of the insurgents was unbounded. It was by far the most important victory which they had won. They had now come into possession of sufficient muskets to arm the whole body, and an abundant supply of ammunition, and had in all a complete battery of artillery, with enough horses, taken from the wagons, to give two to each gun, and leave a sufficient number for the ammunition wagons. The two midshipmen received the warmest thanks of the Polish leader, who attributed his success entirely to the slaughter which the guns had wrought, and to the dispositions taken for their defence.

CHAPTER XIX. TO THE RESCUE

A consultation was held on the evening of the battle. As was the custom of the Polish peasants after a success, many wished to return for a while to their homes and families. Several plans were proposed among the group of officers, and the leader asked the young midshipmen for their opinion.

Dick said that in his ignorance of the circumstances and the geography of the country he could offer none; but Jack, on being appealed to, said,—

"It seems to me that you will never do any good if you confine yourselves to beating back a Russian column occasionally, and then dispersing until they again advance. My opinion is that it is absolutely necessary to follow up the victory we have gained, and to do something which will induce the whole country to believe that there is a prospect of success. We have gained a very fair victory to-day. I propose that while the men are all in high spirits, and the Russians proportionately depressed, we take the offensive and fall upon one of their garrisons. Hitherto, as you say, you have always contented yourselves with attacking the columns sent out against you, and the Russians will be altogether unprepared for an attack on them in their own quarters. If we fall suddenly at night upon Piaski, we ought to succeed in nearly annihilating them. There are about 1200 men of the column whom we have fought, and about 2000 in the other column which marched out against us this morning, but fell back when they heard of the defeat of their comrades. It is probable that pretty nearly the whole force in the town came out, so that altogether there cannot be above 2500 men. If we can fall upon them at night, we ought to be able to defeat them easily. At any rate before they rally we should inflict tremendous damage upon them."

Jack's proposition was received with acclamation, and it was decided that the attack should take place on the following night. The officers therefore went among the men, and appealed to them to remain for another forty-eight hours, in order that they might annihilate the garrison of Piaski.

The men assented, the more readily that abundant supplies of bread and spirits had been found in the captured wagons, the Russian commander having deemed it probable that the expedition might extend over a period of some days.

The next morning all were instructed in the use of the Russian muskets, many of the peasants being wholly unacquainted with the management of fire-arms. It was arranged that each peasant should, in addition to his gun, carry his scythe, his favorite weapon for close conflict.

When night came on all was ready for the march. The bands were to advance separately, each under orders of its own leader, and were to unite in the market-place as the clock struck one. There were three barracks, and a certain proportion were told off for the attack of each. Three of the guns were hidden in the forest. The other three, each drawn by four horses, accompanied the column, the duty assigned to them being to blow in the gates of the several barracks. Coarse grass was cut and swathed round the wheels, and the horses' feet were also muffled. The peasants were all clad in sandals, and there was therefore no fear of the noise of their advance being heard.

At nine o'clock the column set out for the town, which was nine miles distant, and upon nearing it separated, so as to enter as arranged in different directions. Each column was preceded at a distance of some hundred yards by four or five men, chosen for their activity, their duty being to seize and silence any watchmen they might meet in the streets.

The town seemed absolutely asleep when the band of Stanislas, with which for the time were the three cannon, entered it a few minutes before one.

Once the lads thought that they could hear a stifled cry, but if so it attracted no attention, for the streets were deserted, and not a single window opened as they passed. The other hands had already arrived in the market-place when that commanded by Stanislas reached it.

A few words were exchanged by the leaders, a gun told off to each column, and the bands started to their respective destinations. The contingent of Count Stanislas, to which Jack Archer was attached with his gun, was intended to attack the principal barrack. This was built in the form of a large quadrangle, and contained some seven or eight hundred infantry and a battery of artillery.

As the head of the column entered the street leading to the gate, a sentry on the outside challenged. No answer was made, and a moment later a gun was fired.

There was no longer any need for concealment, and with a wild cheer the column rushed forward. Some of the men threw themselves with axes upon the postern gate, which the sentry had entered and closed behind him.

The gun, which was close to the head of the column, was brought up and placed in position within a few feet of the gate, its muzzle directed towards the lock. The explosion tore a hole in the gate, but a massive bar still kept this in its place. Another discharge broke this also, and the Poles with exulting shouts surged in.

As they entered, a scattered fire opened upon them from the windows, but, without pausing, the band broke up into parties, each under its chief, and rushed at the entrances leading to the staircases.

Then ensued a desperate conflict. The Russians, taken wholly by surprise, appalled by the suddenness of the attack, and knowing the ferocity with which their assailants fought, in some cases offered but slight resistance, and leaped by scores from the windows at the back, preferring the risk of death or broken limbs to awaiting the rush of their enemies. Others defended themselves desperately, gathering on the top of the stairs, barring the doors, and resisting foot by foot until every man had been cut down.

The absence of their officers, who were quartered together in a different part of the barracks, proved fatal to the defenders; accustomed to act like machines, and to move only at the command of their officers, they were bewildered at finding themselves under such circumstances without head or direction, and in ten minutes after the entry had been effected all resistance had ceased, and the barracks remained in the hands of the victorious Poles.

The instant that his own part of the work was done, Jack Archer, with a band of fifty men who had been told off to act under his orders, proceeded to the stables. The artillery horses were all brought out and harnessed to the guns and wagons, and by the time that the resistance had ceased these were ready to depart.

The Poles, taking the muskets of the Russian soldiers, and lading themselves with blankets and such other articles as they fancied, swarmed out into the courtyard. In the store-rooms of the barracks were found large quantities of uniforms ready for issue to the troops, and a number of these Count Stanislas ordered to be brought out and stowed in an empty wagon.

Three minutes later the barrack was set on fire in a dozen places. Then the newly-captured artillery started at a trot for the forest, while the Poles moved away to render any assistance which might be necessary to the other columns.

The division to which Dick Hawtry was attached had experienced a success as complete as that which attended the principal column, and the flames were already rising in the air as the latter issued into the town.

The other barrack was, however, successfully defending itself. It was supposed that some watchman must have conveyed the news of the advance of the insurgents, for the instant the column appeared within sight of the barracks a musketry fire was opened upon it by the guard at the gate, and two or three minutes later every window bearing upon it was thrown up, and the Russian infantry opened a heavy fire. The gunners in vain attempted to bring up their piece close to the gate. The horses had been shot down, but scores of willing hands pushed forward the gun; but so heavy was the destruction which the Russian bullets wrought among them that these also were brought to a standstill, and when Count Stanislas arrived he found that a furious musketry encounter was raging between the Poles, now scattered all round the barrack, and the Russians pouring from the upper windows. After a hasty consultation with the other leaders, it was agreed that as the victory had been complete so far, two out of the three barracks carried and burnt, 1500 Russians killed, and a battery of artillery taken, it would be a pity to risk a final repulse by an attack upon a building which, now that the garrison were prepared for resistance, could only be carried with a great loss of life.

The horns were accordingly sounded, and the assailants drawn off, and the column marched through the town, now illuminated by the flames of the two burning barracks. It was but half an hour since the attack had begun, but the appearance of the town had changed as if by magic. Every house was lit up, every window open, crowds of people thronged the streets, while the windows were filled with women and children. All were delirious with delight, and cheered, shouted, and waved their handkerchiefs as the patriot band marched along. Not a few of the younger men, bidding a hasty adieu to their friends, joined the ranks of their countrymen, and, seizing one of the captured muskets, prepared to take a part in the strife which had been so well begun.

Upon gaining the forest a halt was ordered. Great fires were lit, and the companies mustered, when it was found that some eighty of those present had received wounds, and that forty had fallen. All the wounded unable to walk had been carried off, as to leave them where they fell would be to expose them to certain death when found by the Russians. A plentiful supply of spirits had been found in the stores, and several barrels brought off. An ample allowance was now served out, and after an hour's carouse in honor of the victory the band, fatigued by their exertions, went off to sleep.

In the morning the guns—now amounting to two complete batteries—were taken some miles farther into the forest. The greater part of the band insisted upon returning to their homes for a few days, and their leader, finding himself powerless to resist the determination gave them leave to do so. All agreed to return at the end of ten days. Some 400 men remained, and from these the count requested the midshipmen to choose a sufficient number to constitute two batteries, each eighty strong, and to drill them as far as possible in the interval. He himself started to visit his estates, which lay about eighty miles from their present position. Here he hoped to raise a further contingent of men, and all who went home were bidden to bring back fresh recruits, and to spread everywhere the news of the victory.

Six days elapsed, and the band in the forest had already been increased by many hundreds of new-comers, whom the news of the successes which had been gained had induced to take up arms, and the time of the various leaders was fully occupied in giving some notion of drill and of the use of the musket to the new levies.

On the evening of the sixth day a peasant arrived with intelligence which spread dismay in the encampment. Count Stanislas had been captured by the Russians, having been surprised by a body of Russian cavalry, who, doubtless by means of a spy, had obtained news of his return home. He had been conveyed to Lublin, where he would doubtless be at once tried and executed.

A council of the leaders was hastily summoned.

Lublin was a large town garrisoned by some 5000 Russian troops, and even had the whole of the insurgent bands been collected, they would not have been strong enough to attempt a repetition of their late successful surprise, especially, as after that occurrence, the Russian troops would be everywhere on the alert.

All agreed that the loss of their most successful leader would be a death-blow to the revolt in that part of the country. The personal popularity of the young leader was immense, and the prestige which he had won by his several successes had excited the greatest confidence among his followers. So important was his life considered that the midshipmen urged that at all costs his rescue should be attempted, and although the enterprise appeared a desperate one, their proposal was finally agreed to.

A few men were at once despatched to Lublin to find out what was going on, and when and where the execution would take place, while 500 chosen men prepared to march through the forests to a point within a few miles of the town, where the spies were to rejoin them.

Just as they were starting the idea struck Dick that the Russian uniforms might be utilized, and, much to their disgust, half the party were ordered to dress themselves in the hated garb. The transformation was soon effected, and the band set out on their march.

Upon the third evening they arrived at the indicated spot, where several of the spies were already awaiting them. These informed them that the trial would take place on the following day, and that it was generally supposed that the count would be executed the next morning as there could be no doubt what the finding of the court would be.

Next day the midshipmen, accompanied by several of the leaders, all in peasants' dress, visited the town to learn its general features, and make themselves acquainted with the approaches to the great square, where it was considered probable the execution would take place. They found the whole population moody and depressed. The news of the successes of the patriot bands had already spread far and wide, and had excited high hopes in every Polish breast. The fact, then, that the most successful leader was in the hands of their enemies had spread universal grief and consternation. After learning all the particulars they desired, the party rejoined their friends in the forest. The greatest difficulty existed from the fact that it would be impossible for the rescuing party to carry either muskets or their long scythes. Some twenty revolvers had fallen into their hands in the two fights, and with these the officers had all armed themselves. A certain portion of the men cut long sticks, like ox-goads, made to fit the bayonets; others fitted short handles to their scythes, while others carried short heavy sticks, to which again bayonets were fitted. A hundred of those dressed as soldiers were to carry their muskets, and, under the orders of one of their leaders, to march boldly down the street, so timing their arrival as to reach the square just at the time at which the execution was to take place, while the rest were to mix with the crowd.

Late at night the news was brought to them that proclamations had been posted through the town, saying that the execution would take place at eight in the morning in the grand square. Orders had been issued, it was learnt, that 1000 troops should be present, and the others were ordered to be in readiness in their barracks, in case any sign of popular feeling should be manifested. As it was evident, therefore, that no soldiers in uniform would be loitering in the street, it was determined that the 250 men so dressed should march together to the square with their arms.

In the morning the insurgents, in twos and threes, started for the town, and joined the town's-people assembling in the great square. Across the square, within thirty or forty paces of one side, was formed up a strong battalion of Russian infantry, the rest of the square being occupied by the town's-people, all of whom had attired themselves in mourning. In the centre of the square, behind the soldiers, a scaffold had been erected, as by the sentence of the court-martial the count was to die by hanging.

The midshipmen and their friends made their way through the crowd to the front, the latter giving way upon a whisper being circulated that an attempt was to be made to rescue the prisoner, and the 250 insurgents were soon gathered in a close body in front of the soldiers standing before the scaffold. Each man had his scythe or bayonet hidden under his long coat, the leaders grasping their pistols. The men had been ordered to refrain from any expression of excitement, and to assume, as far as possible, a look of quiet grief. Behind the infantry were a number of mounted officers, among whom General Borodoff, the governor of the town and district, was pointed out to the midshipmen, and near the general, under a strong guard, the prisoner was standing. All the insurgents, with the exception of those forming the first line, quietly fitted their scythes and bayonets to the handles and waited the signal.

Presently there was a movement behind the troops, who were drawn up six deep. Then a man was seen mounting the scaffold followed by the priest, behind whom came the prisoner between two warders. Just at this moment there was a stir in the crowd at the end of the square, and over the heads of the people a line of glittering bayonets could be seen coming down the street. The general looked in that direction with surprise, and immediately gave orders to a mounted officer beside him, who, passing through the line of soldiers, tried to make his way through the crowd. This, however, either from its denseness or an unwillingness to move from the place it had gained, made way for him but slowly, in spite of his angry shouts to the people to clear a way.

CHAPTER XX. IN A LION'S DEN

Upon one side of the lane which the fugitives had entered ran a high wall. Upon the other was a very large mansion. Its lower windows were five feet from the ground. As the lads ran they saw an open window. Without a moment's hesitation they placed their hands on the sill, threw themselves into it, and flung down the window. There was a scream as they entered, followed by an exclamation in English. The boys looked round, and saw a young lady who had started back in terror to a corner of the room.

"Are you English?" Jack exclaimed in astonishment. "We are English officers escaping from a Russian prison. In heaven's name do not betray us!"

As he spoke the Russian cavalry came along the lane at full gallop.

"I am English," the young lady said, as she recovered from her astonishment, "I am governess to the younger daughters of the governor. You are now in his palace. But what has taken place? I heard the firing and went to the window to listen."

"We have been aiding in the rescue of a Polish leader who was to have been executed this morning," Dick said. "We succeeded in that, but were attacked and cut up afterwards, and had to scatter. I fear that they will suspect we must have entered this place, for they were close behind us, and there was no other escape possible. Can you conceal us? It seems almost like a miracle finding an English lady here."

"A great many of the Russian nobility have English tutors or governesses, and although some went back to England at the beginning of the war, the greater number have remained quietly at their work. I fear that the whole palace will be searched if it is suspected that you have taken refuge here. How imprudent of you to have mixed yourselves up in this rebellion!"

"We could hardly help ourselves," Jack said, "but it is too late to discuss that now. Will you look out of the window and see if the lane is empty? If so, we had best make off without delay."

The young lady went to the window.

"No," she replied at once, "there is a soldier on horseback a few yards to the right."

"Don't open the window, then," Jack said. "They have evidently put a line of patrols along the lane. We must not get you into trouble," he continued, turning towards her. "If you will show us the way, we will go at once and give ourselves up."

"Oh, no," the lady exclaimed. "That must not be. But where can I hide you?" and she stood for a minute or two thinking. "I think the safest place of all," she said at last, "the only place where you would have a chance of escaping, if a search is made, is in the general's own writing-room. It is very bare of furniture, but there are heavy curtains to the windows. No one would think of searching that room, and the chances are that no one will go near the windows."

The lads agreed that the plan was a good one, and the young lady hurried away to see if the room, which was not far from her own, was still empty. She returned in a minute, and beckoned to them to follow her. They soon arrived at a room which was simply furnished with a few chairs and an armchair placed at a table. Across the two windows hung heavy curtains, and behind these the midshipmen took their places, the curtains extending far enough beyond the windows for them to stand between them and the walls; so that any one going to the windows would not necessarily see them. Then leaving them with many injunctions to remain quiet, and with a promise to return at the end of the day and release them, she left, being, she said, due with her pupils at nine o'clock.

For half an hour the boys conversed in low tones with each other as to their chances of escape. Then footsteps were heard, and the governor entered, followed by several officers. He took his seat at the table.

"If," he said to one of them, "your report, that you were so short a distance behind these men that it was impossible they could have reached the end of the lane before you entered it, be correct, it is clear they must have taken refuge here. You did quite right to place a cordon all round the palace. Write an order at once for the chief of police to send down twenty men to search the house thoroughly from top to bottom. Let them visit every room, not excepting even the apartments of my wife and daughters. You say that they were most conspicuous in the attack upon your cavalry, and I myself observed two very young men leading the attack upon the infantry. Well, sir," turning to another officer, "what is your report of the losses?"

"Two hundred and three of the cavalry have been killed, sir. There are only ten wounded. One hundred and sixty-three infantry killed, and 204 wounded. We have found the bodies of 133 armed men, who were killed either in the square or in the pursuit, and 97 bodies, apparently those of town's-people in the square."

"Put them all down as insurgents," the general said. "They are traitors and rebels, the whole brood. Let strong bodies of infantry patrol the streets. Order all shops to be shut and the inhabitants to keep within doors, and let a body of troops be placed at the disposal of the chief of police for a search from house to house. Some of these scoundrels may be hidden in the town."

All day, officers, the bearers of reports, or who came to receive orders, entered and left the room, among them the chief of police, who reported that he had searched the palace from top to bottom, without the omission of a single room, and had failed altogether to find any traces of the fugitives.

"If they entered, they must be somewhere," said the general. "Let a close cordon be kept around the house all night, with orders to shoot down any one they may see leaving it. To-morrow you will repeat your search of the house. If they are here, they must be found."

The hours seemed intolerably long to the lads, standing upright and motionless against the wall. No one approached their hiding-place. At four o'clock the general gave orders that his horse and escort should be at the door, and a few minutes afterwards he went out, and the room was left deserted. The midshipmen were now able to stand in easier positions, but they did not venture to leave their hiding-places, in case any one should suddenly return. The hours passed slowly on, and it was nine o'clock before the door opened. It closed again, and a voice asked in low tones whether they were still there.

The lads joyfully replied that they were.

"Follow me, then," she said, "as quietly as you can. There is no one about."

They were soon in the room where they had first entered. The curtains were drawn, and candles burning on the table.

"You are safe here," the lady said. "I have just dined with my charges, and my duties are over for the day. No one is likely to disturb us here. This is my private sitting-room. My bedroom is next door. If any one is heard coming, you must hide there. I will go in at once and change my dress for a dressing-gown, and I can then lock the door; so that if any one comes, there will be time for you to go in there, and when I open it, and say I am preparing for bed, it will account for the door being locked."

She did as she had said, and then produced from a cupboard a box of biscuits and a decanter of wine, which she placed before them.

"You must be starving," she said. "I am sorry that I have nothing more to offer you, but it was impossible for me to get any food. I have been thinking all day," she went on, as the boys fell to at the biscuits, "how you are to be smuggled out; I can only think of one plan, and that is a fearfully dangerous one. But I do not know that it is more so than your continued stay here. The palace is to be searched to-morrow afternoon again, even more strictly than to-day, and that was strict enough. They turned every room topsy-turvy, opened every closet, and not only looked under the beds, but pulled the beds to pieces, to assure themselves that nobody was hidden within them. I hear that the general says that he is so convinced that you are here somewhere, that he will keep the soldiers round the house, and search it every day till you are found, if it is a month hence. Consequently, great as is the risk of the plan I have thought of, it is scarcely as great as that of remaining here."

The midshipmen expressed their willingness to try any plan, however desperate, rather than remain day after day standing in the governor's room, with the risk of betrayal by a cough or other involuntary movement.

"This is my plan, then. The governor's eldest daughters are women as old as myself. They are tall and stout, and as far as figure goes I think you might pass in their places. They go out for a drive every morning. I have this afternoon slipped into their rooms and have borrowed two of their dresses, mantles and bonnets. Fortunately they usually wear veils. They do not generally go to dress until the carriage is at the door, and I propose that you shall boldly walk down and take their places. Of course, the risk is dreadful, but I really see no other chance for your escape. What do you say?"

The midshipmen at once agreed to make the attempt, and were soon dressed in the clothes which their friend had brought them. Walking about the room, she gave them lessons in carriage and manner, imitated herself the air with which the general's daughters bowed to the officers as they saluted them as they passed, and even gave them instructions in the tone of voice in which they should order the driver to take the way to the public promenade. At length she pronounced that they ought to pass muster at a casual inspection, and then, bidding them good-night, she retired to her own room, while the lads were soon asleep, the one on the couch, the other on the hearthrug.

At seven o'clock their friend, who had told them that her name was Agnes Sinclair, came into the room dressed, unlocked the door, and then led them into her bedroom, as she said that at half-past seven the servants would come to do up the sitting-room, light the fire, and prepare breakfast.

"I am my own mistress," she said, "till nine o'clock, and as the servants do not go into my bedroom till I have gone to my pupils, you will be quite safe. You must have some more biscuits for breakfast, for I am a very small eater, and it would not do were it noticed that a greater quantity of food than usual had disappeared."

The boys were now again dressed in the clothes prepared for them, and this time put on gloves which Miss Sinclair had also brought, and into which it needed all the boys' efforts to pass their hands. Fortunately the bonnets of the time completely enveloped the head, concealing the back half, and coming well forward over the face, and when the veils were dropped Miss Sinclair said that unless she had known the truth, she should not have suspected the deception.

When the servant knocked at the door, and said that breakfast was ready, the governess left them, and presently returned, bringing them the biscuits.

"Now," she said, "in a quarter of an hour the carriage will be at the door. It always comes punctually at nine. From the window of the opposite room I can see when it arrives. Now, you quite understand? You walk straight along this passage. At the end is a wider one to the right, which will take you into the great hall. Here there will be several servants, and perhaps some officers standing about. All will bow as you pass through them. You are to bow slightly as I have shown you. If any of the officers come up to speak, as is possible, though not likely, for none of high enough rank to do so are likely to be there so early, answer only in a word or two in the voice you practised last night. Two servants will show you into the carriage. As you take your seats, you will say to the coachman, 'To the promenade.' After that you must do as you judge best. There is one drawback, I forgot to tell you, an escort of two soldiers always rides fifty or sixty yards behind the carriage."

"So that we once get through the town," Jack said, "we shan't care much for the two soldiers, for we still have our revolvers. Now you promise, Miss Sinclair, that when you come to England you will let our people know. We have given you the addresses. They will want to thank you for our escape if we get away, and for your kindness even if the worst comes to the worst. I do hope that there is no possibility of a suspicion falling upon you about the missing dresses."

"Oh, no," Miss Sinclair said, "I'm sure no one saw me go to their rooms, and it will be supposed that you were hidden somewhere there, and have taken them yourselves. I shall make the things you have taken off into a bundle, slip into a room close to theirs, and throw them under a bed. If it were known that you are English, it is possible that some suspicion might fall upon me. As it is, there is no reason why I more than any one else should have been concerned in the matter. Now, it is just nine o'clock. I will go across into the other room, and look out. Fortunately it is unoccupied."

Three minutes later she returned.

"It is at the door," she said. "Wait two or three minutes. I will go straight now, hide your clothes, and take my place with my pupils as usual. I am always punctual to the minute."

With another word or two of thanks the boys said good-bye to her, and Miss Sinclair at once went on her way with a final warning, "Be sure and be leisurely in your movements. Do not show the least haste. Peep out before you start, so as to be sure there's no one in this passage, as otherwise you might be seen coming from this room."

The boys waited another minute or two, and then, seeing that the passage was clear, moved along it, walking slowly and stiffly as they had been directed, with short steps and gliding movement. Both had their pistols in their pockets ready to hand, as they were resolved to be killed rather than taken. Fortunately there was no one in the next passage into which they turned, and they reached the grand hall unnoticed. Here were a number of servants and officers, who bowed deeply on perceiving, as they supposed, the daughters of the governor. Two servants threw open the grand door, and an official preceded them to the carriage. The boys bowed slightly and passed on. No one accosted them, and they took their seats in the carriage with the deliberation and dignity which had been impressed upon them. The official spread a bear-skin rug over their knees, and demanded which way they would go.

Jack replied, "To the promenade." The carriage—which was an open one—proceeded on its way at a rapid pace, and the boys' hopes rose higher and higher. They had not gone far when they heard a horse's hoofs behind them, and, turning round, saw an officer galloping rapidly.

"Keep steady, Jack," Dick whispered.

When the officer reached the side of the carriage he reined in his horse, and took off his cap. "Ladies," he said, "his excellency the governor saw you drive away, and ordered me to ride after you, and tell you that he did not know you were going out, and that he considered it more prudent for you to remain at home for a day or two until the excitement of the late events has cooled down."

"Thank you," Dick said in his best Russian, and speaking in a feigned voice. "Will you tell my father that we will return in a few minutes? Drive on," he said to the coachman.

The officer sat for a minute looking after them, for something in the accent with which Dick spoke seemed strange to him, but being fortunately unacquainted with the ladies of the general's family, he suspected nothing wrong. It was evident to the boys, however, that the coachman was struck with the sound of the voice, as he rapidly spoke to the man sitting next him, and the latter once or twice endeavored privately to glance back.

They had now reached the promenade, which, owing to the governor's order that all inhabitants should keep their houses, was entirely deserted, except by a few Russian officers walking or riding. These all saluted as the general's carriage passed them. On reaching the end of the drive the coachman was about to turn, when the lads jumped to their feet, and commanded him to stop. The coachman looked round astonished, but at the sight of two pistols pointed at their heads, he and his fellow-servant, with a cry of alarm and astonishment, leaped from the box. Jack in an instant scrambled over and seized the reins. The soldiers had halted upon seeing the carriage stop, and remained stupefied with astonishment as they saw the two servants leap off, and one of the ladies climb into their seat. Nor did they move until the servants, running up hastily, explained what had happened. Then, putting the spurs into their horses, they galloped forward. Dick, who was looking back, saw at the same moment several horsemen at full gallop appear at the other end of the promenade.

"The general has found out the trick, Jack," he said. "Keep them going steadily and steer straight. I can answer for those fellows behind. They can't be sure yet what's up."

As the soldiers approached, Dick leaned his pistol on the back of the carriage and took a steady aim, and when they were within twenty yards, fired, aiming at the head of one of the horses. In an instant there was a crash, and the horse and rider were on the ground. The other soldier at once reined up his horse, bewildered at what had happened, and not knowing even now that the carriage was not occupied by the general's daughters.

"That's right, Jack," Dick said. "We have got nearly half a mile start of the others, and the forest is, Miss Sinclair said, scarce three miles away. Let them go it, but be sure you steer straight."

The horses were now tearing along at a furious gallop. Presently another long, straight bit of road enabled them to see their pursuers again. The horsemen had been increased in number by the officers who had been riding in the promenade, and were now some twenty in number. Of these, at least half whose helmets glistening in the sun showed Dick that they were soldiers, had already fallen in the rear, the others had gained upon them considerably. They were now, however, fully half way to the forest.

"That's right, Jack, keep them going," Dick said, as Jack flogged the animals to their highest speed. "We shall have plenty of time to get away into the wood before they come up, only for goodness' sake keep us straight."

When they reached the forest their pursuers were still some hundreds of yards in the rear. Checking the horses where the underwood was thickest, the midshipmen leaped out, gave a parting lash to the horses, which started them again at full speed, and then dashed into the thicket.

Any one who had seen them would have been astounded and amused at the spectacle of two fashionably-dressed ladies dashing recklessly through the thick brushwood. After a quarter of an hour's run they paused breathless. Jack dashed his bonnet to the ground.

"For goodness' sake, Dick!" he said, shaking off his mantle, "unhook the back of my dress, and let me get rid of the thing. I used to laugh at my sisters for not running as fast as I could. Now I wonder how on earth they manage to run at all."

Their borrowed finery was soon got rid of, and in their shirts and trousers the boys proceeded. Presently they came suddenly upon four peasants seated on the ground, who upon seeing them leaped to their feet and greeted them with signs of vehement joy, making signs to them to follow them, and presently led them to a spot where the remains of the insurgent band were gathered. A shout greeted them as soon as they were recognized, and Count Stanislas, running forward, threw his arms round their necks and embraced them, while the other leaders crowded round.

"It is indeed happiness to see you again," the count said. "We feared you had fallen into the hands of the Russians. I sent spies last night into the town, but they brought back word that the streets were absolutely deserted, and they dared not enter. I resolved to wait for a day or two until we could hear with certainty what had befallen you. Now tell us all that has happened."

The midshipmen recounted their adventures, saying that they had remained concealed in the very writing-room of the governor, and giving full details of their escape dressed as his daughters; saving only the part which Miss Sinclair had played, for they thought that in case any of the band fell into the hands of the enemy, they might under the influence of the torture, which the Russians freely administered to their captives, reveal all that they had heard. They then inquired what were the count's intentions.

"I shall move farther west," he said, "and after gathering my old band together, move to join some others, who I hear have been doing good work in that direction. We shall not be far from the frontier; and, much as I shall regret to lose you, I will, if you wish it, lead a party to the frontier, and cut a way through the cordon of troops there for you."

The boys gladly accepted the offer. They had had more than enough of insurrectionary warfare, and longed to be back again with their comrades at Sebastopol.

Three days' marching took the band back to the forest, where some 1500 men were assembled, awaiting anxiously the return of the party.

A day was given for rest, and then horses were harnessed to the two batteries of artillery, and moving by little-frequented roads through the forest, the small army marched west.

For ten days the march continued, for the roads were heavy and the horses unable to accomplish such marches as those of which the peasants were capable. At last they effected a junction with the band which they had come to join, whose numbers amounted to nearly 4000 men. Their arrival, and especially the advent of the artillery, was greeted with enthusiasm, and it was at once proposed to take the offensive. Count Stanislas said, however, that his horses were completely knocked up with the fatigue they had undergone, and that a rest of two or three days was necessary in order to recruit.

"Now," he said to the midshipmen, "I will redeem my promise. The frontier is only fifty miles distant. I will send on a man at once to ascertain some point at which there are boats on this side of the river. I will march at daylight with 150 picked men, and no fear but with a sudden attack we shall break through the patrols."

The plan was carried out. The boys, inured to marching, made the fifty miles journey before nightfall. They were met by the spy, who stated that the boats had almost all been removed, but that a number were gathered at a village which was occupied by 200 Russian infantry.

The midshipmen proposed that they should steal through and endeavor to get one of the boats, but their friend would not hear of their running such a risk, and after taking some hours of rest the party proceeded on their march. It was an hour before daybreak when they entered the village. Just as they reached it a sentry fired his musket, and with a rush the Poles charged forward. It had been arranged that the count and the midshipmen with five men should run straight through the village down to the water-side, and that the rest of the force were to commence a furious attack upon the houses inhabited by the troops, who, believing that they were assailed by superior forces, would be some time before they took the offensive.

CHAPTER XXI. BACK AT THE FRONT

Aroused by the sound of the sentry's musket, the Russian soldiers rushed to their windows and doors and opened a scattering fire, which was heavily responded to by the Poles. The midshipmen with their party ran hastily down the village. There were two sentries over the boats, but these, alarmed by the din in the village and the sight of the approaching figures, fired their muskets and fled. Dick uttered a low exclamation.

"What is the matter, Dick? are you hit?"

"Yes," Dick said. "My arm is broken. Never mind, let us push on."

They leaped into a boat. Jack seized the sculls, the rope which fastened them to the shore was cut, and with a last shout of farewell to the count, they pulled off into the stream. For a few minutes the sound of battle continued, and then suddenly died away, as Count Stanislas, his object accomplished, drew off his men.

A few minutes' rowing brought the boat to the opposite bank. Here they found Austrian sentries, who accosted them in German. As, however, the Austrian Government offered no obstacle to Polish fugitives entering the frontier, the lads were conducted to the officer of the troops at the little village which faced that on the Russian bank. Here they were questioned, first in Polish and then in German, but upon the boys repeating the word "English," the officer, who spoke a little French, addressed them in that language, and Dick explained that they were English naval officers taken prisoners at Sebastopol, and making their escape through Poland. He then asked if there was a surgeon who could dress his wound, but was told that none was procurable nearer than a town fifteen miles away. A country cart was speedily procured and filled with straw, and upon this Dick lay down, while Jack took his seat by the peasant who was to drive the cart.

It was eleven o'clock in the day when they entered the town, and the peasant drew up, in accordance with the instructions he had received, at the best hotel, the landlord of which was in no slight degree surprised at such an arrival, and was disposed to refuse them admittance. Jack, however, produced a bundle of Russian notes, at which sight the landlord's hesitation vanished at once, and in half an hour a surgeon stood by Dick's bedside dressing his wound. It was a severe one, the bone being broken between the elbow and shoulder.

The next day Dick was in a state of high fever, due more to the hardship and exposure through which he bad passed than to the wound, and for a week lay between life and death. Then he began to mend, but the doctor said that it would be long before he could use his arm again, and that rest and quiet were absolutely necessary to restore him.

A week later, therefore, the midshipmen left the town, Dick having determined that he would travel home by easy stages, while Jack, of course, would journey direct to join his ship.

He had written immediately upon his arrival to acquaint his family, and that of Dick, that both were alive and had escaped from Russia. The tailors had been set to work, and the midshipmen presented a respectable appearance. Dick was still so weak that he could scarcely stand, and Jack tried hard to persuade him to stay for another week. But Dick was pining to be home, and would not hear of delay. A day's travel in a diligence brought them to a railway station, and twelve hours later they arrived at Vienna.

Here they stopped for a day in luxurious quarters, and then Jack, after seeing his friend into the train on his way home, started to travel over the Semmering pass down to Trieste, where he knew he should find no difficulty in obtaining a steamer to Constantinople.

After forty-eight hours' diligence travelling, Jack reached the pretty seaport on the northern shore of the Adriatic. He found to his satisfaction that one of the Austrian Lloyd's steamers would sail for Constantinople on the following morning. He spent the evening in buying a great stock of such articles as he had most found the want of in camp, and had accumulated quite a respectable stock of baggage by the time he went on board ship. After six days' steaming, during which they were never out of sight of land, they cast anchor opposite Constantinople.

Jack did not report himself to the naval authorities here, as he thought it quite possible that the "Falcon" had been recalled or sent on other service, and he hoped that in that case he would, upon reaching the front, be appointed to some other ship.

There was no difficulty in obtaining a passage to Balaklava, for two or three transports, or merchantmen laden with stores, were going up every day. He paused, however, for three days, as it was absolutely necessary for him to obtain a fit-out of fresh uniforms before rejoining, and at Galata he found European tailors perfectly capable of turning out such articles.

Jack felt uncommonly pleased as he surveyed himself in a glass in his new equipment; for it was now eight months since he had landed in the Crimea, and the dilapidation of his garments had from that time been rapid. The difficulties of toilet had, too, been great, and white shirts were things absolutely unknown; so that Jack had never felt really presentable from the time when he landed.

The day he had obtained his outfit he took a passage in a ship laden with stores, and sailed for the Crimea. He had already learned that the "Falcon" was still there, and when the vessel entered the harbor he was delighted at seeing her lying as one of the guard-ships there. An hour later, one of the ship's boats conveyed him and his baggage to the side of the "Falcon." The first person he saw on reaching the deck was Mr. Hethcote. The officer stared when Jack saluted and reported himself in the usual words, "Come aboard, sir," and fell back a pace in astonishment.

"What, Jack! Jack Archer!" he exclaimed. "My dear boy, is it really you?"

"It's me, sure enough, sir," Jack said, and the next moment Mr. Hethcote was shaking his hand as if he would have wrung it off.

"Why, my dear Jack," he exclaimed, "the men all reported that both you and poor Hawtry were killed. They said they saw him shot, and, looking back, saw you killed over his body. It was never doubted a moment, and your names appeared in the list of the killed."

"Well, sir, we are alive nevertheless, and Dick is by this time at home with his people. He would have come on and joined with me at once, sir, only he got his arm broken, and was laid up with fever after some fighting we had among the Polish insurgents."

"Among what!" Mr. Hethcote exclaimed, astonished. "But never mind that now; I am glad indeed to hear that Hawtry also is alive, but you must tell me all about it presently. There are your other friends waiting to speak to you."

By this time the news of Jack's return had spread through the ship. The midshipmen had all run on deck, and the men crowded the waist, or, regardless of discipline, stood on the bulwarks. Jack had been a general favorite. The gallantry which he and his comrade had displayed on the night of the storm had greatly endeared them to the crew, and the men had bitterly regretted that they had not stood with him over Hawtry's body; but, indeed, it was not until they had passed on, and it was too late to return, that they had noticed his absence.

As Jack turned from Mr. Hethcote, his messmates crowded round him, and the men broke into a hearty cheer, again and again repeated. Jack, gratified and touched by this hearty welcome, could scarce reply to the questions which his comrades poured upon him, and was speedily dragged below to the midshipmen's berth, where he gave a very brief outline of what had happened since he saw them, a story which filled them with astonishment and some little envy.

"I will tell you all about it fully, later on," Jack said, "but it would take me till night to give you the full yarn now. But first you must tell me what has happened here. You know I have heard nothing, and only know that Sebastopol is not yet taken."

The recital was a long one, and Jack was fain to admit that the hardships which he had gone through were as nothing to those which had been borne by our soldiers in the Crimea during the six months he had been away from them. The trials and discomforts of the great storm had been but a sample of what was to be undergone. After Inkerman, it had been plain to the generals in command that all idea of taking Sebastopol must be abandoned until the spring, and that at the utmost they could do no more than hold their position before it. This had been rendered still more difficult by the storm, in which enormous quantities of stores, warm clothing, and other necessaries had been lost.

It was now too late to think of making a road from Balaklava to the front, a work which, had the authorities in the first place dreamt that the army would have to pass the winter on the plateau, was of all others the most necessary. The consequence of this omission was that the sufferings of the troops were terrible.

While Balaklava harbor was crowded with ships full of huts, clothing, and fuel, the men at the front were dying in hundreds from wet, cold, and insufficient food. Between them and abundance extended an almost impassable quagmire, in which horses and bullocks sank and died in thousands, although laden only with weights which a donkey in ordinary times could carry. Had the strength of the regiments in front been sufficient, the soldiers might have been marched down, when off duty, to Balaklava, to carry up the necessaries they required. But so reduced were they by over-work and fatigue, that those fit for duty had often to spend five nights out of seven in the trenches, and were physically too exhausted and worn-out to go down to Balaklava for necessaries, even of the most urgent kind. Many of the regiments were almost annihilated. Large numbers of fresh troops had come out, and drafts for those already there, but the new-comers, mostly raw lads, broke down under the strain almost as fast as they arrived, and in spite of the number sent out, the total available strength did not increase. One regiment could only muster nine men fit for duty. Many were reduced to the strength of a company. The few survivors of one regiment were sent down to Scutari until fresh drafts should arrive and the regiment could be reorganized, and yet this regiment had not been engaged in any of the battles. Scarce a general of those who had commanded divisions and brigades at the Alma now remained, and the regimental officers had suffered proportionally. The regiments which had won the Alma still remained before Sebastopol, but their constituents had almost entirely changed, and the proportion of those who had first landed in the Crimea that still remained there when Jack returned was small indeed.

The sufferings of the French, although great, had not been nearly so severe as our own. Their camps were much nearer to their port, the organization of their services was far better and more complete, and as in the first place the siege work had been equally divided between them, the numbers at that time being nearly the same, the work of our men had become increasingly hard as their numbers diminished, while that of the French grew lighter, for their strength had been trebled by reinforcements from home. Thus, while our men were often five nights out of the seven on duty in the cold and wet, the French had five nights out of seven in bed. This gave them far greater time to forage for fuel, which was principally obtained by digging up the roots of the vines and brushwood—every twig above the surface having long since been cleared away—to dig deep holes under their tents, to dry their clothes and to make life comfortable.

At last the strength of the English diminished to such a point that they were at length incapable of holding the long line of trenches, and they were obliged to ask the French to relieve them, which they did by taking over the right of our attack, a measure which placed them opposite to the two Russian positions of the Mamelon and Malakoff batteries, which proved to be the keys of Sebastopol.

As spring came on matters brightened fast. English contractors sent out large bodies of navvies, and began to lay down a railway from Balaklava to the front, reinforcements poured in, and the health of the troops began to improve. Troops of transport animals from every country on the Mediterranean were landed. A village of shops, set up by enterprising settlers, was started two miles out of Balaklava. Huts sprang up in all directions, and all sorts of comforts purchased by the subscriptions of the English people when they heard of the sufferings of their soldiers, were landed and distributed.

The work of getting up siege guns and storing ammunition for a re-opening of the bombardment in earnest, went on merrily, and the arrival of 15,000 Turkish troops, and of nearly 20,000 Sardinians, who pitched their camps on the plain, rendered the allies secure from an attack in that direction, and enabled them to concentrate all their efforts on the siege.

So far the success had lain wholly with the Russians. For every earthwork and battery raised and armed by the allies, the Russians threw up two, and whereas when our armies arrived before it on 25th September, Sebastopol was little more than an open town, which could have been carried by the first assault, it was now a fortified place, bristling with batteries in every direction, of immense strength, and constructed upon the most scientific principles. Many of their works, especially the Mamelon, Malakoff, and Tower batteries, were fortresses in themselves, with refuges dug deeply in the earth, where the garrison slept, secure from the heaviest fire of our guns, and surrounded by works on every side.

In the trenches it was the Russians who were always the aggressors. Sortie after sortie was made throughout the winter, and in these the Russians often obtained possession for a time of portions of our trenches or those of the French. Along in front of their works the ground was studded with rifle-pits, sometimes so close to our works that it was impossible for a man to show his head above them, and the artillerymen were frequently unable to work their guns, owing to the storm of bullets which the Russians sent through the embrasures whenever a sign of movement was discerned. In the desperate fights in darkness in the trenches we lost more men than in either of the pitched battles of the campaign; and it was only the dogged courage of our soldiers and the devotion of the officers which enabled us to maintain our footing in the trenches before the city which we were supposed to be besieging.

Throughout the winter the fleet had lain inactive, although why they should have done so none knew, when they had it in their power, by attacking the Russian forts in the Sea of Azof, to destroy the granaries upon which the besieged depended for their supplies.

The midshipmen, however, were able to tell Jack that they had not been altogether idle, as the fleet had at last, on the 22d of May, been set in motion, and they had but two days before returned from their expedition. All the light vessels of the English and French fleets had taken part in it. The fort of Yenikale which commanded the entrance of the Bay of Kertch had been captured, the batteries silenced, and the town occupied, and in four days after the squadron had entered the straits of Kertch they had destroyed 245 Russian vessels employed in carrying provisions to the Russian army in the Crimea. Besides this, enormous magazines of corn and flour were destroyed at Berdiansk, Genitchi and Kertch, and at the latter place immense quantities of military and naval stores also fell into our hands. Had this expedition taken place in October instead of May, it is probable that the Russians would have been unable to maintain their hold of Sebastopol.

A portion of the fleet had remained in possession of the Sea of Azof, and thenceforth the Russians had to depend upon land carriage. This, however, mattered comparatively little, as the country was now firm and dry, and all the roads from Russia to the Crimea were available.

All their comrades had taken share in the work in the batteries and Jack learned to his surprise that Captain Stuart had been transferred to a larger ship, and that Mr. Hethcote had got his promotion, and now commanded the "Falcon," Jack, in the first excitement of meeting him, not having noticed the changes in uniform which marked his advance.

After two hours' conversation with his friends, Jack received a message that Captain Hethcote invited him to dine in his cabin, and here a quarter of an hour later he found not only the captain, but the first and second lieutenants.

After dinner was over, Jack was requested to give a full narrative of his adventures, which greatly astonished his auditors, and was not concluded until late in the evening. The lieutenants then retired, and Jack was left alone with the captain, who signified that he wished to speak further with him.

"Well, Jack," he said, when they were alone, "I did not think when I offered my uncle to get you a midshipman's berth, that I was going to put you in the way of passing through such a wonderful series of adventures. They have been sadly cut up at home at the news of your death. I hope that you wrote to them as soon as you had a chance."

"I wrote on the very day I crossed the frontier, sir," Jack said. "Besides I wrote twice from Russia, but I don't suppose they ever got the letters."

"And so you speak Russian fluently now, Jack?"

"I speak it quite well enough to get on with, sir," Jack said. "You see, I was speaking nothing else for five months. I expect my grammar is very shaky, as I picked it all up entirely by ear, and no doubt I make awful mistakes, but I can get on fast enough."

"I shall report your return to-morrow to the Admiral," Captain Hethcote said. "It is not improbable that he will at once attach you to the battery in front again. The bombardment is to re-open next week, and the generals expect to carry the town by assault; though, between ourselves, I have no belief that our batteries will be able to silence the enemy's guns sufficiently to make an assault upon such a tremendous position possible. However, as they expect to do it, it is probable that they will like having an officer who can speak Russian at the front, as interpreters would, of course, be useful. I suppose you would rather stay on board for a bit."

"Yes, sir; I have had such a lot of knocking about since I left Breslau, that I should certainly have liked a month's quiet; but of course, I am ready to do as ordered, and, indeed, as the fun seems about to begin at last, I should like to be in it."

The next morning the captain sent his report to the Admiral, and received in reply a message that the Admiral would be glad if Captain Hethcote would dine with him that day, and would bring Mr. Archer with him.

Admiral Lyons was very kind to the young midshipman, and insisted upon his giving him an account in full of all his adventures. He confirmed Captain Hethcote's opinion as to Jack's movements, by saying, as he bade him good-bye, that in the morning he would receive a written order to go up to the front and to report himself to the officer in command of the naval brigade there.

The next morning, being that of the 5th June, Jack received his order, and an hour later he started for the front, with two sailors to carry his baggage. He was astonished at the change which had been wrought at Balaklava. A perfect town of wooden huts had sprung up. The principal portion of these was devoted to the general hospital, the others were crammed with stores. The greater part of the old Tartar village had been completely cleared away, the streets and roads were levelled, and in good order.

Such troops as were about had received new uniforms, and looked clean and tidy. Everywhere gangs of laborers were at work, and the whole place wore a bright and cheerful aspect. Just outside the town an engine with a number of laden wagons was upon the point of starting. The sun was blazing fiercely down, and at the suggestion of one of the sailors, who, though ready enough for a spree on shore, were viewing with some apprehension the prospect of the long trudge along the dusty road to Sebastopol, Jack asked the officer in charge of the train for permission to ride up. This was at once granted, and Jack, his trunk and the sailors, were soon perched on the top of a truck-load of barrels of salt pork.

Jack could scarcely believe that the place was the same which he had last seen, just when winter was setting in. A large village had grown up near the mouth of the valley, wooden huts for the numerous gangs of navvies and laborers stood by the side of the railway. Officers trotted past on ponies, numbers of soldiers, English, French, Turkish, and Sardinian, trudged along the road on their way to or from Balaklava. The wide plain across which our cavalry had charged was bright with flowers, and dotted with the tents of the Turks and Sardinians. Nature wore a holiday aspect. Every one seemed cheerful and in high spirits, and it needed the dull boom of the guns around Sebastopol to recall the fact that the work upon which they were engaged was one of grim earnest.

Upon arriving at the camp, Jack found that its aspect was not less changed than that of the surrounding country. Many of the regiments were already in huts. The roads and the streets between the tents were scrupulously clean and neat, and before many of the officers' tents, clumps of flowers brought up from the plain had been planted. The railway was not yet completed quite to the front, and the last two miles had to be traversed on foot.

Upon presenting his written orders to the officer in command of the naval brigade, Jack was at once told off to a tent with two other midshipmen, and was told that he would not, for the present, be placed upon regular duty, but that he would be employed as aide-de-camp to the commander, and as interpreter, should his services in that way be required.

CHAPTER XXII. THE REPULSE AT THE REDAN

The first impulse of Jack, after having stowed his traps in the tent and introduced himself to his new mess-mates, was to make his way to the lines of the 33d. Here he found that Harry had been sent home sick in January, but that he had sailed from England again with a draft, and was expected to arrive in the course of a few days. Jack found but few of the officers still there whom he had before known. Several, however, were expected shortly back either from England or from the hospitals at Scutari.

Greatly relieved to find that his brother was alive and well, Jack returned to the naval camp, where he speedily made himself at home. When he first mentioned to his messmates, two lads about his own age, that he had been a prisoner in Russia, the statement was received with incredulity, and when, at their request, he proceeded to tell some of his adventures, they regarded him with admiration as the most stupendous liar they had ever met. It was long indeed before his statements were in any way believed, and it was only when, upon the occasion of one day dining with the officer in command of the brigade, Jack, at his request, related in the presence of several officers his adventures in Russia, that his statements were really accepted as facts; for it was agreed that whatever yarns a fellow might invent to astonish his comrades, he would not venture upon relating them as facts to a post-captain. This, however, was later on.

On the morning after his arrival all was expectation, for it was known that the bombardment was about to recommence. At half-past two o'clock the roar of 157 guns and mortars in the British batteries, and over 800 in those of the French, broke the silence, answered a minute or two later by that of the Russian guns along their whole line of batteries. The day was hot and almost without a breeze, and the smoke from so vast a number of guns hung heavily on the hill-side, and nothing could be seen as to the effect which the cannonade was producing. It was not until next morning that the effect of the fire was visible. The faces of the Russian batteries were pitted and scarred, but no injury of importance had been inflicted upon them. All day the fire continued with unabated fury on the side of the allies, the Russians replying intermittently. Presently the news circulated through the camp that an assault would be made at six o'clock, and all officers and men of duty thronged the brow of the plateau, looking down upon the town.

At half-past six a body of French troops were observed to leave their trenches, and, in skirmishing order, to make their way towards the Mamelon. The guns of the Russian fort roared out, but already the assailants were too close for these to have much effect. Soon a great shout from the spectators on the hill proclaimed that the Zouaves, who always led the French attacks, had gained the parapet. Then, from within, a host of figures surged up against the sky, and a curious conflict raged on the very summit of the work. Soon, however, the increasing mass of the French, as they streamed up, enabled them to maintain the footing they had gained, and pouring down into the fort, they drove the Russians from it, the French pouring out in their rear. Twice fresh bodies of Russian reserves, coming up, attempted to roll back the French attack; but these, exultant with success, pressed forward, and, in spite of the fire which the guns of the Round Tower fort poured upon them, drove their enemies down the hill. It was growing dark now, and it could with difficulty be seen how the fight was going. Fresh masses of French troops poured from their advance trenches into the Mamelon, and there was no question that that point was decidedly gained.

Still however, the battle raged around it. The Zouaves, flushed with success, attempted to carry the Round Tower with a rush, and swept up to the abattis surrounding it. The Russians brought up fresh supports, and the whole hill-side was alive with the flicker of musketry. The Russian guns of all the batteries bearing upon the scene of action opened it, while those of our right attack, which were close to the French, opened their fire to aid our allies. Had the Zouaves been supported, it is probable that they would have carried the Round Tower with their rush, but this was not in the plan of operations, and, after fighting heroically for some time, they fell back to the Mamelon.

The fight on the British side had been less exciting. With a sudden rush our men had leaped on the advance trenches and driven the Russians from their position in the quarries. Then, rapidly turning the gabions of the trenches, they prepared to hold the ground they had taken. They were not to maintain their conquest unmolested, for soon the Russians poured down masses of troops to retake it. All night long the flash of fire flickered round the position, and six times the Russian officers led up their troops to the attack.

Our assaulting force was over 1000 men, and out of these 365 men and thirty-five officers were killed or wounded. Had a stronger body been detailed, there is no doubt that the Redan, which was near the quarries, could have been taken, for it was almost empty of troops, and our men, in the impetuosity of their first assault, arrived close to it. Great discontent was felt that measures should not have been taken to follow up the success, and both our allies and our own troops felt that a great opportunity had been missed, owing to the want of forethought of their generals.

The next day there was an armistice, from one till six, to collect and bury the dead, and the officers and men of the contending parties moved over the ground which had been the scene of conflict, chatting freely together, exchanging cigars and other little articles. Jack, who had gone down with his commanding officer, created no slight astonishment among the Russians by conversing with them in their own language. In answer to their questions, he told them that he had been a prisoner among them, and begged them to forward a note which he had that morning written to Count Preskoff at Berislav, acquainting him that he had made his escape across the Russian frontier, and had rejoined the army, for he thought it probable that the letter which he had given to Count Stanislaus to post, after he left him, might never have come to hand.

At six o'clock the guns again re-opened; the Russians having made good use of their time in arming fresh batteries to counteract the effect of the works we had carried. We had indeed hard work in maintaining our hold of the quarries, which were commanded by several batteries, whose position placed them outside the range of our guns. Our loss was very heavy, as also was that of the French in the Mamelon, which was made a centre for the Russian fire.

On the nights of the 16th and 17th some of the British and French ships stood in close to Sebastopol, and kept up a heavy fire upon the town. On the 16th it was decided by Marshal Pelissier and Lord Raglan that the assault should take place on the morning of the 18th of June, and every arrangement was made for the attack. The British force told off for the work consisted of detachments of the light, second, and third divisions, and was divided into three columns. Sir John Campbell had charge of the left, Colonel Shadforth of the right, and Colonel Lacy Yea of the centre column. General Barnard was directed to take his brigade of the third division down to a ravine near the quarries, while General Eyre moved his brigade of the same division still farther along. His orders were that in case of the assault on the Redan being successful, he should attack the works on its right.

On the French left, three columns, each 6000 strong, under General De Salles, were to attack three of the Russian bastions; while on their right, three columns of equal force were to attack the Russian positions: General D'Autemarre assailing the Gervais battery and the right flank of the Malakoff, General Brunet to fall upon the left flank of the Malakoff and the little Redan from the Mamelon, while General Mayrau was to carry the Russian battery near the careening creek.

Thus the French were to assault in six columns, numbering in all 36,000 men, with reserves of 25,000. Our assaulting columns contained only 1200 men, while 10,000 were in reserve. The attack was to commence at day-break, but by some mistake the column of General Mayrau attacked before the signal was given. In a few minutes they were repulsed with great loss, their general being mortally wounded. Four thousand of the Imperial Guard were sent to their assistance, and three rockets being fired as a signal, the assault was made all along the line. The Russians, however, had been prepared for what was coming by the assault on their left. Their reserves were brought up, the Redan was crowded with troops, the guns were loaded with grape, and as the little English columns leaped from their trenches and rushed to the assault, they were received with tremendous fire.

The inevitable result of sending 1000 men to attack a tremendously strong position, held by ten times their own strength, and across a ground swept by half a dozen batteries, followed. The handful of British struggled nobly forward, broken up into groups by the irregularity of the ground and by the gaps made by the enemy's fire.

Parties of brave men struggled up to the very abattis of the Redan, and there, unsupported and powerless, were shot down. Nothing could exceed the bravery which our soldiers manifested. But their bravery was in vain. The three officers in command of the columns, Sir John Campbell, Colonel Shadforth, and Colonel Yea, were all killed. In vain the officers strove to lead their men to an attack. There were indeed scarce any to lead, and the Russians, in mockery of the foolishness of such an attack, stood upon their parapets and asked our men why they did not come in. At last, the remnants of the shattered columns were called off. Upon the left, the brigade under General Eyre carried the cemetery by a sudden attack. But so hot a fire was opened upon him that it was with difficulty the position could be held.

This, however, was the sole success of the day. Both, the French columns were repulsed with heavy loss from the Malakoff, and although Gervais battery was carried, it could not be maintained.

The naval brigade furnished four parties of sixty men to carry scaling-ladders and wool-bags. Two of these parties were held in reserve, and did not advance. Captain Peel was in command, and was wounded, as was Mr. Wood, a midshipman of H.M.S. "Queen," who acted as his aide-de-camp. The three officers of one detachment were all wounded, and of the other one was killed, and one wounded.

Jack had in the morning regretted that he was not in orders for the service, but when at night the loss which those who bad taken part in it had suffered was known, he could not but congratulate himself that he had not been detailed for the duty. The total British loss was twenty-two officers and 247 men killed, seventy-eight officers and 1207 men wounded. The French lost thirty-nine officers killed, and ninety-three wounded, 1600 men killed or taken prisoners and about the same number wounded; so that our losses were enormously greater than those of the French in proportion to our numbers. The Russians admitted a loss of 5800 killed and wounded.

Jack was with many others a spectator of this scene from Cathcart Hill; but it must not be imagined that even a vague idea of what was passing could be gleaned by the lookers-on. The Redan, which was the point of view immediately opposite, was fully a mile away. In a few minutes from the commencement of the fight the air was thick with smoke, and the din of battle along so extended a front was so continuous and overpowering that it was impossible to judge by the sound of firing how the fight was going on at any particular point.

Upon the night before there was a general sanguine feeling as to the success of the attack, and many a laughing invitation was given to future dinners in the hotels of Sebastopol. Great, then, was the disappointment when, an hour after its opening, the tremendous roll of musketry gradually died away, while the fire of the allied batteries angrily opened, telling the tale that all along the line the allies had been defeated, save only for the slight success at the cemetery.

Eagerly were the wounded questioned, as, carried on stretchers, or slowly and painfully making their way upon foot, they ascended the hill. In most of them regret at their defeat or anger at the incompetence of those who had rendered defeat certain, predominated over the pain of the wounds.

"Be jabers," said a little Irishman, "but it was cruel work entirely. There was myself and six others and the captain made our way up to a lot of high stakes stuck in the ground before the place. We looked round, and divil another soul was there near. We couldn't climb over the stakes, and if we had got over 'em there was a deep ditch beyond, and no way of getting in or out. And what would have been the good if we had, when there were about 50,000 Russians inside a-shouting and yelling at the top of their voices, and a-firing away tons of ammunition? We stopped there five minutes, it may be, waiting to see if any one else was coming, and then when four of us was killed and the captain wounded, I thought it time to be laving; so I lifted him up and carried him in, and got an ugly baste of a Russian bullet into my shoulder as I did so. Ye may call it fightin', but it's just murder I call it meself."

Something like this was the tale told by scores of wounded men, and it is little wonder that, sore with defeat and disappointment, and heart-sick at the loss which had been suffered, the feelings of the army found vent in deep grumblings at the generals who had sent out a handful of men to assault a fortress.

The next day there was another truce to allow of the burial of the dead and the collection of the wounded who lay thickly on the ground between the rival trenches. It did not take place, however, till four in the afternoon, by which time the wounded had been lying for thirty hours without water or aid, the greater portion of the time exposed to the heat of a burning sun.

Ten days later Lord Raglan died. He was a brave soldier, an honorable man, a most courteous and perfect English gentleman, but he was most certainly not a great general. He was succeeded by General Simpson, who appears to have been chosen solely because he had, as a lad, served in the Peninsula; the authorities seeming to forget that for the work upon which the army was engaged, no school of war could compare with that of the Crimea itself, and that generals who had received their training there were incomparably fitter for the task than any others could be.

Two days after the repulse at the Redan, Jack was delighted by the entry of his brother into his tent. Harry had of course left England before the receipt of Jack's letter written when he had crossed the frontier, and was overwhelmed with delight at the news which he had received ten minutes before, on arriving at the camp, that his brother was alive, and was again with the naval brigade close by. Jack's tent-mates were fortunately absent, and the brothers were therefore able to enjoy the delight of their meeting alone, and, when the first rapture was over, to sit down for a long talk. Jack was eager to learn what had happened at home, of which he had heard nothing for six months, and which Harry had so lately left. He was delighted to hear that all were well; that his elder sister was engaged to be married; and that although the shock of the news of his death had greatly affected his mother she had regained her strength, and would, Harry was sure, be as bright and cheerful as ever when she heard of his safety. Not till he had received answers to every question about home would Jack satisfy his brother's curiosity as to his own adventures, and then he astonished him indeed with an account of what he had gone through.

"Well, Jack, you are a lucky fellow!" Harry said, when he had finished. "To think of your having gone through all those adventures and living to tell of them. Why, it will be something to talk about all your life."

"And you, Harry, are you quite recovered?"

"I am as well as ever," Harry said. "It was a case of typhus and frost-bite mixed. I lost two of my toes, and they were afraid that I should be lame in consequence. However, I can march well enough for all practical purposes, though I do limp a little. As to the typhus, it left me very weak; but I soon picked up when the wind from England was blowing in my face. Only to think that all the time I was grieving for you as dead and buried by the Russians among the hills over there that you were larking about with those jolly Russian girls."

"Oh, yes, that's all very well," Jack said. "But you must remember that all that pretty nearly led to my being hung or shot; and it was a hot time among those Poles, too, I can tell you."

The next few days passed quietly. On the 12th of July Jack rode out with his commanding officer, who, with many others, accompanied the reconnaissance made by the Turks and French, on a foraging and reconnoitring party, towards Baidar, but they did not come in contact with the Russians.

Both parties still worked steadily at their trenches. The French were fortunate in having soft ground before them, and were rapidly pushing their advances up towards the Malakoff. This position, which could without difficulty have been seized by the allies at the commencement was in reality the key of the Russian position. Its guns completely commanded the Redan, and its position would render that post untenable, while the whole of the south side of Sebastopol would lay at our mercy. In front of the English the ground was hard and stony, and it was next to impossible to advance our trenches towards the Redan, and the greater portion of the earth indeed had to be carried in sacks on men's backs from points in the rear.

The working parties were also exposed to a cross-fire, and large numbers of men were killed every day.

On the 31st a tremendous storm broke upon the camp, but the soldiers were now accustomed to such occurrences, the tents were well secured, and but little damage was suffered. Save for a few sorties by the Russians, the next fortnight passed quietly.

The cavalry were now pushed some distance inland, and the officers made up parties to ride through the pretty valleys and visit the villas and country houses scattered along the shores.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE BATTLE OF THE TCHERNAYA

On the evening of the 15th of August several Tartars brought in news that the Russians were preparing for an attack; but so often had similar rumors been received that little attention was paid to their statements. It was known indeed that they had received very large reinforcements, and the troops had been several times called under arms to resist their repeated attacks. These, however, had all passed off quietly, and when the troops retired to rest none thought that a great battle was going to take place on the morrow.

The Tchernaya, after leaving the valley of Baidar, flows between a number of low swells of ground, and formed the front of the allied armies on the plains. On the extreme right the Turks were stationed. Next them came the Sardinians, whose position extended from a stream flowing into the Tchernaya at right angles to an eminence known as Mount Hasfort. In front, and divided from it by an aqueduct which, too, ran parallel to the river, was another hillock accessible from the first by a stone bridge at which the Sardinians had a breastwork. Their outposts extended some distance on the other side of the Tchernaya. The French occupied a series of hillocks to the left of the Sardinians, guarding the road leading from Balaklava to McKenzie's farm. The river and aqueduct both flowed along their front. The road crossed the former by a bridge known as the Traktia Bridge, the latter by a stone bridge. In front of the Traktia Bridge was a breastwork.

At dawn a strong body of Russians were seen upon the heights opposite to those occupied by the Sardinians, and thence, being on ground higher than that upon our side of the river, they commanded both the Sardinian and French positions. The bridge was held by a company of infantry and a company of Bersaglieri, and General Della Marmora at once despatched another company of Bersaglieri to enable the advance to hold their post until the army got under arms. They mounted the opposite plateau, but this was so swept by the Russian guns, that they were forced at once to retire to the bridge.

Soon the artillery opened along the whole line on both sides. The French outposts had also been driven in, and before the troops were fairly under arms, the Russians had crossed the bridge, and were charging forward. The aqueduct, which was nine or ten feet wide and several feet deep, now formed the front of the French defence. It ran along on the face of the hill, with a very steep slope facing the Russians.

In spite of the fire of the French artillery in front, and of the Sardinian artillery which swept them in flank, the Russian soldiers pressed most gallantly forward, crossed the aqueduct, and tried to storm the height. The Sardinian fire, however, was too severe, and after ten minutes the Russians fell back. It met another column advancing at the double, and uniting, they again rushed forward. While they forded the river, two guns crossed by the bridge and another by a ford, and opened upon the French. The infantry, rushing breast deep through the water, began to scale the heights. But the French met them boldly, and after a fierce fight drove them down and across the bridge. On their left another column had attacked the French right, and in spite of the Sardinian guns which ploughed long lanes in their ranks, crossed the aqueduct and scaled the heights. But as they reached the plateau so terrible a storm of grape and musket-balls swept upon them, that the bead of the column melted away as it surmounted the crest. Fresh men took the place of those that fell, but when the French infantry, with a mighty cheer, rushed upon them, the Russians broke and ran. So great was the crowd that they could not pass the river in time, and 200 prisoners were taken, while the French and Sardinian artillery swept the remains of the column, as it retreated, with a terrible cross fire.

At the bridge, however, the Russians made one more effort. The reserves were brought up, and they again crossed the river and aqueduct. The French, however, were now thoroughly prepared, and the attack was, like the preceding one, beaten back with terrible slaughter. The Russians fell back along their whole line, covered by the fire of their artillery, while five regiments of cavalry took post to oppose that of the allies, should they attempt to harass the retreat.

The loss of the French was nine officers killed and fifty-three wounded, 172 men killed and 1163 wounded. The Sardinians had two officers killed and eight wounded; sixty-two men killed, and 135 wounded. The Russian loss was twenty-seven officers killed, and eighty-five wounded; 3329 men killed, 4785 wounded. Never were the advantages of position more clearly shown, for the Russians lost fifteen times as many killed as the allies, four times as many wounded, although they had all the advantages of a surprise on their side. The English had only a battery of heavy guns under Captain Mowbray engaged. These did good service.

Jack Archer saw but little of this battle. It commenced at daybreak and lasted little over an hour, and when Jack, with hundreds of other officers and soldiers, reached points from which a view of the plain could be commanded, a thick cloud of smoke was drifting across it, through which nothing could be seen until the heavy masses of Russians were observed making their way back covered by their cavalry, and the dying away of the cannonade told that the battle was over.

Life in camp was very cheery now. The troops were in splendid health and high spirits. Races were got up in each division, for almost all officers possessed ponies of some kind or other, and great amusement was caused by these events. Some of the lately-arrived regiments had brought their regimental bands with them, and these added to the liveliness of the camps. A good supply of eatables and wine could be obtained from the sutlers, and dinner-parties were constantly taking place. Altogether life in camp was very enjoyable.

The French, who during the winter had fared much better than ourselves, were now in a very inferior condition. The full publicity which had been given to the sufferings of our troops had so roused the British public, that not only had they insisted that Government should take all measures for the comfort of the soldiers, but very large sums had been collected, and ships laden with comforts and luxuries of all kinds despatched to the seat of war. Consequently our troops were now in every respect well fed and comfortable. Upon the other hand, the details of the sufferings of the French troops had been carefully concealed from the French people. Consequently nothing was done for them, and their food was the same now as it had been at Varna in the previous year. They were consequently exposed to the attacks of the same illness, and while the British army was enjoying perfect health, the French hospitals were crowded, and many thousands died of cholera and fever.

After the Tchernaya, as there was no probability of a renewal of the bombardment for a short time, Jack asked leave to spend a few days on board ship, as his services as interpreter were not likely to be required. This was readily granted. Here he had perfect rest. Captain Hethcote did not put him in a watch, and every day, with some of his messmates, he rowed out of the harbor, and coasted along at the foot of the lofty cliffs, sometimes fishing, sometimes taking a bath in the cool waters. This week's rest and change did Jack a great deal of good, for he had been feeling the effects of the long strain of excitement. He had had several slight touches of fever, and the naval doctor had begun to speak of the probability of sending him down to the hospital-ship at Constantinople. The week's rest, however, completely set him up, and he was delighted with the receipt of a budget of letters from home, written upon the receipt of his letter announcing his safety.

None but those who have gone through a long and tedious campaign, or who may be living a struggling life in some young colony, can know how great is the delight afforded by letters from home. For a time the readers forget their surroundings, and all the toil and struggle of their existence, and are again in thought among the dear ones at home. Retiring to some quiet place apart from their comrades, they read through their letters again and again, and it is not till every little item is got by heart, that the letters are folded up and put away, to be re-read over and over again until the next batch arrive.

Jack, of course, had heard much of his family from his brother, but the long letters of his father and mother, the large, scrawling handwriting of his little brothers and sisters, brought them before him far more vividly than any account could have done. Enclosed in his father's letter was one with a Russian postmark, and this Jack found was from Count Preskoff. It had been written six weeks after he had left them, and had, curiously enough, arrived in England on the very day after his own letter had reached home. The count wrote expressing their anxiety regarding him, and their earnest hopes that he had effected his escape. He said that his wife and daughters diligently read every paper they could get from end to end, but having seen no notice of the capture of two young Englishmen in disguise, they entertained strong hopes that their friends had effected their escape. The count said he was sure that Jack would be glad to hear that things in Russia looked brighter; that it was rumored that the Emperor Alexander intended on the occasion of his coronation to proclaim a general emancipation of the serfs, and that other measures of reform would follow. The party of progress were strong in the councils of the new monarch. The decree for his own banishment from court had been cancelled, and he was on the point of starting for St. Petersburg with his wife and daughters. A personal friend of his own had been appointed commandant of Berislav, and the late deputy commandant had been sent to join his regiment in the Crimea. The countess and his daughters were well, and Olga was studying English. He said that when the war was over he intended with his family to make a tour through the capitals of Europe, and hoped that they should see Jack in England. This was very welcome news, and Jack returned to the naval camp at the front in high glee.

One morning a lieutenant named Myers, asked Jack if he would like to accompany him on a reconnaissance, which he heard that a party of the Sardinian cavalry were going to push some little distance up the Baida Valley. Jack said that he would like it very much if he could borrow a pony. Mr. Myers said that he could manage this for him, and at once went and obtained the loan of a pony from another officer who was just going down into the battery. A quarter of an hour afterwards, having taken the precaution to put some biscuits and cold meat into their haversacks, and to fill their flasks with rum and water, they started and rode across the plain to the Sardinian camp.

The lieutenant had obtained the news of the proposed reconnaissance from an officer with whom he was acquainted on the Sardinian staff. The news, however, had been kept secret, as upon previous occasions so many officers off duty had accompanied these reconnaissances as to constitute an inconvenience. On the present occasion the secret had been so well kept that only some four or five pleasure-seekers had assembled when the column, consisting of 400 cavalry, started.

Jack, accustomed only to the flat plains of southern and western Russia, was delighted with the beauty of the valley through which they now rode. It was beautifully wooded, and here and there Tartar villages nestled among the trees. These had long since been deserted by the inhabitants, and had been looted by successive parties of friends and foes, of everything portable.

Presently they turned out of the valley they had first passed through and followed a road over a slope into another valley, similar to the first. For an hour they rode on, and then some distance ahead of the column they heard the report of a shot.

"The Cossacks have got sight of us," Mr. Myers said. "We shall soon learn if the Russians have any troops in the neighborhood."

Presently a scattered fire was opened from the walls of a country house, standing embowered in trees on an eminence near what appeared to be the mouth of the valley. The officer in command of the party dismounted one of the squadrons, and sent the men up in skirmishing order against the house. Two other squadrons trotted down the valley, and the rest remained in reserve. A sharp musketry conflict went on for a short time around the chateau. Then the Sardinians made a rush, and their shouts of triumph and the cessation of musketry proclaimed their victory.

At the same moment a soldier rode back from the cavalry that had gone up the valley, to say that a strong body of the enemy's horse were approaching across the plain. The order was given for a general advance, and the cavalry trotted down the valley to join the party in advance.

"Now, Mr. Archer," Lieutenant Myers said, "the best thing for us to do will be to ride forward to that house up there. See, the attacking party are coming back to their horses. We ought to have a good view over the plain, and shall see the fight between the Sardinians and the enemy. Besides, we may pick up some loot."

They soon reached the house, and, tying up their horses, entered. It was a fine chateau, handsomely furnished, but short as was the time that the Sardinians had held possession, they had already tumbled everything into confusion in their search for plunder. Tables and couches had been upset, closets and chiffoniers burst open with the butt-ends of the swords or with the discharge of a pistol into the lock. Looking-glasses had been smashed, valuable vases lay in fragments on the floor, bottles of wine whose necks had been hastily knocked off stood on the table. In the courtyard were signs of strife. Three or four Cossacks and two Sardinian horsemen lay dead.

"We will go out to the terrace in front of the house," Mr. Myers said. "From that we ought to have a view over the country."

Owing, however, to the trees which grew around, they were obliged to advance 100 yards or so from the house before they could see the plain. Then some half-mile out they saw the blue mass of Sardinian cavalry advancing by squadrons. Still farther two bodies of Russian horse, each nearly equal in strength to the Italians, were seen. There was a movement among the Sardinian horse. They formed into two bodies and dashed at the Russians. There was a cloud of dust, swords could be seen flashing in the sun, a confused mélée for a minute or two, and then the Russians broke and rode across the plain, pursued by the Sardinians.

"A very pretty charge," Mr. Myers said. "Now we'll go in and look at the house. It will be fully half an hour before they return again."

They went in and wandered from room to room. The place had evidently been tenanted until quite lately. Articles of woman's work lay upon the table. A canary bird was singing in his cage. A fire burnt in the kitchen, and a meal was evidently in course of preparation when the first alarm had been given. The officers wandered from room to room, and collected a number of little trifles to take home as remembrances, small pictures of the Greek saints, such as are found in every Russian house, a little bronze statuette, two or three small but handsomely bound books, a couple of curious old plates; and Jack took possession, as a present for his elder sister, of a small work-box beautifully fitted up. Having made two bundles of their plunder, they prepared to go out again to see if the Sardinians were returning, when Jack, looking out of the window, uttered an exclamation of surprise and alarm. One of the thick fogs which are so common in the Black Sea, and on the surrounding coasts, had suddenly rolled down upon them, and it was difficult to see five yards from the window. Jack's exclamation was echoed by Mr. Myers.

"This is a nice business!" the latter exclaimed. "We had better find our ponies and make our way down into the valley at once. Seeing how thick the fog has come on, the Sardinians may not return here at all."

So saying, they hurried to the spot where they had tied up their ponies, and, leading them by the reins, descended into the valley.

"The fog is getting thicker and thicker," Mr. Myers said. "I cannot see three yards before me. We must listen for them as they pass, and then join them, although it's by no means impossible that we may be received with a shot."

Half an hour passed, and they grew more and more anxious. Another half-hour, and still no sound was heard.

"I do not think they can possibly have passed without our seeing them, Mr. Archer. The valley is a quarter of a mile wide, but we should be sure to hear the trampling of the horses and the jingling of the sabres."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure they have not passed since we got here. But they may possibly have seen the fog coming on and have ridden rapidly back, and passed before we came down, or they may have gone round by the mouth of the valley parallel to this, which we left to cross into this one."

"That is just what I have been thinking." Mr. Myers said. "What do you think we had better do? It is quite impossible that we can find our way back through such a fog as this."

"Quite impossible, sir," Jack said. "If we were to move from where we are, we should lose all idea of our bearings in three minutes, and should be as likely to go into the plain as up the valley."

"It's a most awkward position," Mr. Myers said anxiously. "Now, Mr. Archer, you have had some sort of experience of this kind before. Tell me frankly what you think is the best thing to be done."

"I have been thinking it over, sir, for the last half, hour," Jack said, "and it appears to me that the best thing to do would be for me to find my way up to the house again. I can't well miss that, as we came straight down hill. I will bring back two of those Cossacks' cloaks and lances. Then we had better move about till we come on a clump of trees, and make ourselves as comfortable there as we can. These fogs last, as you know, sometimes for two or three days. When it gets clear, whether it is to-day or to-morrow, we will look out and see whether there are any of the enemy about. Of course, as they know the way, they can come back in the fog. If we see any of them, we must put on the Cossack's cloaks, take their lances, and boldly ride off. They are always galloping about in pairs all over the country; so that we shall attract no attention."

"But if they catch us," the lieutenant said, "we shall be liable to be shot as spies."

"I suppose we shall, sir," Jack answered; "but I would rather run the risk of being shot as a spy than the certainty of being caught as a naval officer, and imprisoned till the war is over."

"Well, Mr Archer, I certainly can suggest nothing better," the lieutenant said. "Will you go up, then, and, get the cloaks you speak of?"

Leaving his pony with the lieutenant, Jack made his way up the hill. Fortunately, in their descent they had followed a small track worn by persons going to and from the chateau from the valley, and he had, therefore, but little difficulty in finding the house. He paused when he reached the courtyard, for he heard voices in the chateau. Listening attentively, he discovered that they were Russians, no doubt some of the party who had been driven thence by the Sardinians, and who had, upon the retirement of the latter, ridden straight back from the plain. Fortunately, the fog was so thick that there was no probability whatever of his movements being discovered, and he therefore proceeded to strip off two of the long coats, reaching almost down to the heels, which form the distinctive Cossack dress, from the dead men. He took possession also of their caps, their bandoliers for cartridges, worn over one shoulder, and of their carbines and lances, and then retraced his steps down the hill to his companion. Leading their ponies, they wandered aimlessly through the fog for a considerable time before they came to some trees.

"If you will hold my horse, sir," Jack said, "I will just look round, and see if this is a small wood. I shall lose you before I have gone a yard, so when you hear me whistle, please whistle back, but not loud, for there may be enemies close by for aught I know. I thought I heard voices just now."

Searching about, Jack found that the clump of trees extended for some little distance. Returning to the lieutenant, they entered the wood, and moved a little way among the trees, so as to be out of sight if the fog lifted suddenly. Then they loosened the saddle-girths, gathered some sticks and lit a fire, and using the Cossack coats for rugs, began to discuss the meal they had brought with them.

"If the Russians really advance again, and get between us and Balaklava, I do not see how on earth we are to pass through them," Mr. Myers said.

"No, sir, I don't think we could," Jack answered. "I should propose that we make a wide sweep round so as to come down upon the shore some distance away. As you know, boats from the ships often land at some of the deserted places along there in search of loot; so that we ought to be able to be taken off. If, when we are riding, we come upon any Russian troops suddenly, so that we cannot move away in any other direction without exciting suspicion, you must put a good face on it. My Russian is good enough to pass muster as a Cossack. All we have to do is to avoid any of these fellows, for they would detect at once that I did not belong to them."

"Well, Mr. Archer, you take things very coolly, and I hope you will get us out of the scrape we have got into. If I had been by myself, I should have ridden up and surrendered to the first Russians I saw."

"That would have been the best way, sir, had it not been for those poor beggars having been killed up above there; for in our naval dress we could not have hoped to have escaped. As it is, if we have any luck, we shall soon be back at Balaklava again."

CHAPTER XXIV. A FORTUNATE STORM

The fog seemed to get thicker and thicker as the day went on. At nightfall, when it became evident that no move could be made before morning, they gave a biscuit to each of their ponies, cut some grass and laid it before them, and then, wrapping themselves in the Cossack cloaks to keep off the damp fog, were soon asleep. At day-break the fog was still thick, but as the sun rose it gradually dispersed it, and they were shortly able to see up the valley. They found that in their wandering in the mist they must have moved partly in a circle, for they were still little more than a quarter of a mile from the point where they had left it to ascend to the chateau. Round this they could see many soldiers moving about. Looking up the valley, they perceived lines of horses, picqueted by a village but a few hundred yards away.

"Those were the voices I thought I heard, no doubt, when we first came here," Jack said. "It's lucky we found these trees, for if we had wandered about a little longer, we might have stumbled into the middle of them. Now, sir, we had better finish the biscuits we put aside for breakfast, and be off. It is quite evident the direct way to the camp is close to us."

Saddling up their horses, and putting on the Cossack black sheepskin caps and long coats, and taking the lances and carbines, the latter of which were carried across the saddle before them, they mounted their ponies and rode off, quitting the wood at such a point that it formed a screen between them and the cavalry in the distance, until they had gone well down the valley. They were unnoticed, or at any rate, unchallenged by the party at the chateau, and, issuing from the valley, rode out into the open country.

Far out in the plain they saw several Russians moving about, and judged that these were occupied in searching those who had fallen in the cavalry fight of the preceding day. They did not approach them, but turning to the right, trotted briskly along, skirting the foot of the hills. They passed through two or three Tartar villages whose inhabitants scarcely glanced at them, so accustomed were they to the sight of small parties of Cossacks riding hither and thither.

In one, which stood just at the mouth of the valley which they had determined to enter, as a road running up it seemed to indicate that it led to some place, perhaps upon the sea-shore, they found several Russian soldiers loitering about. Lieutenant Myers would have checked his pony, but Jack rode unhesitatingly forward. An officer came out of one of the cottages.

"Any news?" he asked.

"None," Jack said. "The enemy's horse came out yesterday, through the Baida valley, but we beat them back again."

"Where are you going?" the Russian asked.

"Down towards the sea," Jack answered, "to pick up stragglers who land to plunder. A whole sotina is coming down. They will be here presently," so saying, with a wave of his hand, he resumed his way up the valley, Lieutenant Myers having ridden on, lest any questions should be addressed to him. The road mounted steadily, and after some hours' riding they crossed a brow, and found themselves at the head of a valley opening before them, and between the cliffs at its end they could see the sea.

They could scarcely restrain a shout of joy, and, quickening their speed, rode rapidly down the valley. Presently they perceived before them a small village lying on the sea-shore, to the left of which stood a large chateau, half hidden among trees.

"Do you think it's safe to ride in?" Mr. Myers asked.

"Most of these villages have been found deserted, sir," Jack said, "by our fellows when they landed. I'm afraid we are beyond the point to which they come, for I should think we must be twenty miles from Balaklava. However, there are not likely to be any troops here, and we needn't mind the Tartars."

They found, as they expected, that the village was wholly deserted, and, riding through it, they dismounted at the chateau. The doors were fastened, but, walking round it, they perceived no signs of life, and, breaking a window, they soon effected an entrance.

They found that the house, which was of great size and evidently belonged to a Russian magnate, was splendidly furnished, and that it had so far not been visited by any parties from the ships. Some fine pictures hung on the walls, choice pieces of statuary were scattered here and there, tables of malachite and other rare stones stood about, and Eastern carpets covered the floors.

"We are in clover now, sir," Jack said, "and if we could but charter a ship, we should be able to make a rich prize. But as our ponies can only carry us, I'm afraid that all these valuables are worthless to us."

"I'd give the whole lot of them," the lieutenant said, "for a good meal. At any rate, we are sure to find something for the ponies."

In the stables behind the house were great quantities of forage and the ponies soon had their fill.

The officers, taking some corn, of which also there was an abundance, hammered a quantity between two flat stones, and moistening the rough flour so obtained, with water, made two flat cakes, with which, baked over a wood fire, they satisfied their hunger. A consultation was held while they ate their meal, and it was agreed that as the place was evidently beyond the range of boats from Balaklava, they had better ride along the cliffs till they reached some village, where, as they would find from the state of the houses, parties were in the habit of coming.

After a couple of hours' stay to give the horses time to rest, they again saddled up and took the road along the coast. After riding two miles along the edge of the cliffs, they simultaneously checked their horses, as, upon mounting a slight rise, they saw before them the tents of a considerable party of Russian soldiers. As they had paused the moment their heads came above the level, they were themselves unobserved, and turning, they rode back to the chateau they had quitted, where, having made their ponies comfortable, they prepared to pass the night. There were plenty of luxurious beds, and they slept profoundly all night. In the morning they went down to the sea. Not a vestige of a boat was to be seen, and they began to question whether it would not be possible to make a small raft, and to paddle along the foot of the cliffs.

"We need not trouble about that now," Lieutenant Myers said, "for, unless I am mistaken, we're going to have a regular Black Sea gale in an hour or two. The wind is freshening fast, and the clouds banking up."

The lieutenant was not mistaken. In an hour the wind was blowing in furious gusts, and the sea breaking heavily in the little bay.

Having nothing to do, they sat under the shelter of a rock, and watched the progress of the gale. The wind was blowing dead along the shore, and grew fiercer and fiercer. Three hours passed, and then Lieutenant Myers leaped to his feet.

"See," he said, "there is a boat coming round the point!"

It was so. Driving before the gale was a ship's boat, a rag of sail was set, and they could see figures on board.

"She is making in here!" the lieutenant exclaimed. "Let us run down and signal to them to beach her at that level spot just in front of the village. No doubt it is some ship's boat which came out to picnic at one of the villages near Balaklava, and they have been blown along the coast and have been unable to effect a landing."

The boat's head was now turned towards shore, the sail lowered, and the oars got out. So high was the sea already, that the spectators feared every moment she would be swamped, but she was well handled, and once in the little bay the water grew smoother, and she soon made her way to the spot where the officers were standing. The latter were astonished when the men leaped out instantly, and, without a word, rushed at them, and in a moment both were levelled to the ground by blows of stretchers. When they recovered from the shock and astonishment, they found the sailors grouped round them.

"Hallo!" Jack exclaimed in astonishment, "Mr. Simmonds, is that you? What on earth are you knocking us about like that for?"

"Why, Jack Archer!" exclaimed the officer addressed, "where on earth did you come from? and what are you masquerading as a Cossack for? We saw you here, and of course took you for an enemy. I thought you were up at the front."

"So we were," Jack replied, "but, as you see, we are here now. This is Lieutenant Myers, of the 'Tartar.'"

"I'm awfully sorry!" Mr. Simmonds said, holding out his hand, and helping them to their feet.

"It was not your fault," Mr. Myers answered. "We forgot all about our Cossack dresses. Of course you supposed that we were enemies. It is fortunate indeed for us that you came here. But I fear you must put to sea again. There is a Russian camp two miles off on the hill, and the boat is sure to have been seen."

"It will be awkward," Lieutenant Simmonds said, looking at the sky, "for it is blowing tremendously. I think, though, that it is breaking already. These Black Sea gales do not often last long. At any rate, it would be better to take our chance there than to see the inside of a Russian prison."

"If you send a man along the road to that crest," Lieutenant Myers suggested, "he will see them coming, and if we all keep close to the boat, we may get out of gunshot in time."

A sailor was accordingly despatched up the hill. The instant he reached the top he was seen to turn hastily, and to come running back at full speed.

"Now, lads," Mr. Simmonds said, "put your shoulders to her. Now, all together, get her into the water, and be ready to jump in and push off when Atkins arrives."

When the sailor was still a hundred yards away the head of a column of Russian infantry appeared over the crest. When they saw the boat they gave a shout, and breaking, ran down the hill at full speed. Before they reached the village, however, Atkins had leaped into the boat, and with a cheer the men ran her out into the surf, and scrambled in.

"Out oars, lads, and row for your lives!" Mr. Simmonds said, and, with steady strokes the sailors drove their boat through the waves.

The Russians opened fire the instant they reached the beach, but the boat was already 150 yards away, and although the bullets fell thickly round, no one was hit.

"I think, Mr. Myers," Lieutenant Simmonds said, "we had better lay-to, before we get quite out of shelter of the bay. With steady rowing we can keep her there, and we shall be out of range of the Russians."

Mr. Myers assented, and for two hours the men, rowing their utmost, kept the boat stationary, partly sheltered by the cliffs at the mouth of the bay. The Russians continued to fire, but although the boat was not wholly beyond their range, and the bullets sometimes fell near, these were for the most part carried to leeward by the wind, and not a single casualty occurred.

"The wind is falling fast," Lieutenant Simmonds said. "We could show a rag of canvas outside now. We had best make a long leg out to sea, and then, when the wind goes down, we can make Balaklava."

For four or five hours the boat was buffeted in the tremendous seas, but gradually, as the wind went down, these abated, and after running twenty miles off the land, the boat's head was turned, and she began to beat back to Balaklava. It was eleven o'clock that night before they reached the "Falcon," officers and men completely worn out with their exertions.

Jack found to his satisfaction that no report of his being missing had been received by the captain, and next morning at daybreak he and Lieutenant Myers walked up to camp, regretting the loss of their ponies, which would, however, they were sure, be found by the Russians long ere they finished the stores of provender within their reach.

Upon reaching camp they found that their absence had not been noticed until the afternoon of the second day of their absence. They had been seen to ride away together, and when in the evening they were found to be absent, it was supposed that they had gone down to Balaklava and slept there. When upon the following day they were still missing, it was supposed that the admiral had retained them for duty on board ship. The storm, which had scattered everything, had put them out of the thoughts of the commanding officer, and it was only that morning that, no letter respecting them having been received, he was about to write to their respective captains to inquire the cause of their absence. This was now explained, and as they had been detained by circumstances altogether beyond their control, they escaped without a reprimand, and were indeed warmly congratulated upon the adventures they had passed through.

In the meantime the cannonade had been going on very heavily in front. The Russian outworks were showing signs of weakness after the tremendous pounding they were receiving. The French were pushing their trenches close up to the Malakoff, and upon both sides the soldiers were busy with pick and shovel. On the night of the 30th August a tremendous explosion took place, a Russian shell exploding in a French ammunition wagon, which blew up, killing and wounding 150 officers and men.

On the following night the naval brigade astonished the camp by giving private theatricals. The bill was headed "Theatre Royal, Naval Brigade. On Friday evening, 31st August, will be performed, 'Deaf as a Post,' to be followed by 'The Silent Woman,' the whole to conclude with a laughable farce, entitled 'Slasher and Crasher.' Seats to be taken at seven o'clock. Performance to commence precisely at eight. God save the Queen. Rule Britannia." The scenes were furnished from H.M.S. "London." The actors were all sailors of the brigade, the ladies' parts being taken by young boatswains' mates. Two thousand spectators closely packed were present, and the performance was immensely enjoyed in spite of the fact that the shell from the Russian long-range guns occasionally burst in the neighborhood of the theatre.

The French had now pushed forward their trenches so far that from their front sap they could absolutely touch the abattis of the Malakoff. On the 3d the Russians made a sortie, and some heavy fighting took place in the trenches. The time was now at hand when the last bombardment was to commence. The French began it early on the morning of the 5th. They had now got no less than 627 guns in position, while the English had 202. The news that it was to commence was kept a profound secret, and few of the English officers knew what was about to take place. Our own trenches were comparatively empty, while those of the French were crowded with men who kept carefully out of sight of the enemy.

Suddenly three jets of earth and dust sprung into the air. The French had exploded three mines, and at the signal a stream of fire three miles in length ran from battery to battery, as the whole of their guns opened fire. The effect of this stupendous volley was terrible. The iron shower ploughed up the batteries and entrenchments of the Russians, and crashed among the houses far behind. In a moment the hillside was wreathed with smoke. With the greatest energy the French worked their guns, and the roar was continuous and terrible.

For a time the Russians seemed paralyzed by this tremendous fire; lying quietly in their sheltered subterranean caves, they had no thought of what was preparing for them, and the storm which burst upon them took them wholly by surprise. Soon, however, they recovered from their astonishment, and steadily opened fire in return. The English guns now joined their voices to the concert, and for two hours the storm of fire continued unabating on both sides.

After two hours and a half the din ceased, the French artillery-men waiting to allow their guns to cool. At ten o'clock the French again exploded some mines, and for two hours renewed their cannonade as hotly as ever. The Russians could be seen pouring troops across the bridge over the harbor from their camps on the north side, to resist the expected attack. From twelve to five the firing was slack. At that hour the French again began their cannonade as vigorously as before.

When darkness came on, and accurate firing at the enemy's batteries was no longer possible, the mortars and heavy guns opened fire on the place. The sky was streaked with lines of fire as the heavy shells described their curves, bursting with heavy explosions over the town. Presently a cheer rose from the spectators who thronged the crest of the bill, for flames were seen bursting out from one of the Russian frigates. Higher and higher they rose, although by their light the Russians could be perceived working vigorously to extinguish them. At last they were seen to be leaving the ship. Soon the flames caught the mast and rigging, and the pillar of fire lit up the whole town and surrounding country. Not a moment did our fire slacken, but no answering flash now shot out from the Russian lines of defence. All night the fire continued, to prevent the enemy from repairing damages.

The next morning the English played the principal part in the attack, our batteries commencing at daylight, and continuing their fire all day. The Russians could be seen to be extremely busy. Hitherto they had believed that the allies would never be able to take the town; but the tremendous fire which the allies had now opened, and the close approach of the French to the Malakoff, had clearly shaken their confidence at last.

Large quantities of stores were transported during the day to the north side, and on the heights there great numbers of men were seen to be laboring at fortifications. The Russian army in the field was observed to be moving towards Inkerman, and it was believed that it was about to repeat the experiment of the Tchernaya and to make a desperate effort to relieve the town by defeating the allied armies in the field.

All that night the bombardment continued without intermission, the troops in the trenches keeping up a heavy musketry fire upon the enemy's works, to prevent them from repairing damages in the dark.

The next day was a repetition of those which had gone before it. The Russians replied but seldom, and occasionally when the smoke blew aside, it could be seen that terrible damage was being inflicted on the Russian batteries. At dusk the cannonade ceased, the shell bombardment took place, and at eleven a tremendous explosion occurred in the town.

The Russians from time to time lit up the works with fire-balls and carcasses, evidently fearing a sudden night attack. During the day a great council of war was held; and as orders were sent to the surgeons to send all the patients in the hospital down to Balaklava, and to prepare for the reception of wounded, it was known that the attack would take place next day.

Although the Russian fire in reply to the bombardment had been comparatively slight, from the 3d to the 6th we had three officers and forty-three men killed; three officers and 189 men wounded.

During these days Jack had been on duty in the batteries, and the sailors had taken their full part in the work.

There was some disappointment that night in the naval camp when it was known by the issue of the divisional orders that the sailors were not to be engaged in the assault. Jack, however, aroused the indignation of his tent-mates by saying frankly that he was glad that they were not going to share in the attack.

"It is all very well," he said, "to fight when you have some chance of hitting back, but to rush across ground swept by a couple of hundred guns is no joke; and to be potted at by thousands of fellows in shelter behind trenches. One knows what it was last time. The French send 12,000 men to attack a battery, we try to carry an equally strong place with 1000. If I were ordered, of course I should go; but I tell you fairly, I don't care about being murdered, and I call it nothing short of murder to send 1000 men to attack such a position as that. We used to say that an Englishman could lick three Frenchmen, but we never did it in any battle I ever heard of. Our general seems to think that an Englishman can lick ten Russians, although he's in the open, and they're behind shelter, and covered by the fire of any number of pieces of artillery."

"But we're certain to get in to-morrow, Jack."

"Are we?" Jack questioned; "so every one said last time. It's all very well for the French, who are already right under the guns of the Malakoff, and have only twenty yards to run. When they get in and drive the Russians out, there they are in a big circular fort, just as they were in the Mamelon, and can hold their own, no matter how many men the Russians bring up to retake it. We've 300 yards to run to get into the Redan, and when we get in where are we? Nowhere. Just in an open work where the Russians can bring their whole strength down upon us. I don't feel at all sure we're going to take the place to-morrow."

"Why, Archer, you're a regular croaker!" one of the others said. "We shall have a laugh at you to-morrow evening."

"I hope you will," Jack said; "but I have my doubts. I wish to-morrow was over, I can tell you. The light division are, as usual, to bear the brunt of it, and the 33d will do their share. Harry has had good luck so far, but it will be a hotter thing to-morrow than anything he has gone into yet, unless indeed the bombardment of the last three days has taken all heart out of the Russians. Well, let's turn in, for its bitterly cold to-night, and I for one don't feel disposed for talking."

CHAPTER XXV. THE CAPTURE OF SEBASTOPOL

The morning of the 8th of September was bitterly cold, and a keen wind blowing from the town raised clouds of dust.

The storming parties were to be furnished by the light and second divisions. The first storming party of the light division was to consist of 160 men of the 97th regiment, who were to form in rear of a covering party of 100 men, furnished by the second battalion, Rifle brigade. They were to carry ladders for descending into the ditch of the Redan. Behind them were to come 200 men of the 97th and 300 of the 90th. The supports consisted of 750 men of the 19th and 88th regiments.

Therefore the assault was to be made by about 750 men, with an equal body in support, the remainder of the light division being in reserve.

The covering party of the second division consisted of 100 men of the 3d Buffs; the storming party, with ladders, of 160 of the 3d Buffs, supported by 260 of the 3d Buffs, 300 of the 41st, with 200 of the 62d, and 100 of the 41st. The rest of the second division were in reserve.

The first and Highland divisions were to be formed in the third parallel.

The orders were that the British attack was not to commence until the French had gained possession of the Malakoff. This they did with but slight loss. The storming columns were immensely strong, as 30,000 men were gathered in their trenches for the attack upon the Malakoff. This was effected almost instantaneously.

Upon the signal being given, they leaped in crowds from the advanced trench, climbed over the abattis, descended the ditch and swarmed up the rugged slope in hundreds.

The Russians, taken wholly by surprise, vainly fired their cannon, but ere the men could come out from their underground caves, the French were already leaping down upon them. It was a slaughter rather than a fight, and in an incredibly short time the Malakoff was completely in the possession of the French. In less than a minute from the time they leaped from the trenches their flag floated on the parapet.

The Russians, recovered from their first surprise, soon made tremendous attempts to regain their lost position, and five minutes after the French had entered, great masses of Russians moved forward to dispute its possession. For seven hours, from twelve to dusk, the Russians strove obstinately to recover the Malakoff, but the masses of men which the French poured in as soon as it was captured, enabled them to resist the assaults.

At length, when night came on, the Russian general, seeing that the tremendous slaughter which his troops were suffering availed nothing, withdrew them from the attack.

As the French flag appeared on the Malakoff, the English covering parties leaped from the trenches, and rushed forward. As they did so a storm of shot and shell swept upon them, and a great number of men and officers were killed as they crossed the 250 yards between the trenches and the Redan. This work was a salient, that is to say a work whose centre is advanced, the two sides meeting there at an angle. In case of the Redan it was a very obtuse angle, and the attacks should have been delivered far up the sides, as men entering at the angle itself would be exposed to the concentrated fire of the enemy behind the breastworks which ran across the broad base of the triangle. The projecting angle was, however, of course the point nearest to the English lines, and, exposed as they were to the sweeping fire of the enemy while crossing the open, both columns of assault naturally made for this point.

The Russian resistance was slight, and the stormers burst into the work. The abattis had been torn to pieces by the cannonade, and the men did not wait for the ladders, but leapt into the ditch and scrambled up on the other side.

The Russians within ran back, and opened a fire from their traverses and works in the rear. As the English troops entered, they halted to fire upon the enemy, instead of advancing upon them. The consequence was that the Russians, who were rapidly reinforced, were soon able to open a tremendous concentrated fire upon the mass of men in the angle, and these, pressed upon by their comrades who flocked in behind them, impeded by the numerous internal works, mixed up in confusion, all regimental order being lost, were unable either to advance or to use their arms with effect. In vain the officers strove by example and shouts to induce them to advance. The men had an idea that the place was mined, and that if they went forward they would be blown into the air. They remained stationary, holding their ground, but refusing to go forward.

Every minute the Russians brought up fresh reserves, and a terrific fire was concentrated upon the British. The officers, showing themselves in front, were soon shot down in numbers, and success, which had been in their hands at first, was now impossible.

For an hour and a half the slaughter continued, and then, as the Russian masses poured forward to attack them, the remnant who remained of the storming parties leaped from the parapet and made their way as best they could through the storm of bullet and shot, back to the trenches.

The fight had lasted an hour and three quarters, and in that time we had lost more men than at Inkerman. Our loss was 24 officers and 119 men killed; 134 officers, and 1897 men wounded. Had the regiments engaged been composed of the same materials as those who won the heights of the Alma, the result might have been different, although even in that case it is questionable whether the small force told off for the assault would have finally maintained itself against the masses which the Russians brought up against them. But composed as they were of young troops, many being lads sent off to the front a few weeks after being recruited, the success of such an attack, so managed, was well-nigh impossible from the first.

It was a gloomy evening in the British camps. We were defeated, while the French were victorious. The fact, too, that the attack had failed in some degree owing to the misconduct of the men added to the effect of the failure. It was said that the attack was to be renewed next morning, and that the Guards and Highland Brigade were to take part in it. Very gloomy was the talk over the tremendous loss which had taken place among the officers. From the manner in which these had exposed themselves to induce their men to follow them, their casualties had been nearly four times as large as they should have been in proportion to their numbers.

Jack Archer was in deep grief, for his brother had been severely wounded, and the doctors gave no strong hopes of his life. He had been shot in the hip, as he strove to get the men of his company together, and had been carried to the rear just before the Russian advance drove the last remnants of the assailants from the salient.

Jack had, with the permission of his commanding officer, gone to sit by his brother's bedside, and to give his services generally as a nurse to the wounded.

At eleven o'clock the hut was shaken by a tremendous explosion, followed a few minutes afterwards by another. Several of the wounded officers begged Jack to go to Cathcart's Hill, to see what was doing.

Jack willingly complied, and found numbers of officers and men hastening in the same direction. A lurid light hung over Sebastopol, and it was evident that something altogether unusual was taking place.

When he reached the spot from which he could obtain a view of Sebastopol, a wonderful sight met his eye. In a score of places the town was on fire. Explosion after explosion followed, and by their light, crowds of soldiers could be seen crossing the bridge. Hour after hour the grandeur of the scene increased, as fort after fort was blown up by the Russians. At four o'clock the whole camp was shaken by a tremendous explosion behind the Redan, and a little later the magazines of the Flagstaff and Garden batteries were blown up, and the whole of the Russian fleet, with the exception of the steamers, had disappeared under the water, scuttled by their late owners. At half-past five two of the great southern forts, the Quarantine and Alexander, were blown up, and soon flames began to ascend from Fort Nicholas.

The Russian steamers were all night busy towing boats laden with stores, from the south to the north side, and when their work was done, dense columns of smoke were seen rising from the decks. At seven o'clock in the morning the whole of the Russian troops were safely across the bridge, which was then dismembered and the boats which composed it taken over to the north side. By this time Sebastopol was, from end to end, a mass of flames, and by nightfall nothing save a heap of smoking ruins, surrounded by shattered batteries, remained of the city which had, for so many months, kept at bay the armies of England and France.

All through the night Jack Archer had travelled backwards and forwards between the crest of the hill and the hospital; for so great was the interest of the wounded in what was taking place that he could not resist their entreaties, especially as he could do nothing for his brother, who was lying in a quiet, half-dreamy state.

The delight of the English army at the fall of the south side of Sebastopol was greatly tempered by the knowledge that it was due to the capture of the Malakoff by the French. Their own share in the attack having terminated by a defeat, and the feeling which had been excited by the fact that the Guards and Highlanders, who had taken no part whatever in the trench-work during the winter, and who were in a high state of efficiency, should have been kept in reserve, while the boy battalions bore the whole brunt of the attack, found angry expression among the men.

All that day the allied armies remained quiescent. It was useless to attempt to occupy the burning town, and the troops might have been injured by the explosions which took place from time to time of stores of powder.

The Zouaves, however, and our own sailors made their way down in considerable numbers, and returned laden with loot from houses which had so far escaped the conflagration.

Happily the success of the French, and our own failure, did not create any feeling of unpleasantness between the troops of the two nations. As the remnants of the French regiments, engaged in the Malakoff, marched in the morning to their camps, the second division was drawn up on parade. As the leading regiment of Zouaves came along, the English regiment nearest to them burst into a hearty cheer, which was taken up by the other regiments as the French came along, and as they passed, the English presented arms to their brave allies and the officers on both sides saluted with their swords.

The next day the officers thronged down to see the ground where the fighting had taken place. Around the Malakoff the ground was heaped with dead. Not less had been the slaughter outside the work known as the Little Redan, where the French attack had been repulsed with prodigious loss.

The houses of the portion of the town nearest the batteries were found full of dead men who had crawled in when wounded in front. As a considerable number of the Russian steamers of war were still floating under the guns of their batteries on the north side, preparations were made at once to mount two heavy guns by the water-side; but the Russians, seeing that the last remains of their fleet would speedily be destroyed, took matters in their own hands, and on the night of the 11th the six steamers that remained were burnt by the Russians.

After the din which had raged so fiercely for the previous four days, and the dropping fire which had gone on for a year, the silence which reigned was strange and almost oppressive. There was nothing to be done. No turn in the trenches or batteries to be served, nothing to do but to rest and to prepare for the next winter, which was now almost upon them.

A week after the fall of Sebastopol the anniversary of the battle of Alma was celebrated. What great events had taken place since that time!

None of those who had rested that night on the vine-clad hill they had won, dreamed of what was before them, or that they were soon to take part in the greatest siege which the world has ever known. Small indeed was the proportion of those who had fought at the Alma now present with the army at Sebastopol. The fight of Inkerman, the mighty wear and tear in the trenches, the deadly repulses at the Redan, and above all, the hardships of that terrible winter, had swept away the noble armies which had landed in the Crimea, and scarcely one in ten of those who heard the first gun in the Alma was present at the fall of Sebastopol.

The naval camp was now broken up, the sailors returned on board ship, and the army prepared to go into winter quarters, that is to say, to dig deep holes under their tents, to erect sheltering walls, and in some instances to dig complete subterranean rooms.

A week after the assault Harry Archer was carried down to Balaklava and put on board ship. The surgeons had in vain endeavored to extract the bullet, and were unable to give any cheering reply to Jack's anxious inquiries.

His brother might live; but they owned that his chances were slight. It was a question of general health and constitution. If mortification did not set in the wound might heal, and he might recover and carry the bullet about with him all his life. Of course he had youth and health on his side, and Jack must hope for the best. The report was not reassuring, but they could say no more.

Weeks passed on, and the two armies lay watching each other from the heights they occupied. At last it was determined to utilize the magnificent fleet which had hitherto done so little. Accordingly an expedition was prepared, whose object was to destroy the forts at Kinburn and occupy that place, and so further reduce the sources from which the Russians drew their food.

The sight was an imposing one, as the allied squadrons in two long lines steamed north past the harbor of Sebastopol. The British contingent consisted of six line-of-battle ships, seventeen steam frigates and sloops, ten gun-boats, six mortar vessels, and nine transports.

On board the men-of-war were 8340 infantry, and 1350 marines. The transports carried the Royal Artillery, the medical commissariat and transport corps, stores of all kinds, and the reserve of ammunition. The French fleet was nearly equal in number to our own.

Steaming slowly, the great squadrons kept their course towards Odessa, and cast anchor three miles off the town. Odessa is one of the most stately cities of the sea; broad esplanades lined with trees, with a background of stately mansions; terrace after terrace of fine houses rising behind, with numbers of public buildings, barracks, palaces and churches; stretching away on the flanks, woods dotted with villas and country houses.

Odessa possessed forts and batteries capable of defending it against the attack of any small naval force; but these could have made no defence whatever against so tremendous an armament as that collected before it. With telescopes those on board were able to make out large numbers of people walking about or driving on the promenade. Long lines of dust along the roads showed that many of the inhabitants were hastily leaving or were sending away valuables, while on the other hand the glimmer of bayonets among the dust, told of the coming of troops who were hurrying in all directions to prevent our landing.

Odessa was, however, clearly at our mercy, and considerable controversy took place at the time as to whether the allies should not have captured it. Being defended by batteries, it ranked as a fortified town, and we should have been clearly justified in destroying these, and in putting the town under a heavy contribution, which the wealthy city could readily have paid. However, it was for some reason decided not to do so, and after lying at anchor for five days, the greater portion of which was passed in a thick fog, the great fleet steamed away towards Kinburn. The entrance to the gulf into which the Dneiper and Bug discharge themselves, is guarded by Fort Kinburn on the one side and by Fort Nikolaev on the other, the passage between them being about a mile across.

On the 17th fire was opened on Fort Kinburn, and although the Russians fought bravely, they were unable to withstand the tremendous fire poured upon them. Twenty-nine out of their seventy-one guns and mortars were disabled, and the two supporting batteries also suffered heavily. The barracks were set on fire, and the whole place was soon in flames. Gradually the Russian fire ceased, and for some time only one gun was able to answer the tremendous fire poured in upon them.

At last, finding the impossibility of further resistance, the officer in command hoisted the white flag. The fort on the opposite shore was blown up by the Russians, and the fleet entered the channel. The troops were landed, and Kinburn occupied, and held until the end of the war, and the fleet, after a reconnaissance made by a few gun-boats up the Dneiper, returned to Sebastopol.

The winter was very dull. Exchanges of shots continued daily between the north and south side, but with this exception hostilities were virtually suspended; the chief incident being a tremendous explosion of a magazine in the centre of the camp, shaking the country for miles away, and causing a loss to the French of six officers killed and thirteen wounded, and sixty-five men killed and 170 wounded, while seventeen English were killed, and sixty-nine wounded. No less than 250,000 pounds of gunpowder exploded, together with mounds of shells, carcasses and small ammunition. Hundreds of rockets rushed through the air, shells burst in all directions over the camp, and boxes of small ammunition exploded in every direction. The ships in the harbors of Balaklava and Kamiesch rocked under the explosion. Mules and horses seven or eight miles away broke loose and galloped across the country wild with fright, while a shower of fragments fell over a circle six miles in diameter.

On the last day of February the news came that an armistice had been concluded. The negotiations continued for some time before peace was finally signed. But the war was at an end, and a few days after the armistice was signed the "Falcon" was ordered to England, to the great delight of all on board, who were heartily sick of the long period of inaction.

CHAPTER XXVI. CONCLUSION

The "Falcon" experienced pleasant weather until passing the Straits of Gibraltar. Then a heavy gale set in, and for many days she struggled with the tempest, whose fury was so great that for several hours she was in imminent danger of foundering.

At last, however, the weather cleared, and two days later the "Falcon" cast anchor at Spithead. The next day the crew were paid off, and the vessel taken into dock for much-needed repairs.

Jack's father had already come down to Portsmouth, on the receipt of his letter announcing his arrival. The day after the ship was paid off they returned home, and Jack received a joyful greeting from his family. They found him wonderfully grown and aged during the two years of his absence. Whereas before he had promised to be short, he was now above middle height. His shoulders were broad and square, his face bronzed by sun and wind, and it was not till they heard his merry laugh that they quite recognized the Jack who had left them.

He soon went down to the town and looked up his former schoolfellows, and even called upon his old class-master, and ended a long chat by expressing his earnest hope that the boys at present in his form were better at their verses than he had been.

A month later Harry, who had quite recovered, joined the circle, having obtained leave, and the two young fellows were the heroes of a number of balls and parties given by the major and his friends to celebrate their return.

Six months later Jack was again appointed to a berth in a fine frigate, commanded by his cousin. The ship was ordered to the China seas, where she remained until, at the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny, she was sent to Calcutta. On their arrival there Jack found that Captain Peel, under whom he had served before Sebastopol, was organizing a naval brigade for service ashore. Jack at once waited upon him, and begged to be allowed to join the brigade. His request was complied with, and as he had now nearly served his time and passed his examination he received an appointment as acting lieutenant, obtaining the full rank after the fight in which the brigade were engaged on their march up to Cawnpore. He was present at the tremendous struggle when the relieving force under Lord Clyde burst its way into Lucknow and carried off the garrison, and also at the final crushing out of the rebellion at that spot.

At the conclusion of the war he rejoined his ship, and returned with her when she finally left the station for England, after an absence of five years. He was now three-and-twenty, and having been twice mentioned in despatches, was looked upon as a rising young officer.

A month or two after his return he received a letter from Count Preskoff, with whom he had, at intervals corresponded ever since his escape from captivity. The count said that he, with the countess and his youngest daughter, Olga, were at present in Paris. The two elder girls had been for some years married. The count said that he intended, after making a stay for some time in Paris, to visit England, but invited Jack to come over to pay them a visit in Paris. Jack gladly assented, and a few days later joined his Russian friends at the Hotel Meurice, in the Rue Rivoli. They received him with the greatest warmth, and he was soon upon his old terms of familiarity with them. He found, to his great pleasure, that Olga could now speak English fluently, and as he had forgotten a good deal of his Russian, and had learned no French, she often acted as interpreter between him and her parents. Jack's Russian, however, soon returned to him, and at the end of a fortnight he was able to converse fluently in it again.

He found Olga very little altered, but she, on her part, protested that she should not have known him again. He had thought very often of her during the years which had passed, but although he had steadfastly clung to the determination he had expressed to his friend Hawtry, of some day marrying her if she would have him, he was now more alive than before to the difference between her position and his. The splendid apartments occupied by the count, his unlimited expenditure, the beauty of his carriages and horses, all showed Jack the difference between a great Russian seigneur and a lieutenant on half-pay. Feeling that he was becoming more and more in love with Olga, he determined to make some excuse to leave Paris, intending upon his return to apply at once to be sent on active service.

One morning, accordingly, when alone with the count, he said to him that he feared he should have to leave for England in a few days, and it was probable he should shortly join his ship.

The count looked keenly at him.

"My young friend," he said, "have we been making a mistake? The countess and I have thought that you were attached to our daughter."

"I am so, assuredly," Jack said. "I love your daughter with all my heart, and have loved her ever since I left her in Russia. But I am older now. I recognize the difference of position between a penniless English lieutenant and a great Russian heiress, and it is because I feel this so strongly that I am thinking that it is best for my own peace of mind to leave Paris at once, and to return to England and to embark on service again as soon as possible."

"But how about Olga's happiness?" the count said, smiling.

"I dare not think, sir," Jack said, "that it is concerned in the matter."

"I fear, my young friend, that it is concerned, and seriously. When you left us in Russia, Olga announced to her mother that she intended to marry you some day, if you ever came back to ask her. Although I would, I confess, have rather that she had married a Russian, I had so great an esteem and affection for you, and owed you so much, that her mother and myself determined not to thwart her inclination, but to leave the matter to time. Olga devoted herself to the study of English. She has, since she grew up, refused many excellent offers, and when her mother has spoken to her on the subject, her only answer has been, 'Mamma, you know I chose long ago.' It was to see whether you also remained true to the affection which Olga believed you gave her, that we have travelled west, and now that I find you are both of one mind, you are talking of leaving us and going to sea."

"Oh, sir," Jack exclaimed, delighted, "do you really mean that you give me permission to ask for your daughter's hand!"

"Certainly I do, Jack," the count replied. "I am quite sure that I can trust her happiness implicitly to you. The fact that you have nothing but your pay, matters very little. Olga will have abundance for both, and I only bargain that you bring her over to Russia every year, for two or three months, to stay with us. You will, of course, my boy, give up the sea. Now," he said, "that you have got my consent, you had better ask Olga's."

Jack found that the count had not spoken too confidently as to the state of Olga's feelings towards him, and a month later a gay wedding took place at St. James' Church, the count and his wife staying at the Bristol Hotel, and Jack's father, mother, and elder brother and sisters coming up to the wedding. To Jack's great pleasure, he happened to meet in the streets of London, two or three days before his wedding, his friend Hawtry, whom he had not seen since they parted on the Polish frontier, as their ships had never happened to be on the same station. Hawtry was rejoiced to hear of his friend's good fortune, and officiated at the wedding as Jack's best man.

A handsome estate in Sussex was purchased by the count, and this, with the revenues of the estate in Poland, were settled upon her at her marriage. There does not exist, at present, a happier couple in England than Mr. and Mrs. Archer; for Olga refused to retain her title of countess. Except when, at times, the cares of a young family prevented their leaving home, they have, since their marriage, paid a visit every year to Russia.

The count and countess are still alive, although now far advanced in life. The count is still hoping for the reforms which he believed thirty years ago would do so much for Russia, but he acknowledges that the fulfilment of his hopes appears to be as far off now as it was then.

Hawtry is now an admiral, but is still a bachelor, and he generally spends Christmas with his old comrade, Jack Archer.

Table of Contents

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I.

A GREAT CHANGE.

CHAPTER II.

A CAT’S-PAW.

CHAPTER III

A HUNTING PARTY.

CHAPTER IV.

A PRISONER.

CHAPTER V.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER VI.

AN ESCAPE.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BURIAT’S CHILD.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MINES OF KARA.

CHAPTER IX.

PRISON LIFE.

CHAPTER X

PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT.

CHAPTER XI.

AFLOAT.

CHAPTER XII.

WINTER.

CHAPTER XIII.

HUNTING.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BREAK-UP OF WINTER.

CHAPTER XV.

COASTING.

CHAPTER XVI

A SAMOYEDE ENCAMPMENT.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SEA FIGHT

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME AGAIN.

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST

MR. HENTY’S HISTORICAL TALES.

THE CAT OF BUBASTES: A Story of Ancient Egypt. 5s.

THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN: A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 6s.

FOR THE TEMPLE: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 6s.

BERIC THE BRITON: A Story of the Roman Invasion. 6s.

THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN: or, The Days of King Alfred. 5s.

WULF THE SAXON: A Story of the Norman Conquest. 6s.

A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE CROSS: The Siege of Rhodes. 6s.

IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. 6s.

THE LION OF ST. MARK: A Story of Venice in the 14th Century. 6s.

ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. 5s.

A MARCH ON LONDON: A Story of Wat Tyler. 5s.

BOTH SIDES THE BORDER: A Tale of Hotspur and Glendower. 6s.

AT AGINCOURT: A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. 6s.

BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST: or, With Cortez in Mexico. 6s.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE: A Tale of the Huguenot Wars. 6s.

BY PIKE AND DYKE: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. 6s.

BY ENGLAND'S AID: or, The Freeing of the Netherlands. 6s.

UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG: A Tale of the Spanish Main. 6s.

THE LION OF THE NORTH: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus. 6s.

WON BY THE SWORD: A Tale of the Thirty Years' War. 6s.

WHEN LONDON BURNED: A Story of the Great Fire. 6s.

ORANGE AND GREEN: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. 5s.

A JACOBITE EXILE: In the Service of Charles XII. 5s.

IN THE IRISH BRIGADE: A Tale of War in Flanders and Spain. 6s.

THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE: or, With Peterborough in Spain. 5s.

BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. 6s.

WITH CLIVE IN INDIA: or, The Beginnings of an Empire. 6s.

WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT: The Seven Years' War. 6s.

WITH WOLFE IN CANADA: or, The Winning of a Continent. 6s.

TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG: The American War of Independence. 6s.

HELD FAST FOR ENGLAND: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. 5s.

IN THE REIGN OF TERROR: The French Revolution. 5s.

NO SURRENDER! A Tale of the Rising in La Vendée. 5s.

A ROVING COMMISSION: A Story of the Hayti Insurrection. 6s.

THE TIGER OF MYSORE: The War with Tippoo Saib. 6s.

AT ABOUKIR AND ACRE: Napoleon's Invasion of Egypt. 5s.

WITH MOORE AT CORUNNA: A Tale of the Peninsular War. 6s.

UNDER WELLINGTON'S COMMAND: The Peninsular War. 6s.

WITH COCHRANE THE DAUNTLESS: A Tale of his Exploits. 6s.

THROUGH THE FRAY: A Story of the Luddite Riots. 6s.

THROUGH RUSSIAN SNOWS: The Retreat from Moscow. 5s.

ONE OF THE 28TH: A Story of Waterloo. 5s.

IN GREEK WATERS: A Story of the Grecian War (1821). 6s.

ON THE IRRAWADDY: A Story of the First Burmese War. 5s.

THROUGH THE SIKH WAR: A Tale of the Punjaub. 6s.

MAORI AND SETTLER: A Story of the New Zealand War. 5s.

WITH LEE IN VIRGINIA: A Story of the American Civil War. 6s.

BY SHEER PLUCK: A Tale of the Ashanti War. 5s.

OUT WITH GARIBALDI: A Story of the Liberation of Italy. 5s.

FOR NAME AND FAME: or, To Cabul with Roberts. 5s.

THE DASH FOR KHARTOUM: A Tale of the Nile Expedition. 6s.

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST: A Story of Escape from Siberia. 5s.

WITH BULLER IN NATAL: or, A Born Leader. 6s.

GODFREY IS CAPTURED BY THE RUSSIAN POLICE.

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST

A STORY OF

ESCAPE FROM SIBERIA

BY

G. A. HENTY

Author of "Beric the Briton" "In Freedom's Cause" "The Lion of the North"

"The Young Carthaginian" "Under Wellington's Command" &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER PAGET

LONDON

BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.

GLASGOW AND DUBLIN

PREFACE.

There are few difficulties that cannot be surmounted by patience, resolution, and pluck, and great as are the obstacles that nature and the Russian government oppose to an escape from the prisons of Siberia, such evasions have occasionally been successfully carried out, and that under far less advantageous circumstances than those under which the hero of this story undertook the venture. For the account of life in the convict establishments in Siberia I am indebted to the very valuable books by my friend the Rev. Dr. Lansdell, who has made himself thoroughly acquainted with Siberia, traversing the country from end to end and visiting all the principal prisons. He conversed not only with officials, but with many of the prisoners and convicts, and with Russian and foreign residents in the country, and his testimony as to the management of the prisons and the condition of the convicts is confirmed by other independent writers personally cognizant of the facts, and like him able to converse fluently in the language, and writing from intimate knowledge of the subject.

G. A. HENTY.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Page

G  ODFREY IS CAPTURED BY THE RUSSIAN POLICE,

Frontis. 70

A   SUPPER OF ROASTED SQUIRRELS,

121

G  ODFREY PUNISHES KOBYLIN IN THE CONVICT PRISON,

166

S  PEARING FISH BY TORCH-LIGHT,

218

G  ODFREY BRINGS DOWN AN ELK,

245

T  HE SLAUGHTERED WOLVES,

259

L  UKA FACES THE BEAR,

277

G  ODFREY AND LUKA ESCAPING FROM THE SAMOYEDES,

318

Map of Russian Empire,

80

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST.

CHAPTER I.

A GREAT CHANGE.

HALF a dozen boys were gathered in one of the studies at Shrewsbury. A packed portmanteau and the general state of litter on the floor was sufficient to show that it was the last day of term.

"Well, I am awfully sorry you are going, Bullen; we shall all miss you. You would certainly have been in the football team next term; it is a nuisance altogether."

"It is a nuisance; and I am beastly sorry I am leaving. Of course I have known for some time that I should be going out to Russia; but I did not think the governor would have sent me until after I had gone through the school. His letter a fortnight ago was a regular stumper. I thought I should have had another year and a half or two years, and, of course, that is just the jolliest part of school life. However, it cannot be helped."

"You talk the language, don't you, Bullen?"

"Well, I used to talk it, but I don't remember much about it now. You see I have been home six years. I expect I shall pick it up again fast enough. I should not mind it so much if the governor were out there still; but you see he came home for good two years ago. Still it won't be like going to a strange place altogether; and as he has been living there so long, I shall soon get to know lots of the English there. Still I do wish I could have had a couple of years more at Shrewsbury. I should have been content to have gone out then."

"Well, it is time for us to be starting. I can hear the omnibus."

In a few minutes the omnibus was filled with luggage inside and out; the lads started to walk to the station. As the train drew up there were hearty good-byes, and then the train steamed out of the station, the compartment in which Godfrey Bullen had taken his seat being filled with boys going, like himself, straight through to town. All were in high spirits, and Bullen, who had felt sorry at leaving school for the last time, was soon as merry as any of them.

"You must mind what you are up to, Bullen," one of his companions said. "They are terrible fellows those Nihilists, they say."

"They won't hurt Bullen," another put in, "unless he goes into the secret police. I should say he would make a good sort of secret policeman."

"No, no; he is more likely to turn a Nihilist."

"Bosh!" Bullen said, laughing. "I am not likely to turn a secret policeman; but I am more likely to do that than to turn Nihilist. I hate revolutionists and assassins, and all those sort of fellows."

"Yes, we all know that you are a Tory, Bullen; but people change, you know. I hope we shall never see among the lists of Nihilists tried for sedition and conspiracy, and sentenced to execution, the name of one Godfrey Bullen."

"Oh, they wouldn't execute Bullen!" another said; "they would send him to Siberia. Bullen's always good at fighting an uphill game, and he would show off to great advantage in a chain-gang. Do they crop their hair there, Bullen, and put on a gray suit, as I saw them at work in Portsmouth dockyard last year?"

"I am more likely to see you working in a chain-gang at Portsmouth, Wilkinson, when I come back, than I am to form part of a convict gang in Siberia—at any rate for being a Nihilist. I won't say about other things, for I suppose there is no saying what a fellow may come to. I don't suppose any of the men who get penal servitude for forgery, and swindling, and so on, ever have any idea, when they are sixteen, that that is what they are coming to. At present I don't feel any inclination that way."

"I should say you were not likely to turn forger anyhow, Bullen, whatever you take to."

"Why is that, Parker?"

"Because you write such a thundering bad hand that you would never be able to imitate anyone else's signature, unless he couldn't go farther than making a cross for his name, and the betting is about even that you would blot that."

There was a roar of laughter, for Bullen's handwriting was a perpetual source of trouble to him, and he was continually losing marks for his exercises in consequence. He joined heartily in the laugh.

"It is an awful nuisance that handwriting of mine," he said, "especially when one is going to be a merchant, you know. The governor has talked two or three times about my going to one of those fellows who teach you to write copperplate in twenty lessons. I shouldn't be surprised if he does let me have a course these holidays. I should not mind if he does, for my writing is disgusting."

"Never mind, Bullen; bad handwriting is a sign of genius, you know. You have never shown any particular genius yet, except for rowing and boxing, and I suppose that is muscular genius; but you may blossom out in a new line some day."

"I don't want to disturb the harmony of this last meeting, Parker, or I should bring my muscular genius into play at your expense."

"No, no, Bullen," another boy said, "you keep that for Russia. Fancy Bullen polishing off a gigantic Cossack, or defending the Czar's life against half a dozen infuriated Nihilists. That would be the thing, Bullen. It would be better than trade any day. Why, you would get an estate as big as an English county, with ten thousand serfs, and sacks upon sacks of roubles."

"What bosh you fellows talk!" Bullen laughed. "There is one thing I do expect I shall learn in Russia, and that is to skate. Fancy six months of regular skating, instead of a miserable three or four days. I shall meet some of you fellows some day at the Round Pond, and there you will be just working away at the outside edge, and I shall be joining in those skating-club figures and flying round and round like a bird."

"What birds fly round and round, Bullen?"

"Lots of them do, as you would know, Jordan, if you kept your eyes open, instead of being always on the edge of going to sleep. Swallows do, and eagles. Never mind, you fellows will turn yellow with jealousy when you see me."

And so they laughed and joked until they reached London. Then there was another hearty good-bye all round, and in a couple of minutes they were speeding in hansoms to their various destinations. Godfrey Bullen's was Eccleston Square. His father was now senior partner in a firm that carried on a considerable business with the east of Europe. He had, when junior partner, resided at St. Petersburg, as the firm had at that time large dealings in the Baltic. From various causes this trade had fallen off a good deal, and the firm had dealt more largely with Odessa and the southern ports. Consequently, when at the death of the senior partner Mr. Bullen returned to England to take up the principal management of the affairs of the firm, it was not deemed advisable to continue the branch at St. Petersburg, and Ivan Petrovytch, a Russian trader of good standing, had been appointed their agent there.

The arrangement had not worked quite satisfactorily. Petrovytch was an excellent agent as far as he went. The business he did was sound, and he was careful and conscientious; but he lacked push and energy, had no initiative, and would do nothing on his own responsibility. Mr. Bullen had all along intended that Godfrey should, on leaving school, go for a few years to Russia, and should, in time, occupy the same position there that he himself had done; but he had now determined that this should take place earlier than he had before intended. He thought that Godfrey would now more speedily pick up the language again, than if he remained another two or three years in England, and that in five or six years' time he might be able to represent the firm there, either in conjunction with Ivan Petrovytch or by himself. Therefore, ten days before the breaking-up of the school for the long holidays, he had written to Godfrey, telling him that he should take him away at the end of the term, and that in two or three months' time he would go out to St. Petersburg.

Mr. Bullen's family consisted of two girls in addition to Godfrey. Hilda, the elder, was seventeen, a year older than the lad, while Ella was two years his junior.

"Well, Godfrey," his father said, as, after the first greeting, they sat down to dinner, which had been kept back for half an hour for his arrival, "you did not seem very enthusiastic in your reply to my letter."

"I did not feel very enthusiastic, father," Godfrey replied. "Of course one's two last years at school are just the jolly time, and I was really very sorry to leave. Still, of course you know what is best for me; and I dare say I shall get on very well at St. Petersburg."

"I have no doubt of that, Godfrey. I have arranged for you to live with Mr. Petrovytch, as you will regain the language much more quickly in a Russian family than you would in an English one; besides, it will be handy for your work. In Russia merchants' offices are generally in their houses, and it is so with him; but, of course, you will know most of the English families. I shall write to several of my old friends, and I am sure they will do all they can for you; but I shall write more to my Russian acquaintances than to my English. The last are sure to call upon you when they hear you have come out; but it is not so easy to get a footing in Russian families, and you might be some time before you make acquaintances that way. Besides, it is much better for you to be principally in the Russian set than in the English, in the first place, because of the language; and in the second, because you will get a much better acquaintance with the country in general with them than among the English.

"There are not many English lads of your own age out there—very few indeed; and those nearest your age would be young clerks. I have nothing whatever to say against young clerks; but, as a rule, they consort together, spend their evenings in each others' rooms or in playing billiards, or otherwise amuse themselves, and so learn very little of the language and nothing of the people. It is unfortunate that it should be so; but they are not altogether to blame, for, as I have said, the Russians, although friendly enough with Englishmen in business, in the club, and so on, do not as a rule invite them to their houses; and therefore the English, especially the class I am speaking of, are almost forced to associate entirely with each other and form a sort of colony quite apart from native society. I was fortunate enough to make some acquaintances among them soon after I went out, and your mother and I were much more in Russian society than is usual with our countrymen there. I found great advantage from it, and shall be glad for you to do the same. You will have one very great advantage, that you will be able to speak Russian fluently in a short time."

"I don't think I remember much about it now, father."

"I dare say not, Godfrey; that is to say, you know it, but you have lost a good deal of the facility of speaking it. You have always got on fairly enough with it when we have spoken it occasionally during your holidays since we have been in England, and in a very few weeks you will find that it has completely come back to you. You spoke it as you did English, indeed better, when you came over to school when you were ten, and in six years one does not forget a language. If you had been another five or six years older, no doubt you would have lost it a good deal; but even then you would have learnt it very much more quickly than you would have done had you never spoken it. Your mother and the girls have been grumbling at me a good deal for sending you away so soon."

"It is horrid, father," Hilda said. "We have always looked forward so to Godfrey's coming home; and of course it would be better still as he got older. We could have gone about everywhere with him; and we shall miss him especially when we go away in summer."

"Well, you must make the most of him this time then," her father said.

"Have you settled where we are going?" Godfrey asked.

"No, we would not settle until you came home, Godfrey," Mrs. Bullen said. "As this was to be your last holiday we thought we would give you the choice."

"Then I vote for some quiet sea-side place, mother. We went to Switzerland last year, and as I am going abroad for ever so long I would rather stop at home now; and, besides, I would rather be quiet with you all, instead of always travelling about and going to places. Only, of course if the girls would rather go abroad, I don't mind."

However, it was settled that it should be as Godfrey wished.

"But I do think, father," Godfrey said, "that it will be a good thing if I had lessons in writing from one of those fellows who guarantee to teach you in a few lessons. I suppose that is all bosh; but if I got their system and worked at it, it might do me good. I really do write badly."

The girls laughed.

"I don't think that quite describes it, Godfrey," his father said. "If anyone asked me about your accomplishments I should say that you knew a good deal of Latin and Greek, that you had a vague idea of English, and that you could read, but unfortunately you were quite unable to write. According to my idea it is perfectly scandalous that at the great schools such an essential as writing is altogether neglected, while years are spent over Greek, which is of no earthly use when you have once left school. I suppose the very worst writers in the world are men who have been educated in public schools.

"Well, I am glad you have had the good sense to suggest it, Godfrey. I had thought of it myself, but I was afraid you would think it was spoiling your last holidays at home. I will see about it to-morrow. I cannot get away very well for another fortnight. If you have a dozen lessons before we go, you can practise while we are away; and mind, from to-day we will talk nothing but Russian when we are alone."

This had been indeed a common habit in the family since they had come home two years before, as the two girls and Mr. and Mrs. Bullen spoke Russian as fluently as English, and Mr. Bullen thought it was just as well that they should not let it drop altogether. Indeed on their travels in Switzerland they had several times come across Russians, and had made pleasant acquaintances from their knowledge of that language.

The holidays passed pleasantly at Weymouth. Godfrey practised two hours a day steadily at the system of handwriting: and although he was, at the end of the holidays, very far from attaining the perfection shown in the examples produced by his teachers of the marvels they had effected in many of their pupils, he did improve vastly, and wrote a fair current hand instead of the almost undecipherable scrawl that had so puzzled and annoyed a succession of masters at Shrewsbury. After another month spent in London, getting his clothes and outfit, Godfrey started for St. Petersburg. On his last evening at home his father had a serious talk with him.

"I have told Petrovytch," he said, "that you may possibly some day take up the agency with him, but that nothing is decided as to that at present, and that it will all depend upon circumstances. However, in any case, you will learn the ins and outs of the trade there; and if, at the end of a few years, you think that you would rather work by yourself than with him, I can send out a special clerk to work with you. On the other hand, it is possible that I may require you at home here. Venables has no family, and is rather inclined to take it easy. Possibly in a few years he may retire altogether, and I may want you at home. At five or six and twenty you should be able to undertake the management of the Russian part of the business, running out there occasionally to see that everything goes on well. I hope I need not tell you to be steady. There is a good deal too much drinking goes on out there, arising, no doubt, from the fact that the young men have no family society there, and nothing particular to do when work is over.

"Stick to the business, lad. You will find Petrovytch himself a thoroughly good fellow. Of course he has Russian ways and prejudices, but he is less narrow than most of his countrymen of that class. Above all things, don't express any opinion you may feel about public affairs—at any rate outside the walls of the house. The secret police are everywhere, and a chance word might get you into a very serious scrape. As you get on you will find a good deal that you do not like. Even in business there is no getting a government contract, or indeed a contract at all, without bribing right and left. It is disgusting, but business cannot be done without it. The whole system is corrupt and rotten, and you will find that every official has his price. However, you won't have anything to do with this for the present. If I were you I should work for an hour or two a day with a German master. There are a great many Germans there, and you will find a knowledge of the language very useful to you. You see your Russian has pretty nearly come back to you during the last two months, and you will very soon speak it perfectly; so you will have no trouble about that."

Godfrey found the long railway journey across the flat plains of Germany very dull, as he was unable to exchange a word with his fellow-passengers; but as soon as he crossed the Russian frontier he felt at home again, and enjoyed the run through the thickly-wooded country lying between Wilna and St. Petersburg. As he stepped out at the station everything seemed to come back vividly to his memory. It was late in October and the first snow had fallen, and round the station were a crowd of sledges drawn by rough little horses. Avoiding the importunities of the drivers of the hotel vehicles he hailed an Isvostchik in furred cap and coat lined with sheepskin. His portmanteaus were corded at the back of the sledge; he jumped up into the seat behind the driver, pulled the fur rug over his legs, and said, "Drive to the Vassili Ostrov, 52, Ulitsa Nicolai." The driver gave a peculiar cry, cracked his whip half a dozen times, making a noise almost as loud as the discharge of a pistol, and the horse went off at a sharp trot.

"I thought your excellency was a foreigner," the driver said, "but I see you are one of us."

"No, I am an Englishman, but I lived here till I was ten years old. The snow has begun earlier than usual, has it not?"

"It won't last," the Isvostchik said. "Sometimes we have a week at this time of year, but it is not till December that it sets in in earnest. We may have droskies out again to-morrow instead of the sledges."

"The sledges are the pleasantest," Godfrey said.

"Yes, your excellency, for those that travel, but not for us. At night when we are waiting we can get into the drosky and sleep, while it is terrible without shelter. There are many of us frozen to death every winter."

Godfrey felt a sense of keen enjoyment as the sledge glided along. There were many rough bumps and sharp swings, for the snow was not deep enough to cover thoroughly the roughness of the road below; but the air was brisk and the sun shone brightly, and he looked with pleasure at the people and costumes, which seemed, to his surprise, perfectly familiar to him. He was quite sorry when the journey came to an end at the house of Ivan Petrovytch. The merchant, whose office was on the ground-floor and who occupied the floor above (the rest of the house being let off by floors to other families), came out to greet him. "I am glad to see you, Godfrey Bullen," he said. "I should have sent to the station to meet you, but your good father did not say whether you would arrive by the morning or evening train; and as my driver did not know you, he would have missed you. I hope that all has gone well on the journey. Paul," he said to a man who had followed him out, "carry these trunks upstairs."

After paying the driver Godfrey followed his host to the floor above. Petrovytch was a portly man, with a pleasant but by no means good-looking face. "Wife," he said as he entered the sitting-room, "this is Godfrey Bullen; I will leave him in your hands for the present, as I have some business that I must complete before we close."

"My name," Mrs. Petrovytch said, "is Catharine. You know in this country we always address each other by our names. The high-born may use titles, but simple people use the Christian name and the family name unless they are very intimate, and then the Christian name only. I heard you speaking to my husband as you came in, so that you have not forgotten our language. I should have thought that you would have done so. I can remember you as quite a little fellow before you went away."

"I have been speaking it for the last two months at home," Godfrey said, "and it has nearly come back to me."

"And your father and mother and your sisters, are they all well?"

"They are quite well, and my father and mother begged me to give their kind regards to you."

At this moment the servant came in with the samovar, or tea-urn.

"It is four o'clock now; we dine at five o'clock, when the office is closed. Many dine at one, but my husband likes it when he has done his work, as then he does not need to hurry."

After drinking a tumbler of tea and eating a flat-cake or two with it, Godfrey went to his room to have a wash after his long journey, and to unpack some of his things. He thought that he should like both Petrovytch and his wife, but that the evenings would be dull if he had to spend them in the house. Of this, however, he had but little fear, for he was sure that between his father's friends and the acquaintances he might himself make he should be out as much as he liked.

In the course of the next week Godfrey called at the houses of the various people to whom he had letters of introduction, and left them with the hall porter. His host told him that he thought he had better take a fortnight to go about the capital and see the sights before he settled down to work at the office; and as not only the gentlemen with whom he had left letters of introduction and his card—for in Russia strangers always call first—but many others of his father's friends called or invited him to their houses, he speedily made a large number of acquaintances. At the end of the fortnight he took his place in the office. At first he was of very little use there; for although he could talk and understand Russian as spoken, he had entirely forgotten the written characters, and it took him some little time before he could either read the business correspondence or make entries in the office books. Ivan Petrovytch did his best to assist him, and in the course of a month he began to master the mysteries of Russian writing.

At five o'clock the office closed. Godfrey very frequently dined out, but if he had no engagement he took his meal with the merchant and his wife, and then sallied out and went either alone or with some of his acquaintances to a Russian theatre. With December, winter set in in earnest. The waters were frozen, and skating began. The season at St. Petersburg commenced about the same time, and as Godfrey was often sent with messages or letters to other business houses he had an opportunity of seeing the streets of St. Petersburg by day as well as by night. He was delighted with the scene on the Nevski Prospekt, the principal street of St. Petersburg. The footways were crowded with people: the wealthy in high boots, coats lined with sable, and caps to match; the poorer in equally ample coats, but with linings of sheep, fox, or rabbit skins, with the national Russian cap of fur with velvet top, and with fur-lined hoods, which were often drawn up over the head.

The shops were excellent, reminding Godfrey rather of Paris than London. But the chief interest of the scene lay in the roadway. There were vehicles of every description, from the heavy sledge of the peasant, piled up with logs for fuel, or carrying, perhaps, the body of an elk shot in the woods, to the splendid turn-outs of the nobles with their handsome fur wraps, their coachmen in the national costume, and horses covered with brown, blue, or violet nets almost touching the ground, to prevent the snow from being thrown up from the animals' hoofs into the faces of those in the sledge. The harness was in most cases more or less decorated with bells, which gaily tinkled in the still air as the sledges dashed along. Most struck was Godfrey with the vehicles of the nobles who adhered to old Russian customs. The sledge was drawn by three horses; the one in the centre was trained to trot, while the two outside went at a canter. The heads of the latter were bent half round, so that they looked towards the side, or even almost behind them as they went. An English acquaintance to whom Godfrey expressed his surprise the first time he saw one of these sledges replied, "Yes, that is the old Russian pattern; and, curiously enough, if you look at Greek bas-reliefs and sculptures of the chariot of Phœbus, or at any other representations of chariots with three or four horses, you will see that the animals outside turn their heads in a similar manner."

"But it must be horribly uncomfortable for the horses to have their heads turned round like that."

"It is the effect of training. They are always tied up to the stables with their heads pulled in that way, until it becomes a second nature to go with them in that position."

"It is a very curious idea," Godfrey said, "but it certainly looks nice. What magnificent beards all the drivers in the good sledges have!"

"Yes, that again is an old Russian custom. A driver with a big beard is considered an absolute necessity for a well-appointed turn-out, and the longer and fuller the beard the higher the wages a man will command and the greater the pride of his employer."

"It seems silly," Godfrey said. "But there is no doubt those fellows do look wonderfully imposing with their fur caps and their long blue caftans and red sashes and those splendid beards. They remind me of pictures of Neptune. Certainly I never saw such beards in England."

Besides these vehicles there were crowds of public sledges, driven by the Isvostchiks, long rough country sledges laden perhaps with a dozen peasant women returning from market, light well-got-up vehicles of English and other merchants, dashing turn-outs carrying an officer or two of high rank, and others filled with ladies half buried in rich furs. The air was tremulous with the music of countless bells, and broken by the loud cracking of whips, with which the faster vehicles heralded their approach. These whips had short handles, but very long heavy thongs; and Godfrey observed that, however loud he might crack this weapon, it was very seldom indeed that a Russian driver ever struck one of his horses with it.

Sometimes when Ivan Petrovytch told him that there was little to be done in the office, and that he need not return for an hour or two, Godfrey would stroll into the Isaac or Kasan cathedrals, both splendid structures, and wonder at the taste that marred their effect, by the profusion of the gilding lavished everywhere. He was delighted by the singing, which was unaccompanied by instruments, the bass voices predominating, and which certainly struck him as being much finer than anything he had ever heard in an English cathedral. There was no lack of amusement in the evening. Some of his English friends at once put Godfrey up as a member of the Skating Club. This club possessed a large garden well planted with trees. In this was an artificial lake of considerable extent, broken by wooded islets. This was always lit up of an evening by coloured lights, and twice in the week was thrown open upon a small payment to the public, when a military band played, and the grounds were brilliantly illuminated.

The scene was an exceedingly gay one, and the gardens were frequented by the rank and fashion of St. Petersburg. The innumerable lights were reflected by the snow that covered the ground and by the white masses that clung to the boughs of the leafless trees. The ice was covered with skaters, male and female, the latter in gay dresses, tight-fitting jackets trimmed with fur, and dainty little fur caps. Many of the former were in uniform, and the air was filled with merry laughter and the ringing sound of innumerable skates. Sometimes parties of acquaintances executed figures, but for the most part they moved about in couples, the gentleman holding the lady's hand, or sometimes placing his arm round her waist as if dancing. Very often Godfrey spent the evening at the houses of one or other of his Russian or English friends, and occasionally went to the theatre. Sometimes he spent a quiet evening at home. He liked Catharine Petrovytch. She was an excellent housewife, and devoted to the comfort of her husband; but when not engaged in household cares she seldom cared to go out, and passed her time for the most part on the sofa. She was, like most other Russian ladies when at home and without visitors, very careless and untidy in her dress.

Among the acquaintances of whom Godfrey saw most were two young students. One of them was the son of a trader in Moscow, the other of a small landed proprietor. He had met them for the first time at a fair held on the surface of the Neva, and had been introduced to them by a fellow-student of theirs, a member of a family with whom Godfrey was intimate. Having met another acquaintance he had left the party, and Godfrey had spent the afternoon on the ice with Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff. He found them pleasant young men. He was, they told him, the first Englishman they had met, and asked many questions about his country. He met them several times afterwards, and one day they asked him if he would come up to their room.

"It is a poor place," one said laughing. "But you know most of us students are poor, and have to live as best we can."

"It makes no odds to me," Godfrey said. "It was a pretty bare place I had when I was at school. I shall be very glad to come up."

The room which the students shared was a large one, at the top of a house in a narrow street. It was simply furnished enough, containing but two beds, a deal table, four chairs, and the indispensable stove, which kept the room warm and comfortable.

"We are in funds just at present," Akim said. "Petroff has had a remittance, and so you find the stove well alight, which is not always the case."

"But how do you manage to exist without a fire?"

"We don't trouble the room much then," Petroff said. "We walk about till we are dead tired out, and then come up and sleep in one bed together for warmth, and heap all the coverings from the other bed over us. Oh, we get on very well! Food is cheap here if you know where to get it; fuel costs more than food. Now which will you take, tea or vodka?"

Godfrey declared for tea. Some of the water from a great pot standing on the top of the stove was poured into the samovar. Some glowing embers were taken from the stove and placed in the urn, and in a few minutes the water was boiling, and three tumblers of tea with a slice of lemon floating on the top were soon steaming on the table. The conversation first turned upon university life in Russia, and then Petroff began to ask questions about English schools and universities, and then the subject changed to English institutions in general.

"What a different life to ours!" Akim said. "And the peasants, are they comfortable?"

"Well, their lives are pretty hard ones," Godfrey acknowledged. "They have to work hard and for long hours, and the pay is poor. But then, on the other hand, they generally have their cottages at a very low rent, with a good bit of garden and a few fruit trees. They earn a little extra money at harvest time, and though their pay is smaller, I think on the whole they are better off and happier than many of the working people in the towns."

"And they are free to go where they like?"

"Certainly they are free, but as a rule they don't move about much."

"Then if they have a bad master they can leave him and go to someone else?"

"Oh, yes! They would go to some other farmer in the neighbourhood. But there are seldom what you may call bad masters. The wages are always about the same through a district, and the hours of work, and so on; so that one master can't be much better or worse than another, except in point of temper; and if a man were very bad tempered of course the men would leave him and work somewhere else, so he would be the loser, as he would soon only get the very worst hands in the neighbourhood to work for him."

"And they are not beaten?"

"Beaten! I should think not," Godfrey said. "Nobody is beaten with us, though I think it would be a capital thing if, instead of shutting up people in prison for small crimes, they had a good flogging. It would do them a deal more good, and it would be better for their wives and families, who have to get on as best they can while they are shut up."

"And nobody is beaten at all?"

"No; there used to be flogging in the army and navy, but it was very rare, and is now abolished."

"And not even a lord can flog his peasants?"

"Certainly not. If a lord struck a peasant the peasant would certainly hit him back again, and if he didn't feel strong enough to do that he would have him up before the magistrates and he would get fined pretty heavily."

"And how do they punish political prisoners?"

"There are no political prisoners. As long as a man keeps quiet and doesn't get up a row, he may have any opinions he likes; he may argue in favour of a republic, or he may be a socialist or anything he pleases; but, of course, if he tried to kick up a row, attack the police, or made a riot or anything of that sort he would be punished for breaking the law, but that would have nothing to do with his politics."

The two young men looked in surprise at each other.

"But if they printed a paper and attacked the government?" Akim asked.

"Oh, they do that! there are as many papers pitch into the government as there are in favour of the government; parties are pretty equally divided, you see, and the party that is out always abuses the party which is in power."

"And even that is lawful?"

"Certainly it is. You can abuse the government as much as you like, say that the ministers are a parcel of incompetent fools, and so on; but, of course, you cannot attack them as to their private life and character any more than you can anyone else, because then you would render yourself liable to an action for libel."

"And you can travel where you like, in the country and out of the country, without official permits or passports?"

"Yes, there is nothing like that known in England. Every man can go where he likes, and live where he likes, and do anything he likes, providing that it does not interfere with the rights of other people."

"Ah! shall we ever come to this in Russia, Akim?" Petroff said.

Akim made no answer, but Godfrey replied for him. "No doubt you will in time, Petroff; but you see liberties like these do not grow up in a day. We had serfs and vassals in England at one time, and feudal barons who could do pretty much what they chose, and it was only in the course of centuries that these things got done away with." At this moment there was a knock at the door.

"It is Katia," Akim said, jumping up from his seat and opening the door. A young woman entered. She was pleasant and intelligent looking. "Katia, this is an English gentleman, a friend of ours, who has been telling us about his country. Godfrey, this is my cousin Katia; she teaches music in the houses of many people of good family."

"I did not expect to find visitors here," the girl said smiling. "And how do you like our winter? it is a good deal colder than you are accustomed to."

"It is a great deal more pleasant," Godfrey said: "I call it glorious weather. It is infinitely better than alternate rains and winds, with just enough frost occasionally to make you think you are going to do some skating, and then a thaw."

"You are extravagant," the girl said, looking round; "it is a long time since I have felt the room as warm as this. I suppose Petroff has got his allowance?"

"Yes, and a grumbling letter. My father has a vague idea that in some way or other I ought to pick up my living, though he never offers a suggestion as to how I should do it."

The young woman went to the cupboard, fetched another tumbler and poured herself out some tea, and then chatted gaily about St. Petersburg, her pupils, and their parents.

"Do you live at the house of one of your pupils?" Godfrey asked.

"Oh no!" she said. "I don't mind work, but I like to be free when work is over. I board in an honest family, and live in a little room at the top of the house which is all my own and where I can see my friends."

After chatting for some time longer Godfrey took his leave. As soon as he had gone the girl's manner changed.

"Do you think you are wise to have him here, Akim?"

"Why not?" the student asked in turn. "He is frank and agreeable, he is respectable, and even you will allow that it would be safer walking with him than some we know; we do not talk politics with him."

"For all that I am sorry, Akim. You know how it will be; we shall get him into trouble. It is our fate; we have a great end in view; we risk our own lives, and although for the good of the cause we must not hesitate even if others suffer, I do hate with all my heart that others should be involved in our fortunes."

"This is not like you, Katia," Petroff said. "I have heard you say your maxim is 'At any cost,' and you have certainly lived up to it."

"Yes, and I shall live up to it," she said firmly; "but it hurts sometimes, Petroff; it hurt me just now when I thought that that lad laughing and chatting with us had no idea that he had better have thrust his hand into that stove than have given it to us. I do not shrink; I should use him as I should use anyone else, as an instrument if it were needful, but don't suppose that I like it."

"I don't think there is any fear of our doing him harm," Akim said; "he is English, and would find no difficulty in showing that he knew nothing of us save as casual acquaintances; they might send him out of the country, but that would be all."

"It would all depend," she said, "upon how he fell into their hands. If you happened to be arrested only as you were walking with him down the Nevski Prospekt he would be questioned, of course, but as soon as they learned who he was and that he had nothing to do with you, they would let him go. But if he were with us, say here, when we were pounced upon, and you had no time to pull the trigger of the pistol pointing into that keg of powder in the cupboard, he would be hurried away with us to one of the fortresses, and the chances are that not a soul would ever know what had become of him. Still it cannot be helped now; he may be useful, and as we give our own lives, so we must not shrink from giving others'. But this is not what I came here to talk to you about; have you heard of the arrest of Michaelovich?"

"No," they both exclaimed, leaping from their seats.

"It happened at three o'clock this morning," Katia said. "They surrounded the house and broke in suddenly, and rushed down into the cellar and found him at work. He shot two of them, and then he was beaten down and badly wounded."

"Where were the other two?" Akim asked.

"He sent them away but an hour before, but he went on working himself to complete the number of hand-bills. Of course he was betrayed. I don't think there are six people who knew where the press was; even I didn't know."

"Where did you hear of it, Katia?"

"Feodorina Samuloff told me; you know she often helps Michaelovich to work at the press; she thinks it must have been either Louka or Gasin. Why should Michaelovich have sent them away when he hadn't finished work if one or the other of them had not made some excuse so as to get out of the way before the police came? But that is nothing, there will be time to find out which is the traitor; they know nothing, either of them, except that they worked at the secret press with him; they were never much trusted. But Michaelovich is a terrible loss, he was always daring and full of expedients."

"They will get nothing from him," Petroff said.

"Not they," she agreed. "When do they ever get anything out of us? One of the outer-circle fellows like Louka and Gasin, who know nothing, who are instruments and nothing more, may tell all they know for gold, or for fear of the knout, but never once have they learned anything from one who knows. Fortunately the press was a very old one and there was but little type there, only just enough for printing small hand-bills; we have two others ready to set up."

"Were there any papers there?"

"No, Michaelovich was too careful for that."

"I hear that old Libka died in prison yesterday," Akim said.

"He is released from his suffering," Katia said solemnly. "Anything else, Akim?"

"Yes, a batch of prisoners start for Siberia to-morrow, and there are ten of us among them."

"Well, be careful for the next few days, Akim," Katia said; "don't do anything in the schools, it will not be long now before all is ready to strike a blow, and it is not worth while to risk anything until after that. I have orders that we are all to keep perfectly quiet till the plans are settled and we each get our instructions. Now I must go, I have two lessons to give this afternoon. It tries one a little to be talking to children about quavers and semiquavers when one's head is full of great plans, and you know that at any moment a policeman may tap you on the shoulder and take you off to the dungeons of St. Nicholas, from which one will never return unless one is carried out, or is sent to Siberia, which would be worse. Be careful; the police have certainly got scent of something, they are very active at present;" and with a nod she turned and left the room.

"She is a brave girl," Akim said. "I think the women make better conspirators than we do, Petroff. Look at her. She was a little serious to-day because of Michaelovich, but generally she is in high spirits, and no one would dream that she thought of anything but her pupils and pleasure. Then there is Feodorina Samuloff. She works all day, I believe, in a laundry, and she looks as impassive as if she had been carved out of soap. Yet she is ready to go on working all night if required, and if she had orders she would walk into the Winter Palace and throw down a bomb (that would kill her as well as everyone else within its reach) with as much coolness as if she was merely delivering a message."

CHAPTER II.

A CAT’S-PAW.

One evening a fortnight later Godfrey went with two young Englishmen to a masked ball at the Opera. It was a brilliant scene. Comparatively few of the men were masked or in costume, but many of the ladies were so. Every other man was in uniform of some kind, and the floor of the house was filled with a gay laughing crowd, while the boxes were occupied by ladies of the highest rank, several of the imperial family being present. He speedily became separated from his companions, and after walking about for an hour he became tired of the scene, and was about to make his way towards the entrance when a hand was slipped behind his arm. As several masked figures had joked him on walking about so vaguely by himself, he thought that this was but another jest.

"You are just the person I wanted," the mask said.

"I think you have mistaken me for some one else, lady," he replied.

"Not at all. Now put up your arm and look as if I belong to you. Nonsense! do as you are told, Godfrey Bullen."

"Who are you who know my name?" Godfrey laughed, doing as he was ordered, for he had no doubt that the masked woman was a member of one of the families whom he had visited.

"You don't know who I am?" she asked.

"How should I when I can see nothing but your eyes through those holes?"

"I am Katia, the cousin of your friend Akim."

"Oh, of course!" Godfrey said, a little surprised at meeting the music mistress in such an assembly. "I fancied I knew your voice, though I could not remember where I had heard it. And now what can I do for you?"

The young woman hesitated. "We have got up a little mystification," she said after a pause, "and I am sure I can trust you; besides, you don't know the parties. There is a gentleman here who is supposed to be with his regiment at Moscow; but there is a sweetheart in the case, and you know when there are sweethearts people do foolish things."

"I have heard so," Godfrey laughed, "though I don't know anything about it myself, for I sha'n't begin to think of such luxuries as sweethearts for years to come."

"Well, he is here masked," the girl went on, "and unfortunately the colonel of his regiment is here, and some ill-natured person—we fancy it is a rival of his—has told the colonel. He is furious about it, and declares that he will catch him and have him tried by court-martial for being absent without leave. The only thing is, he is not certain as to his information."

"Well, what can I do?" Godfrey asked. "How can I help him?"

"You can help if you like, and that without much trouble to yourself. He is at present in the back of that empty box on the third tier. I was with him when I saw you down here, so I left him to say good-bye to his sweetheart alone, and ran down to fetch you, for I felt sure you would oblige me. What I thought was this: if you put his mask and cloak on—you are about the same height—it would be supposed that you are he. The colonel is waiting down by the entrance. He will come up to you and say, 'Captain Presnovich?' You will naturally say, 'By no means.' He will insist on your taking your mask off. This you will do, and he will, of course, make profuse apologies, and will believe that he has been altogether misinformed. In the meantime Presnovich will manage to slip out, and will go down by the early train to Moscow. It is not likely that the colonel will ever make any more inquiries about it, but if he does, some of Presnovich's friends will be ready to declare that he never left Moscow."

"But can't he manage to leave his mask and cloak in the box and to slip away without them?"

"No, that would never do. It is necessary that the colonel should see for himself that the man in the cloak, with the white and red bow pinned to it, is not the captain."

"Very well, then, I will do it," Godfrey said. "It will be fun to see the colonel's face when he finds out his mistake; but mind I am doing it to oblige you."

"I feel very much obliged," the girl said; "but don't you bring my name into it though."

"How could I?" he laughed. "I do not see that I am likely to be cross-questioned in any way; but never fear, I will keep your counsel."

By this time they had arrived at the door of the box. "Wait a moment," she said, "I will speak to him first."

She was two minutes gone, and then opened the door and let him in. "I am greatly obliged to you, sir," a man said as he entered. "It is a foolish business altogether, but if you will enact my part for a few minutes you will get me out of an awkward scrape."

"Don't mention it," Godfrey replied. "It will be a joke to laugh over afterwards." He placed the broad hat, to which the black silk mask was sewn, on his head, and Katia put the cloak on his shoulders.

"I trust you," she said in a low voice as she walked with him to the top of the stairs. "There, I must go now. I had better see Captain Presnovich safely off, and then go and tell the young lady, who is a great friend of mine—it is for her sake I am doing it, you know, not for his—how nicely we have managed to throw dust in the colonel's eyes!"

Regarding the matter as a capital joke, Godfrey went down-stairs and made his way to the entrance, expecting every moment to be accosted by the irascible colonel. No one spoke to him, however, and he began to imagine that the colonel must have gone to seek the captain elsewhere, and hoped that he would not meet him as he went down the stairs with Katia. He walked down the steps into the street. As he stepped on to the pavement a man seized him from behind, two others grasped his wrists, and before he knew what had happened he was run forward across the pavement to a covered sledge standing there and flung into it. His three assailants leapt in after him; the door was slammed; another man jumped on to the box with the driver; and two mounted men took their places beside it as it dashed off from the door. The men had again seized Godfrey's hands and held them firmly the instant they entered the carriage.

"It is of no use your attempting to struggle," one of the men said, "there is an escort riding beside the sledge, and a dozen more behind it. There is no chance of a rescue, and I warn you you had best not open your lips; if you do, we will gag you."

Godfrey was still half bewildered with the suddenness of the transaction. What had he been seized for? Who were the men who had got hold of him? and why were they gripping his wrists so tightly? He had heard of arbitrary treatment in the Russian army, but that a colonel should have a captain seized in this extraordinary way merely because he was absent from his post without leave was beyond anything he thought possible.

"I thought I was going to have the laugh all on my side," he said to himself, "but so far it is all the other way." In ten minutes the carriage stopped for a moment, there was a challenge, then some gates were opened. Godfrey had already guessed his destination, and his feeling of discomfort had increased every foot he went. There was no doubt he was being taken to the fortress. "It seems to me that Miss Katia has got me into a horrible scrape of some kind," he said to himself. "What a fool I was to let myself be humbugged by the girl in that way!"

Two men with lanterns were at the door of a building, at which the carriage, after passing into a large court-yard, drew up. Still retaining their grip on his wrists, two of the men walked beside him down a passage, while several others followed behind. An officer of high rank was sitting at the head of a table, one of inferior rank stood beside him, while at the end of the table were two others with papers and pens before them.

"So you have captured him!" the general said eagerly.

"Yes, your excellency," the man who had spoken to Godfrey in the carriage said respectfully.

"Has he been searched?"

"No, your excellency, the distance was so short, and I feared that he might wrench one of his hands loose. Moreover, I thought that you might prefer his being searched in your presence."

"It is better so. Take off that disguise." As the hat and mask were removed the officer sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Why, who is this? This is not the man you were ordered to arrest; you have made some confounded blunder."

"I assure you, your excellency," the official said in trembling accents, "this is the only man who was there in the disguise we were told of. There, your excellency, is the bunch of white and red ribbons on his cloak."

"And who are you, sir?" the general thundered.

"My name, sir, is Godfrey Bullen. I reside with Ivan Petrovytch, a merchant living in the Vassili Ostrov."

"But how come you mixed up in this business, sir?" the general exclaimed furiously. "How is it that you are thus disguised, and that you are wearing that bunch of ribbon? Beware how you answer me, sir, for this is a matter which concerns your life."

"So far as I am concerned, sir," Godfrey said, "I am absolutely ignorant of having done any harm in the matter, and have not the most remote idea why I have been arrested. I may have behaved foolishly in allowing myself to take part in what I thought was a masquerade joke, but beyond that I have nothing to blame myself for. I went to the Opera-house, never having seen a masked ball before. I was alone, and being young and evidently a stranger, I was spoken to and joked by several masked ladies. Presently one of them came up to me. I had no idea who she was; she was closely masked, and I could see nothing of her face." He then repeated the request that had been made him.

"Do you expect me to believe this ridiculous nonsense about this Captain Presnovich and his colonel?"

"I can only say, sir, what I am telling you is precisely what happened, and that I absolutely believed it. It seemed to me a natural thing that a young officer might come to a ball to see a lady who perhaps he had no other opportunity of meeting alone. I see now that I was very foolish to allow myself to be mixed up in the affair; but I thought that it was a harmless joke, and so I did as this woman asked me."

"Go on, sir," the general said in a tone of suppressed rage.

"There is little more to tell, sir. I went up with this woman to the box she had pointed out, and there found this Captain Presnovich as I believed him to be. I put on his hat, mask, and cloak, walked down the stairs, and was leaving the Opera-house when I was arrested, and am even now wholly ignorant of having committed any offence."

"A likely story," the general said sarcastically. "And this woman, did you see her face?"

"No, sir, she was closely masked. I could not even see if she were young or old; and she spoke in the same disguised, squeaking sort of voice that all the others that had spoken to me used."

"And that is your entire story, sir; you have nothing to add to it?"

"Nothing whatever, sir. I have told you the simple truth."

The general threw himself back in his chair, too exasperated to speak farther, but made a sign to the officer standing next to him to take up the interrogation. The questions were now formal. "Your name is Godfrey Bullen?" he asked.

"It is."

"Your nationality?"

"British."

"Your domicile?"

Godfrey gave the address.

"How long have you been in Russia?"

"Four months."

"What is your business?"

"A clerk to Ivan Petrovytch."

"How comes it that you speak Russian so well?"

"I was born here, and lived up to the age of ten with my father, John Bullen, who was a well-known merchant here, and left only two years ago."

"That will do," the general said impatiently. "Take him to his cell and search him thoroughly."

Naturally the most minute search revealed nothing of an incriminating character. At length Godfrey was left alone in the cell, which contained only a single chair and a rough pallet. "I have put my foot in it somehow," he said to himself, "and I can't make head nor tail of it beyond the fact that I have made an ass of myself. Was the whole story a lie? Was the fellow's name Presnovich? if not, who was he? By the rage of the general, who, I suppose, is the chief of the police, it was evident he was frightfully disappointed that I wasn't the man he was looking for. Was this Presnovich somebody that girl Katia knew and wanted to get safely away? or was she made a fool of just as I was? She looked a bright, jolly sort of girl; but that goes for nothing in Russia, all sorts of people get mixed up in plots. If she was concerned in getting him away I suppose she fixed on me because, being English and a new-comer here, it would be easy for me to prove that I had nothing to do with plots or anything of that sort, whereas if a Russian had been in my place he might have got into a frightful mess over it. Well, I suppose it will all come right in the end. It is lucky that the weather has got milder or I should have had a good chance of being frozen to death; it is cold enough as it is."

Resuming his clothes, which had been thrown down on the pallet, Godfrey drew the solitary rug over him, and in spite of the uncertainty of the position was soon fast asleep. He woke just as daylight was breaking, and was so bitterly cold that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the cell to restore circulation. Two hours later the cell door was opened and a piece of dark-coloured bread and a jug of water were handed in to him. "If this is prison fare I don't care how soon I am out of it," he said to himself as he munched the bread. "I wonder what it is made of! Rye!"

The day passed without anyone coming near him save the jailer, who brought a bowl of thin broth and a ration of bread for his dinner.

"Can't you get me another rug?" he asked the man. "If I have got to stop here for another night I shall have a good chance of being frozen to death."

Just as it was getting dark the man came in again with another blanket and a flat earthenware pan half full of sand, on which was burning a handful or two of sticks; he placed a bundle of wood beside it.

"That is more cheerful by a long way," Godfrey said to himself as the man, who had maintained absolute silence on each of his visits, left the cell. "No doubt they have been making a lot of inquiries about me, and find that I have not been in the habit of frequenting low company. I should not have had these indulgences if they hadn't. Well, it will be an amusement to keep this fire up. The wood is as dry as a bone luckily, or I should be smoked out in no time, for there is not much ventilation through that narrow loophole."

The warmth of the fire and the additional blanket made all the difference, and in a couple of hours Godfrey was sound asleep. When he woke it was broad daylight, and although he felt cold it was nothing to what he had experienced on the previous morning. At about eleven o'clock, as near as he could guess, for his watch and everything had been removed when he was searched, the door was opened and a prison official with two warders appeared. By these he was conducted to the same room where he had been first examined. Neither of the officers who had then been there was present, but an elderly man sat at the centre of the table.

"Godfrey Bullen," he said, "a careful investigation has been made into your antecedents, and with one exception, and that not, for various reasons, an important one, we have received a good report of you. Ivan Petrovytch tells us that you work in his office from breakfast-time till five in the afternoon, and that your evenings are at your own disposal, but that you generally dine with him. He gave us the names of the families with which you are acquainted, and where, as he understood, you spend your evenings when you are not at the Skating Club, where you generally go on Tuesdays and Fridays at least. We learn that you did spend your evenings with these families, and we have learned at the club that you are a regular attendant there two or three times a week, and that your general associates are:" and he read out a list which included, to Godfrey's surprise, the names of every one of his acquaintances there. "Therefore we have been forced to come to the conclusion that your story, incredible as it appeared, is a true one. That you, a youth and a foreigner, should have had the incredible levity to act in the way you describe, and to assume the disguise of a person absolutely unknown to you, upon the persuasion of a woman also absolutely unknown to you, well-nigh passes belief. Had you been older you would at once have been sent to the frontier; but as it is, the Czar, to whom the case has been specially submitted, has graciously allowed you to continue your residence here, the testimony being unanimous as to your father's position as a merchant, and to the prudence of his behaviour while resident here. But I warn you, Godfrey Bullen, that escapades of this kind, which may be harmless in England, are very serious matters here. Ignorantly, I admit, but none the less certainly, you have aided in the escape of a malefactor of the worst kind; and but for the proofs that have been afforded us that you were a mere dupe, the consequences would have been most serious to you, and even the fact of your being a foreigner would not have sufficed to save you from the hands of justice. You are now free to depart; but let this be a lesson to you, and a most serious one, never again to mix yourself up in any way with persons of whose antecedents you are ignorant, and in future to conduct yourself in all respects wisely and prudently."

"It will certainly be a lesson to me, sir. I am heartily sorry that I was so foolish as to allow myself to be mixed up in such an affair, and think I can promise you that henceforth there will be no fault to be found in my conduct."

In the ante-room Godfrey's watch, money, and the other contents of his pocket were restored to him. A carriage was in waiting for him at the outer door, and he was driven rapidly to the house of the merchant.

"This is a nice scrape into which you have got yourself, Godfrey," Ivan Petrovytch said as he entered. "It is lucky for you that you are not a Russian. But how on earth have you got mixed up in a plot? We know nothing about it beyond the fact that you had been arrested, for, although a thousand questions were asked me about you, nothing was said to me as to the charge brought against you. We have been in the greatest anxiety about you. All sorts of rumours were current in the city as to the discovery of a plot to assassinate one of the grand-dukes at the Opera-house, and there are rumours that explosive bombs had been discovered in one of the boxes. It is said that the police had received information of the attempt that was to be made, and that every precaution had been taken to arrest the principal conspirator, but that in some extraordinary manner he slipped through their fingers. But surely you can never have been mixed up in that matter?"

"That is what it was," Godfrey said, "though I had no more idea of having anything to do with a plot than I had of flying. I see now that I behaved like an awful fool." And he told the story to Petrovytch and his wife as he had told it to the head of the police. Both were shocked at the thought that a member of their household should have been engaged, even unwittingly, in such a treasonable affair.

"It is a wonder that we ever saw you again," the merchant's wife exclaimed. "It is fortunate that we are known as quiet people or we might have been arrested too. I could not have believed that anyone with sense could be silly enough to put on a stranger's mantle and hat!"

"But I thought," Godfrey urged, "that at masked balls people did play all sorts of tricks upon each other. I am sure I have read so in books. And it did seem quite likely—didn't it now?—that an officer should have come up to meet a young lady masked whom he had no chance of meeting at any other time. It certainly seemed to me quite natural, and I believe almost any fellow, if he were asked to help anyone to get out of a scrape like that, would do it."

"You may do it in England or in France, but it doesn't do to take part in anything that you don't know for certain all about here. The wonder is they made any inquiries at all. If you had been a Russian the chances are that your family would never have heard of you again from the time you left to go to the opera. Nothing that you could have said would have been believed. Your story would have been regarded by the police as a mere invention. They would have considered it as certain that in some way or other you were mixed up in the conspiracy. They would have regarded your denials as simple obstinacy, and you would have been sent to Siberia for life."

"I should advise you, Godfrey," Ivan Petrovytch said, "to keep an absolute silence about this affair. Mention it to no one. Everyone knows that something has happened to you, as the police have been everywhere inquiring; but there is no occasion to tell anyone the particulars. Of course rumours get about as to the action of the Nihilists and of the police, but as little is said as possible. It is, of course, a mere rumour that a plot was discovered at the Opera-house. Probably there were an unusual number of police at all the entrances, and a very little thing gives rise to talk and conjecture. People think that the police would not have been there had they not had suspicion that something or other was going to take place, and as everything in our days is put down to the Nihilists, it was naturally reported that the police had discovered some plot; and as two of the grand-dukes were there, people made sure it was in some way connected with them.

"As nothing came of it, and no one was, as far as was known, arrested, it would be supposed that the culprit, whoever he was, managed to evade the police. Such rumours as these are of very common occurrence, and it is quite possible that there is not much more truth in them this time than there is generally; however, of one thing you may be sure, the police are not fonder than other people of being outwitted, and whether the man for whom they were in search was a Nihilist or a criminal of some other sort you certainly aided him to escape. You are sure to be watched for some time, and it will be known to the police in a very few hours if you repeat this story to your acquaintances; if they find you keep silence about it, they will give you credit for discretion, while it would certainly do you a good deal of harm, and might even now lead to your being promptly sent across the frontier, were it known that you made a boast of having outwitted them.

"There is another reason. You will find that for a time most of your friends here will be a little shy of you. People are not fond of having as their intimates persons about whom the police are inquiring, and you will certainly find for a time that you will receive very few invitations to enter the houses of any Russians. It would be different, however, if it were known that the trouble was about something that had no connection with politics; therefore, I should advise you, when you are asked questions, to turn it off with a laugh. Say you got mixed up in an affair between a young lady and her lover, and that, like many other people, you found that those who mingle in such matters often get left in the lurch. You need not say much more than that. You might do anything here without your friends troubling much about it provided it had nothing to do with politics. Rob a bank, perpetrate a big swindle, run away with a court heiress, and as long as the police don't lay hands on you nobody else will trouble their heads about the affair; but if you are suspected of being mixed up in the most remote way with politics, your best friends will shun you like the plague."

"I will take your advice certainly," Godfrey said, "and even putting aside the danger you point out, I should not be anxious to tell people that I suffered myself to be entrapped so foolishly."

For some time, indeed, Godfrey found that his acquaintance fell away from him, and that he was not asked to the houses of any of the Russian merchants where he had been before made welcome. Cautious questions would be asked by the younger men as to the trouble into which he got with the police; but he turned these off with a laugh. "I am not going to tell the particulars," he said, "they concern other people. I can only tell you that I was fool enough to be humbugged by a pretty little masker, and to get mixed up in a love intrigue in which a young lady, her lover a captain in the army, and an irascible colonel were concerned, and that the young people made a cat's-paw of me. I am not going to say more than that, I don't want to be laughed at for the next six months;" and so it became understood that the young Englishman had simply got into some silly scrape, and had been charged by a colonel in the army with running away with his daughter, and he was therefore restored to his former footing at most of the houses that he had before visited.

Two days after his release a note was slipped into Godfrey's hand by a boy as he went out after dinner for a walk. It was unsigned, and ran as follows:—

"Dear Godfrey Bullen, my cousin is in a great state of distress. She was deceived by a third person, and in turn deceived you. She has heard since that the story was an entire fiction to enable a gentleman for whom the police were in search to escape. She only heard last night of your arrest and release, and is in the greatest grief that she should have been the innocent means of this trouble coming upon you. You know how things are here, and she is overwhelmed with gratitude that you did not in defence give any particulars that might have enabled them to trace her, for she would have found it much more difficult than a stranger would have done to have proved her innocence. She knows that you did say nothing, for had you done so she would have been arrested before morning; not improbably we might also have found ourselves within the walls of a prison, since you met her at our room, and the mere acquaintanceship with a suspected person is enough to condemn one here. By the way, we have moved our lodging, but will give you our new address when we meet you, that is, if you are good enough to continue our acquaintance in spite of the trouble that has been caused you by the credulity and folly of my cousin."

Godfrey, who had begun to learn prudence, did not open the letter until he returned home, and as soon as he had read it dropped it into the stove. He was pleased at its receipt, for he had not liked to think that he had been duped by a girl. From the first he had believed that she, like himself, had been deceived, for it had seemed to him out of the question that a young music mistress, who did not seem more than twenty years old, could have been mixed up in the doings of a desperate set of conspirators; however, he quite understood the alarm she must have felt, for though his story might have been believed owing to his being a stranger, and unconnected in any way with men who could have been concerned in a Nihilist plot, it would no doubt have been vastly more difficult for her to prove her innocence, especially as it was known that there were many women in the ranks of the Nihilists.

It was a fortnight before he met either of the students, and he then ran against them upon the quay just at the foot of the equestrian statue of Peter the Great, opposite the Isaac Cathedral. They hesitated for a moment, but he held out his hand cordially.

"Where have you been, and how is it I have not seen you before?"

"We were afraid that you might not care to know us further," Akim said, "after the trouble that that foolish cousin of mine involved you in."

"That would have been ridiculous," Godfrey said. "If we were to blame our friends for the faults of persons to whom they introduce us, there would be an end to introductions."

"Everyone wouldn't think as you do," Akim said. "We both wished to meet you, and thank you for so nobly shielding her. The silly girl might be on her way to Siberia now if you had given her name."

"I certainly should not have done that in any case. It is not the way of an Englishman to betray his friend, especially when that friend is a woman; but I thought even before I got your letter that she must in some way or other have been misled herself."

"It was very good of you," Petroff said. "Katia has been in great distress over it. She thinks that you can never forgive her."

"Pray tell her from me, Petroff, that I have blamed myself, not her. I ought not to have let myself be persuaded into taking any part in the matter. I entered into it as a joke, thinking it would be fine fun to see the old colonel's face, and also to help a pair of lovers out of a scrape. It would have been a good joke in England, but this is not a country where jokes are understood. At any rate it has been a useful lesson to me, and in future young ladies will plead in vain to get me to mix myself up in other people's affairs."

"We are going to a students' party to-night," Petroff said. "One of our number who has just passed the faculty of medicine has received an appointment at Tobolsk. It is a long way off; but it is said to be a pleasant town, and the pay is good. He is an orphan, and richer than most of us, so he is going to celebrate it with a party to-night before he starts. Will you come with us?"

"I should like it very much," Godfrey said; "but surely your friend would not wish a stranger there on such an occasion."

"Oh, yes, he would! he would be delighted, he is very fond of the English. I will answer for it that you will be welcome. Meet us here at seven o'clock this evening; he has hired a big room, and there will be two or three dozen of us there—all good fellows. Most of them have passed, and you will see the army and navy, the law and medicine, all represented."

Godfrey willingly agreed to go. He thought he should see a new phase of Russian life, and at the appointed hour he met the two students. The entertainment was held in a large room in a traktar or eating-house in a small street. The room was already full of smoke, a number of young men were seated along two tables extending the length of the room, and crossed by one at the upper end. Several were in military uniform, and two or three in that of the navy. Akim and Petroff were greeted boisterously by name as they entered.

"I will talk to you presently," Akim shouted in reply to various invitations to take his seat. "I have a friend whom I must first introduce to Alexis." He and Petroff took Godfrey up to the table at the end of the room. "Alexis," Akim said, "I have brought you a gentleman whom I am sure you will welcome. He has proved himself a true friend, one worthy of friendship and honour. His name is Godfrey Bullen."

There was general silence as Akim spoke, and an evident curiosity as to the stranger their comrade had introduced. The host, who had risen to his feet, grasped Godfrey's hand warmly.

"I am indeed glad to meet you, Godfrey Bullen," he said.

"My friends, greet with me the English friend of Akim and Petroff."

There was a general thumping of glasses on the table, and two or three of those sitting near Alexis rose from their seats and shook hands with Godfrey, with a warmth and cordiality which astonished him. Room was made for him and his two friends at the upper end of one of the side tables, and when he had taken his seat the lad was able to survey the scene quietly.

Numbers of bottles were ranged down the middle of the tables, which were of bare wood without cloth. These contained, as Petroff told him, wines from various parts of Russia. There were wines similar to sherry and Bordeaux, from the Crimea; Kahetinskoe, strongly resembling good burgundy, from the Caucasus; and Don Skoe, a sparkling wine resembling champagne, from the Don. Besides these were tankards of Iablochin Kavas, or cider; Grushevoi Kavas, or perry; Malovinoi, a drink prepared from raspberries; and Lompopo, a favourite drink on the shores of the Baltic. The conversation naturally turned on student topics, of tricks played on professors, on past festivities, amusements, and quarrels. No allusion of any kind was made to politics, or to the matters of the day. Jovial songs were sung, the whole joining in chorus with great animation. At nine o'clock waiters appeared with trays containing the indispensable beginning of all Russian feasts. Each tray contained a large number of small dishes with fresh caviar, raw herrings, smoked salmon, dried sturgeon, slices of German sausage, smoked goose, ham, radishes, cheese, and butter. From these the guests helped themselves at will, the servants handing round small glasses of Kümmel Liftofka, a spirit flavoured with the leaves of the black-currant, and vodka.

Then came the supper. Before each guest was placed a basin of stehi, a cabbage soup, sour cream being handed round to be added to it; then came rastigai patties, composed of the flesh of the sturgeon and isinglass. This was followed by cold boiled sucking pig with horse-radish sauce. After this came roast mutton stuffed with buck-wheat, which concluded the supper. When the table was cleared singing began again, but Godfrey stayed no longer, excusing himself to his host on the ground that the merchant kept early hours, and that unless when he had specially mentioned that he should not be home until late, he made a point of being in between ten and eleven.

He was again surprised at the warmth with which several of the guests spoke to him as he said good-night, and went away with the idea in his mind that among the younger Russians, at any rate, Englishmen must be much more popular than he had before supposed. One or two young officers had given him their cards, and said that they should be pleased if he would call upon them.

"I have had a pleasant evening," he said to himself. "They are a jolly set of fellows, more like boys than men. It was just the sort of thing I could fancy a big breaking-up supper would be if fellows could do as they liked, only no head-master would stand the tremendous row they made with their choruses. However, I don't expect they very often have a jollification like this. I suppose our host was a good deal better off than most of them. Petroff said that he was the son of a manufacturer down in the south. I wonder what he meant when he laughed in that quiet way of his when I said I wondered that as his father was well off he should take an appointment at such an out-of-the-way place as Tobolsk. 'Don't ask questions here,' he said, 'those fellows handing round the meat may be government spies.' I don't see, if they were, what interest they could have in the question why Alexis Stumpoff should go to Tobolsk.

"However, I suppose they make a point of never touching on private affairs where any one can hear them, however innocent the matter may be. It must be hateful to be in a country where, for aught you know, every other man you come across is a spy. I daresay I am watched now; that police fellow told me I should be. It would be a lark to turn off down by-streets and lead the spy, if there is one, a tremendous dance; but jokes like that won't do here. I got off once, but if I give them the least excuse again they may send me off to the frontier. I should not care much myself, but it would annoy the governor horribly, so I will walk back as gravely as a judge."

CHAPTER III

A HUNTING PARTY.

Two days later Robson, an English merchant who had been one of the most intimate of Godfrey's acquaintances, and to whom he had confided the truth about his arrest, said to him:

"You are not looking quite yourself, lad."

"Oh, I am all right!" he said; "but it is not a pleasant thing having had such a close shave of being sent to Siberia; and it isn't only that. No doubt the police feel that they owe me a grudge for having been the means of this fellow, whoever he was, slipping through their fingers, and I shall be a suspected person for a long time. Of course it is only fancy, but I am always thinking there is some one following me when I go out. I know it is nonsense, but I can't get rid of it."

"I don't suppose they are watching you as closely as that," Mr. Robson said, "but I do think it is likely that they may be keeping an eye on you; but if they are they will be tired of it before long, when they see that you go your own way and have nothing to do with any suspected persons. You want a change, lad. I have an invitation to join a party who are going up to Finland to shoot for a couple of days. It is more likely than not that we shall never have a chance of firing a shot, but it will be an outing for you, and will clear your brain. Do you think you would like it?"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Robson, I should like it immensely. Petrovytch was saying this morning that he thought I should be all the better for a holiday, so I am sure he will spare me. I am nothing of a shot, in fact I never fired a shot at game in my life, though I have practised a bit with the rifle, but I am sure it will be very jolly whether we shoot anything or not."

"Very well, then, be at the station to catch the seven o'clock train in the morning. It is a four hours' railway journey."

"Is there anything to bring, sir?"

"No, you can take a hand-bag and sleeping things, but beyond a bit of soap and a towel I don't suppose you will have need of anything, for you will most likely sleep at some farm-house, or perhaps in a woodman's hut, and there will not be any undressing. There are six of us going from here, counting you, but the party is got up by two or three men we know there. They tell me some of the officers of the regiment stationed there will be of the party, and they will have a hundred or so of their men to act as beaters. I have a spare gun that I will bring for you."

The next morning Godfrey joined Mr. Robson at the station. A Mr. White, whom he knew well, was one of the party, and the other three were Russians. They had secured a first-class compartment, and as soon as they started they rigged up a table with one of the cushions and began to play whist.

"You don't play, I suppose, Godfrey?" Mr. Robson said.

"No, sir. I have played a little at my father's, but it will be a long time before I shall be good enough to play. I have heard my father say that there is better whist at St. Petersburg than in any place in the world."

"I think he is right, lad. The Russians are first-rate players and are passionately fond of the game, and naturally we English here have had to learn to play up to their standard. The game is similar to that in England, but they score altogether differently."

The four hours passed rapidly. Godfrey sometimes looked out of the window at the flat country they were passing through, but more often watched the play. They were met at the station by two of Mr. Robson's friends, and found that sledges were in readiness and they were to start at once.

"We have ten miles to drive," one of them said. "The others went on early; they will have had one beat by the time we get there, and are then to assemble for luncheon."

The road was good and the horses fast, so that the sledges flew along rapidly. Most of the distance was through forest, but the last half-mile was open, and the sledge drew up at a large farm-house standing in the centre of the cleared space, and surrounded at a distance of half a mile on all sides by the forest. A dozen men, about half of whom were in uniform, poured out from the door as the four sledges drew up.

"You are just in time," one of them said. "The soup is ready and in another minute we should have set to."

The civilians all knew each other, but the new-comers were introduced to the Russian colonel and his five officers.

"Have you had any luck, colonel?" Mr. Robson asked.

"Wonderful," the latter replied with a laugh. "A stag came along and every one of us had a shot at it, and each and every one is ready to take oath that he hit it, so that every one is satisfied. Don't you call that luck?"

Mr. Robson laughed. "But where is the stag?" he asked, looking round.

"That is more than any one can tell you. He went straight on, and carried off our twelve bullets. Captain Fomitch here, and in fact all my officers, are ready to swear that the deer is enchanted, and they have all been crossing themselves against the evil omen. Such a thing was never heard of before, for being such crack shots, all of us, of course there can be no doubt about our each having hit the stag when it was not more than a hundred yards away at the outside; but come in, the soup smells too good to wait, and the sight of that enchanted beast has sharpened my appetite wonderfully."

Godfrey entered with the rest. Large as the farm-house was, the greater portion of the ground-floor was occupied by the room they entered. It was entirely constructed of wood blackened with smoke and age. A great fire burned on the hearth, and the farmer's wife and two maids were occupied with several large pots, some suspended over the fire, others standing among the brands. The window was low, but extended half across one side of the room, and was filled with small lattice panes. From the roof hung hams, sides of bacon, potatoes in network bags, bunches of herbs, and several joints of meat. A table extended the length of the room covered with plates and dishes that from their appearance had evidently been brought out from the town, and differed widely from the rough earthenware standing on a great dresser of darkened wood extending down one side of the room. At one end the great pot was placed, the cloth having been pushed back for the purpose, and the colonel, seizing the ladle, began to fill the earthenware bowls which were used instead of soup plates.

"Each man come for his ration before he sits down," he said. "It would be better if you did not sit down at all, for I know well enough that when my countrymen sit down to a meal it is a long time before they get up again, and we have to be in the forest again in three-quarters of an hour."

"Quite right, colonel," one of the hosts said; "this evening you may sit as long as you like, but if we are to have another drive to-day we must waste no time. A basin of soup and a plate of stew are all you will get now, with a cup of coffee afterwards to arm you against the cold, and a glass of vodka or kümmil to top up with. No, colonel, not any punch just now. Punch in the evening; but if we were to begin with that now, I know that there would be no shooting this afternoon."

"What are the beaters doing?" Mr. Robson asked as they hastily ate their dinner.

"They have brought their bread with them," the colonel said, "and our friends here have provided a deer almost as fine as that which carried off the twelve bullets. It was roasting over a fire in the forest when we went past, and I saw some black bottles which I guessed were vodka."

"Yes, colonel, I ordered that they should have a glass each with their dinner, and another glass when they had done this afternoon."

"They would not mind being on fatigue duty every day through the winter on those terms," the colonel said. "It is better for them than soldiering. We must mind that we don't shoot any of them, gentlemen. The lives of the Czar's soldiers are not to be lightly sacrificed, and next time, you know, the whole of the bullets may not hit the mark as they did this morning."

"There really is some danger in it," Mr. Robson said to Godfrey, who was sitting next to him; "in fact, I should say there was a good deal of danger. However, I fancy the beaters all throw themselves down flat when they hear the crack of the first rifle."

"I see most of them have got a gun as well as a rifle."

"Yes, there is no saying what may come along, and, indeed, they are more likely to get birds than fur. I was told there are a good many elk in the forest, and the peasants have been bringing an unusual number in lately. A friend of mine shot two last week; but as our party did not get one in their first drive they are not likely to get any afterwards. Occasionally in these big drives a good many animals are inclosed, but as a rule the noise the soldiers make as they move along to take up their places is enough to frighten every creature within a couple of miles. I told you you were not likely to have to draw a trigger. Expeditions like this are rather an excuse for a couple of days' fun than anything else. The real hunting is more quiet. Men who are fond of it have peasants in their pay all over the country, and if one of these hears of a bear or an elk anywhere in his neighbourhood he brings in the news at once, and then one or two men drive out to the village, where beaters will be in readiness for them, and have the hunt to themselves.

"I used to do a good deal of it the first few years I came out, but it is bitter cold work waiting for hours till a beast comes past, or trying to crawl up to him. After all, there is no great fun in putting a bullet into a creature as big as a horse at a distance of thirty or forty yards. But there, they are making a move. They are going to drink the coffee and vodka standing, which is wise, for after standing in the snow for four hours, as they have been doing, they are apt to get so sleepy after a warm meal that if we were to stop here much longer you would find half the number would not make a start at all."

The sledges were brought up, and there was a three miles drive through the forest. Then the shooters were placed in a line, some forty or fifty yards apart, each taking his station behind a tree. Then a small bugler sounded a note. Godfrey heard a reply a long distance off. Three-quarters of an hour passed without any further sound being heard, and then Godfrey, who had been stamping his feet and swinging his arms to keep himself warm, heard a confused murmur. Looking along the line he saw that the others were all on the alert, and he accordingly took up his gun and began to gaze across the snow. The right-hand barrel was loaded with shot, the left with ball. Presently a shot rang out away on his right, followed almost immediately afterwards by another. After this evidence that there must be something in the forest he watched more eagerly for signs of life. Presently he saw a hare coming loping along. From time to time it stopped and turned its head to listen, and then came on again. He soon saw that it was bearing to the left, and that it was not going to come within his range. He watched it disappear among the trees, and two minutes later heard a shot. Others followed to the right and left of him, and presently a hare, which he had not noticed, dashed past at full speed, almost touching his legs. He was so startled for the moment that the hare had got some distance before he had turned round and was ready to fire, and he was in no way surprised to see it dash on unharmed by his shot. When there was a pause in the firing the shouting recommenced, this time not far distant, and he soon saw men making their way towards him through the trees.

"It is all over now," Mr. Robson shouted from the next tree. "If they have not done better elsewhere than we have here the bag is not a very large one."

"Did you shoot anything, Mr. Robson?"

"I knocked a hare over; that is the only thing I have seen. What have you done?"

"I think I succeeded in frightening a hare, but that was all," Godfrey laughed. "It ran almost between my legs before I saw it, and I think it startled me quite as much as my shot alarmed it."

The bugle sounded again, and the party were presently collected round the colonel. The result of the beat was five hares, and a small stag that had fallen to the gun of Mr. White.

"Much cry and little wool," Mr. Robson said. "A hundred beaters, twenty guns, and six head of game."

Another short beat was organized, resulting in two stags and three more hares. One of the stags and the three hares were placed on a sledge to be taken back to the farm-house, and the rest of the game was given to the soldiers. A glass of vodka was served out to each of them, and, highly pleased with their day's work, the men slung the deer to poles and set out on their march of eight miles back to the town.

"They will have done a tremendous day's work by the time they have finished," Godfrey said. "Eight miles out and eight miles back, and three beats, which must have cost them four or five miles' walking at least. They must have gone over thirty miles through the snow."

"It won't be as much as that, though it will be a long day's work," the colonel said. "They came out yesterday evening and slept in a barn. Another company come out to-night to take their place."

It was already dark by the time the party reached the farm-house, and after a cup of coffee all round they began to prepare the dinner. They were like a party of school-boys, laughing, joking, and playing tricks with each other. Two of them undertook the preparation of hare-soup. Two others were appointed to roast a quarter of venison, keeping it turning as it hung by a cord in front of the fire, and being told that should it burn from want of basting they would forfeit their share of it. The colonel undertook the mixing of punch, and the odour of lemons, rum, and other spirits soon mingled with that of the cooking. Godfrey was set to whip eggs for a gigantic omelette, and most of the others had some task or other assigned to them, the farmer's wife and her assistants not being allowed to have anything to do with the matter.

The dinner was a great success. After it was over a huge bowl of punch was placed on the table, and after the health of the Czar and that of the Queen of England had been drunk, speeches were made, songs were sung, and stories told. While this was going on, the farmer brought in a dozen trusses of straw. These his wife and the maids opened and distributed along both sides of the room, laying blankets over them. It was not long before Godfrey began to feel very drowsy, the result of the day's work in the cold, a good dinner, the heated air of the room and the din, and would have gladly lain down; but his movement to leave the table was at once frustrated, and he was condemned to drink an extra tumbler of punch as a penalty. After that he had but a confused idea of the rest of the evening. He knew that many songs were sung, and that everyone seemed talking together, and as at last he managed to get away and lie down on the straw he had a vague idea that the colonel was standing on a chair making a final oration, with the punch-bowl turned upside down and worn as a helmet.

Godfrey had not touched the wine at dinner, knowing that he would be expected to take punch afterwards, and he had only sipped this occasionally, except the glass he had been condemned to drink; and when he heard the colonel shout in a stentorian voice "To arms!" he got up and shook himself, and felt ready for another day's work, although many of the others were sitting up yawning or abusing the colonel for having called them so early. However, it was already light. Two great samovars were steaming, and the cups set in readiness on the table. Godfrey managed to get hold of a pail of water and indulged in a good wash, as after a few minutes did all the others; while a cup or two of tea and a few slices of fried bacon set up even those who were at first least inclined to rise.

A quarter of an hour later the sledges were at the door, and the party started. The hunt was even less successful than that of the previous day. No stag was seen, but some ten hares and five brace of grouse were shot. At three o'clock the party assembled again at the farm-house and had another hearty meal, terminating with one glass of punch round; then they took their places in their sledges and were driven back to the town; the party for St. Petersburg started by the six-o'clock train, the rest giving them a hearty cheer as the carriage moved off from the platform.

"Well, have you enjoyed it, Godfrey?" Mr. Robson asked.

"Immensely, sir. It has been grand fun. The colonel is a wonderful fellow."

"There are no more pleasant companions than the Russians," Mr. Robson said. "They more closely resemble the Irish than any people I know. They have a wonderful fund of spirits, enjoy a practical joke, are fond of sport, and have too a sympathetic, and one may almost say a melancholy vein in their disposition, just as the Irish have. They have their faults, of course—all of us have; and the virtue of temperance has not as yet made much way here. Society, in fact, is a good deal like that in England two or three generations back, when it was considered no disgrace for a man to sit after dinner at the table until he had to be helped up to bed by the servants. Now, White, you have got the cards, I think."

Godfrey watched the game for a short time, then his eyes closed, and he knew nothing more until Mr. Robson shook him and shouted, "Pull yourself together, Godfrey. Here we are at St. Petersburg."

Three days later, when Ivan Petrovytch came in to breakfast at eleven o'clock—for the inmates of the house had a cup of coffee or chocolate and a roll in their rooms at half-past seven, and office work commenced an hour later—Godfrey saw that he and his wife were both looking very grave. Nothing was said until the servant, having handed round the dishes, left the room.

"Has anything happened?" Godfrey asked.

"Yes, there is bad news. Another plot against the life of the Czar has been discovered. The Nihilists have mined under the road by which he was yesterday evening to have travelled to the railway-station. It seems that some suspicion was felt by the police. I do not know how it arose; at any rate at the last moment the route was changed. During the night all the houses in the suspected neighbourhood were searched, and in the cellar of one of them a passage was found leading under the road. A mine was heavily charged with powder, and was connected by wires to an electric battery; and there can be no doubt that had the Czar passed by as intended he would have been destroyed by the explosion. It is terrible, terrible!"

"Did they find any one in the cellar?" Godfrey asked.

"No one. The conspirators had no doubt taken the alarm when they heard that the route was changed, and the place was deserted. It seems that the shop above was taken four months ago as a store for the sale of coal and wood, and the cellar and an adjoining one were hired at the same time. There was also a room behind the shop, where the man and woman who kept it lived. They say that arrests have been made all over the city this morning, and we shall no doubt have a renewal of the wholesale trials that followed the assassination of General Mesentzeff, the head of the police, last autumn. It is terrible! These misguided men hope to conquer the empire by fear. Instead of that, they will in the end only strengthen the hands of despotism. I have always been inclined to liberalism, but I have wished for gradual changes only. For large changes we are not yet fit; but as education spreads and we approach the western standard, some power and voice ought to be given to all intelligent enough to use it; that is to say, to the educated classes. I would not—no one in his senses would—give the power of voting to illiterate and ignorant men, who would simply be tools in the hands of the designing and ambitious; but the peoples of the great towns, St. Petersburg, Moskow, Kieff, Odessa, and others should be permitted to send representatives—men of their own choice—to the provincial councils, which should be strengthened and given a real, instead of a nominal, voice in the control of affairs.

"That was all I and thousands like me ever wished for in the present, but it would have been the first step towards a constitution which the empire, when the people become fit for it, might enjoy. That dream is over. These men, by their wild violence, have thrown back the reforms for half a century at least. They have driven the Czar to war against them; they have strengthened the hands of the men who will use their acts as an excuse for the extremest measures of repression; they have ranged on the other side all the moderate men like myself, who, though desirous of constitutional changes, shrink with horror from a revolution heralded by deeds of bloodshed and murder."

"I quite agree with you," Godfrey said warmly. "Men must be mad who could counsel such abominable plans. The French Revolution was terrible, although it began peacefully, and was at first supported by all the best spirits of France; but at last it became a hideous butchery. But here in Russia it seems to me that it would be infinitely worse, for it is only in the towns that there are men with any education; and if it began with the murder of the Czar, what would it grow to?"

"What, indeed!" Ivan Petrovytch repeated. "And yet, like the French Revolution, the pioneers of this movement were earnest and thoughtful men, with noble dreams for the regeneration of Russia."

"But how did it begin?"

"It may be said to have started about 1860. The emancipation of the serfs produced a sort of fever. Every one looked for change, but it was in the universities, the seminaries, and among the younger professional men that it first began. Prohibited works of all kinds, especially those of European socialists, were, in spite of every precaution at the frontier, introduced and widely circulated. Socialistic ideas made tremendous progress among the class I speak of, and these, by writing, by the circulation of prohibited papers, and so on, carried on a sort of crusade against the government, and indeed against all governments, carrying their ideas of liberty to the most extreme point and waging war against religion as well as against society.

"In the latter respect they were more successful than in the former, and I regret to say that atheism made immense strides among the educated class. They had some profound thinkers among them: Tchernyshevsky, Dobroluboff, Mikhailoff, besides Herzen and Ogareff, the two men who brought out the Kolokol in London in the Russian language, and by their agents spread it broadcast over Russia. The stifling of the insurrection in Poland strengthened the reactionary party. More repressive edicts were issued, with the usual result, that secret societies multiplied everywhere. Then came the revolution and commune in Paris, which greatly strengthened the spread of revolutionary ideas here. Another circumstance gave a fresh impetus to this. Some time before, there had been a movement for what was called the emancipation of women, and a perfect furore arose among girls of all classes for education.

"There were no upper schools or colleges open to them in Russia, and they went in enormous numbers to Switzerland, especially to Zurich. Girls of the upper classes shared their means with the poorer ones, and the latter eked out their resources by work of all descriptions. Zurich, as you know, is a hotbed of radicalism, and those young women who went to learn soon imbibed the wildest ideas. Then came a ukase, ordering the immediate return home of all Russian girls abroad. It was undoubtedly a great mistake. In Switzerland they were harmless, but when they returned to Russia and scattered over the towns and villages, they became so many apostles of socialism, and undoubtedly strengthened the movement. So it grew. Men of good families left their homes, and in the disguise of workmen expounded their principles among the lower classes. Among these was Prince Peter Krapotkine, the rich Cossack Obuchoff, Scisoko and Rogaceff, both officers, and scores of others, who gave up everything and worked as workmen among workmen.

"Innumerable arrests were made, and at one trial a thousand prisoners were convicted. So wholesale were the arrests that even the most enthusiastic saw that they were simply sacrificing themselves in vain, and about 1877 they changed their tactics. The prisons were crowded, and the treatment there of the political prisoners was vastly harder than that given to those condemned for the most atrocious crimes, as you may imagine when I tell you that in the course of the trial of that one batch I spoke of, which lasted four years, seventy-five of the prisoners committed suicide, went mad, or died. Then when the authorities thought Nihilism was stamped out by wholesale severity the matter assumed another phase. The crusade by preaching had failed, and the Nihilists began a crusade of terror. First police spies were killed in many places, then more highly placed persons, officers of the police, judges, and officials who distinguished themselves by their activity and severity. Then in the spring of last year Vera Zasulitch shot at General Trépoff, who had ordered a political prisoner to be flogged. She was tried by a jury, and the feeling throughout the country was so much in favour of the people who had been so terribly persecuted that she was acquitted. The authorities were furious, and every effort was made to find and re-arrest Vera; and a verdict of the court acquitting many of the accused in one of the trials was annulled by the Czar.

"Well, you know, Godfrey Bullen, I am not one who meddles with politics. You have never heard me speak of them before, and I consider the aims of these men would bring about anarchy. An anarchy that would deluge the land with blood seems to me detestable and wicked. But I cannot but think the government has made a terrible mistake by its severity. These people are all enthusiastic fanatics. They see that things are not as they should be, and they would destroy everything to right them. Hate their aims as one may, one must admit that their conduct is heroic. Few have quailed in their trials. All preserve a calmness of demeanour that even their judges and executioners cannot but admire. They seem made of iron; they suffer everything, give up everything, dare everything for their faith; they die, as the Christian martyrs died in Rome, unflinching, unrepentant. If they have become as wild beasts, severity has made them so. Their propaganda was at first a peaceful one. It is cruelty that has driven them to use the only weapon at their disposal, assassination.

"One man, for example, in 1877, Jacob Stefanovic, organized a conspiracy in the district of Sighirino. It spread widely among the peasants. The priests, violating the secret of the confessional, informed the police, but these, although using every effort, could learn no more. Hundreds of arrests were made, but nothing discovered. Learning that the priests had betrayed them the peasants no longer went to confession, and to avoid betraying themselves in a state of drunkenness abstained from the use of brandy; but one man, tired and without food, took a glass. It made him drunk, and in his drunkenness he spoke to the man who had sold him spirits. He was arrested, and although he did not know all, gave enough clue for the police to follow up, and all the leaders and over a thousand persons were arrested. Two thousand others, who were affiliated to the society, were warned in time and escaped. You can guess the fate of those who were captured.

"Last year, three months before you came here, General Mezentsoff, the head of the police, was assassinated, and since then we know that it is open war between the Nihilists and the Czar. The police hush matters up, but they get abroad. Threatening letters reach the Czar in his inmost apartments, and it is known that several attempts have been made to assassinate him, but have failed.

"One of the most extraordinary things connected with the movement is that women play a large part in it. Being in the thick of every conspiracy they are the life and soul of the movement, and they are of all classes. There are a score of women for whose arrest the authorities would pay any money, and yet they elude every effort. It is horrible. This is what comes of women going to Switzerland and learning to look upon religion as a myth and all authority as hateful, and to have wild dreams of an impossible state of affairs such as never has existed in this world. It is horrible, but it is pitiable. The prisons in the land are full of victims; trains of prisoners set off monthly for Siberia. It is enough to turn the brain to think of such things. How it is to end no one can say."

But it was only in bated breath and within closed doors that the discovery of the Nihilist plot was discussed in St. Petersburg. Elsewhere it was scarcely alluded to, although, if mentioned, those present vied with each other in the violence of their denunciation of it; but when society from the highest to the lowest was permeated by secret agents of the police, and every word was liable to be reported and misinterpreted, a subject so dangerous was shunned by common consent. It was known, though, that large numbers of arrests had been made, but even those whose dearest friends had suddenly disappeared said no word of it in public, for to be even a distant acquaintance of such a person was dangerous. Yet apparently everything went on as usual: the theatres were as well filled; the Nevski as crowded and gay.

CHAPTER IV.

A PRISONER.

Soon after this St. Petersburg was startled at the news that there had been a terrible explosion at the Winter Palace, and that the Czar and royal family had narrowly escaped with their lives. Upon the following evening Godfrey was walking down the Nevski, where groups of people were still discussing the terrible affair. He presently met Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff. He had not seen them for some time, and as they had omitted to give him the address of the lodging into which they had moved, he was really glad to see them, for he liked them better than any of the Russians of his acquaintance, for both had an earnest manner and seemed to be free from narrow prejudices, sincere admirers of England, and on most subjects very well informed.

"It is quite an age since I have seen you both," he said. "Where have you been hiding?"

"We have been working harder than usual," Petroff said; "our last examinations are just coming off. But you said that you would come to see us, and you have never done so."

"You did not tell me where you had moved to," Godfrey said, "or I should have done so long ago."

"That was stupid indeed!" Akim said. "Have you an hour to spare now?"

"Yes, I have nothing to do, and shall be very glad to come round and have a talk. This is a horrible business at the Winter Palace."

"Horrible," Petroff said; "but it is just as well not to talk about it in the streets. Come along, we will take you to our place; we were just thinking of going back."

A quarter of an hour's walking took them to the students' room, which was, like the last, at the top of the house. A lamp was lighted, the samovar placed on the table, and a little charcoal fire lit under it. A glass of vodka was handed round to pass the time until the water was boiling, pipes were brought out from the cupboard and filled, for cigars, which are cheap and good, are generally smoked in the streets in Russia by the middle and upper classes, pipes being only used there by Isvostchiks, labourers, and Englishmen. The conversation naturally for a time turned upon the explosion in the Winter Palace, the Russians expressing an indignation fully equal to that of Godfrey. Then they talked of England, both regretting that they were unable to speak the language.

"I would give much to be able to read Shakespeare," Petroff said. "I have heard his works spoken of in such high terms by some of our friends who have studied your language, and I have heard, too, from them of your Dickens. They tell me it is like reading of another world—a world in which there are no officials, and no police, and no soldiers. That must be very near a paradise."

"We have some soldiers," Godfrey laughed, "but one does not see much of them. About half of those we have at home are in two military camps, one in England and one in Ireland. There are the Guards in London, but the population is so large that you might go a week without seeing one, while in very few of the provincial towns are there any garrisons at all. There are police, and plenty of them, but as their business is only to prevent crime, they naturally don't play a prominent part in novels giving a picture of everyday life. As to officials, beyond rate-collectors we don't see anything of them, though there are magistrates, and government clerks, and custom officers, and that sort of thing, but they certainly don't play any prominent part in our lives."

So they chatted for an hour, when at short intervals two other men came in. One was a tall handsome fellow who was introduced by Petroff as the son of Baron Kinkoff, the other was a young advocate of Moscow on a visit to St. Petersburg. Both, Godfrey observed, had knocked in a somewhat peculiar manner at the door, which opened, as he had noticed when they came in, only by a key. Akim observed a slight expression of surprise in Godfrey's face at the second knock, and said laughing:

"Our remittances have not come to hand of late, Godfrey, and some of our creditors are getting troublesome, so we have established a signal by which we know our friends, while inconvenient visitors can knock as long as they like, and then go away thinking we are out."

Godfrey chatted for a short time longer, and then got up to go. Akim went to the door with him. As it opened there was a sudden rush of men from outside that nearly knocked him down. Of what followed he had but a vague idea. Pistol shots rang out. There was a desperate struggle. He received a blow on the head which struck him to the ground, and an instant later there was a tremendous explosion. The next thing he knew was that he was being hauled from below some debris. As he looked round bewildered he saw that a considerable portion of the ceiling and of the roof above it had been blown out. Several bodies lay stretched on the floor. The room was still full of smoke, but by the light of two or three lanterns he perceived that the young baron, bleeding freely from a sabre wound across the forehead, was standing bound between two policemen with drawn swords. Policemen were examining the bodies on the floor, while others were searching the closets, cutting open the beds and turning out their contents. Akim lay on his back dead, and across him lay the young advocate. Of Petroff he could see nothing; the other bodies were those of policemen. Three of these near the door appeared to have been shot; the others were lying in contorted positions against the walls, as if they had been flung there by the force of the explosion. All this he saw in a state of vague wonderment, while the two policemen kneeling at his side were passing cords tightly round him.

"This one still lives," one of the policemen said, stooping over the young advocate, "but I think he is nearly done for."

"Never mind, bring him along with the others," a man in plain clothes said in tones of authority. "Get them away at once, we shall have half St. Petersburg here in a few minutes."

Godfrey was lifted by the policemen, one at his head, and one at his feet, carried down-stairs, and flung into a vehicle at the door. Dully he heard a roar of excited shouts and questions, and the sharp orders of the police ranged round the vehicle. Three policemen took their places inside with him, and the vehicle drove off, slowly at first until it was free of the crowd, and then at a sharp gallop. Godfrey was conscious of but little as he went along; he had a vague idea of a warm moist feeling down the back, and wondered whether it was his own blood. Gradually his impressions became more and more indistinct, and he knew nothing more until he was conscious of a sensation of cold at the back of the head, and of a murmur of voices round him. Soon he was lifted up into a sitting position, and he felt that bandages were being wrapped round his head. Then he was laid down again, he heard a door slam and a key turn, and then he knew nothing more. When he awoke daylight was streaming in through a loophole high up in the wall. He tried to sit up, but could not, and looked round trying to recall where he was and what had happened. He was in a dark cell with no furniture save the straw on which he was lying.

"It is a prison certainly," he muttered to himself. "How did I get here?"

Then gradually the events of the night before came to his mind. There had been a terrible fight. Akim had been killed. There had been a tremendous explosion. The police had something to do with it. Was it all a dream, or was it real? Was he dreaming now? He was some time before he could persuade himself that it was all real, and indeed it was not until the door opened and two men entered that he felt quite sure that he, Godfrey Bullen, was really lying there in a prison cell, with a dull numbing pain at the back of his head, and too weak even to sit upright. One of the men leaned over him. Godfrey tried to speak, but could not do so above a whisper.

"He will do now," the man said without paying any attention to his words. "He must have a thick skull or that sword-cut would have finished him. Give him some wine and water now, and some soup presently. We must not let him slip through our fingers."

Some liquid was poured between his lips, and then he was left alone again. "Certainly it is all real," he said to himself. "Akim must have been killed, and I must be a prisoner. What in the world can it be all about?" He was too weak to think, but after another visit had been paid him, and he had been lifted up and given some strong broth, he began to think more clearly. "Can it have been a Nihilist arrest?" he thought to himself. "Akim and Petroff can never be Nihilists. The idea is absurd. I have never heard them say a word against the government or the Czar."

Then he thought of their friend Katia, and how she had got him to aid in the escape of a Nihilist. "It is all nonsense," he murmured, "the idea of a girl like that being mixed up in a conspiracy." Then his ideas again became more and more confused, and when the doctor visited him again in the evening he was in a state of high fever, talking incoherently to himself. For seven days he continued in that state. There was no lack of care; the doctor visited him at very short intervals, and an attendant remained night and day beside him, applying cold bandages to his head, and carefully noting down in a book every word that passed his lips. Then a good constitution gradually triumphed over the fever, and on the eighth day he lay a mere shadow of himself, but cool and sensible, on a bed in an airy ward. Nourishing food was given to him in abundance, but it was another week before he was able to stand alone. Then one morning two attendants brought a stretcher to the side of his bed. He was assisted to put on his clothes, and was then placed on the stretcher and carried away. He was taken through long passages, up and down stairs, at last into a large room. Here he was lifted on the stretcher and placed in a chair. Facing him at a table were nine officers.

"Prisoner," the president said, glancing at a large closely-written sheet of paper before him, "you are accused of taking part in a Nihilist conspiracy to murder the Czar."

"I know nothing of any Nihilist conspiracy," Godfrey said. "I was accidentally in the room with my friends Akim and Petroff when the police entered."

The president waved his hand impatiently. "That of course," he said. "Your name is Godfrey Bullen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Born in St. Petersburg, but of English parentage?"

Godfrey bowed his head.

"Three months since you took part in the plot by means of which the notorious Valerian Ossinsky escaped from the hands of the police, and you were the accomplice of Sophia Perovskaia in that matter."

"I never heard the name before," Godfrey said.

The president paid no attention, but went on: "You said at the time," he continued, reading from the notes, "that you did not know the woman who spoke to you, but it is known that she was an associate of Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, at whose place you were captured the other day. There is therefore no doubt that you know her."

"I knew her under another name," Godfrey said; "but if I had been told she was Sophia Perovskaia, it conveyed nothing to me, for I had never heard of her."

"You are committing yourself, prisoner," the president said coldly. "When examined you denied all acquaintance with the woman, and declared that she was a stranger."

"Excuse me, sir," Godfrey said, "I said it was a masked woman, and that I did not see her face, which was perfectly true. I admit now that I did know who she was, but naturally as a gentleman I endeavoured to shield her in a matter concerning which I believed that she was as innocent as I was."

A murmur of incredulity ran round the circle of officers.

"A few days after that," the president went on, again reading from his notes, "you were present with Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff at a supper in a trakir in Ossuloff Street. There were present on that occasion"—and he read a list of six names—"four of whom have since been convicted and punished, and two of whom, although not yet taken, are known to have been engaged in the murderous attempt at the Winter Palace. You were greeted there with significant enthusiasm, which was evidently a testimony on the part of these conspirators to the part you had played in the affair of Ossinsky."

Godfrey felt that the meshes were closing round him. He remembered that he had wondered at the time why he had been received with such great cordiality.

"Now," the president went on, "you are captured in the room of Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, who were both beyond doubt engaged in the plot at the Winter Palace, with two other equally guilty conspirators, and were doubtless deliberating on some fresh atrocity when interrupted by the agents of the police. You shared in the desperate resistance they made, which resulted in the death of eight police officers by pistol shot, or by the explosion of gunpowder, by which Petroff Stepanoff, who fired it, was also blown to pieces. What have you to say in your defence?"

"I still say that I am perfectly innocent," Godfrey said. "I knew nothing of these men being conspirators in any way, and I demand to be allowed to communicate with my friends, and to obtain the assistance of an advocate."

"An advocate could say nothing for you," the president said. "You do not deny any of the charges brought against you, which are, that you were the associate of these assassins, that you aided Sophia Perovskaia in effecting the escape of Valerian Ossinsky, that you received the congratulations of the conspirators at the banquet, and that you were found in this room in company with four of the men concerned in the attempt to assassinate the Czar. But the court is willing to be merciful, and if you will tell all you know with reference to this plot, and give the names of all the conspirators with whom you have been concerned, your offence will be dealt with as leniently as possible."

"I repeat that I know nothing, and can therefore disclose nothing, sir, and I venture to protest against the authority of this court to try and condemn me, an Englishman."

"No matter what is the nationality of the person," the president said coldly, "who offends against the laws of this country, he is amenable to its laws, and his nationality affords him no protection whatever. You will have time given you to think the matter over before your sentence is communicated to you. Remove the prisoner."

Godfrey was laid on the stretcher again and carried away. This time he was taken, not to the room where he had been placed while ill, but to a dark cell where scarce a ray of light penetrated. There was a heap of straw in one corner, a loaf of black bread, and a jug of water. Godfrey when left alone shook up the straw to make it as comfortable as he possibly could, then sat down upon it with his back against the wall.

"Well, this is certainly a go," he said to himself. "If there was one thing that seemed less likely than another, it was that I should get involved in this Nihilist business. In the first place, the governor specially warned me against it; in the second place, I have been extremely careful never to give any opinion on public affairs; and in the third place, if there is one thing I detest more than another it is assassination. I cannot say it is cowardly in these men. The Nihilists do more than risk their lives; they give their lives away to carry out their end. Still, though I own it is not cowardly, I hate it. The question is, what next? Petrovytch will, of course, write home to say that I am missing. I don't suppose he will have the slightest idea that I have been arrested as a Nihilist. I don't see how he could think so. He is more likely to think that I have been made away with somehow. No doubt my father will come out; but, of course, he won't learn any more than Petrovytch, unless they choose to tell him. I don't suppose they will tell him. I have heard that generally families of people they seize know nothing about it, unless they are arrested too. They may guess what has happened, but they don't know. In my case I should fancy the police would say nothing.

"They will hear from the inquiries that my father makes that he has no suspicion of what has happened to me, and they will know if they did tell him our ambassador would be making a row. But even if the governor were to learn what had become of me, and were to insist upon learning what crime I am accused of committing, I do not see that things would be much better. They would hand over the notes of the evidence on which I was convicted, and, taking it altogether, I am bound to say I do not see how they could help convicting me. Short of catching me like a sort of Guy Fawkes blowing up the palace, the case is about as strong as it could be. I certainly have put my foot in it. I was acquainted with these two conspirators; through them I got acquainted with that confounded woman Katia, though it seems that wasn't her name. Then through her I helped this fellow Ossinsky to escape. Then, trying to shield her, I make matters twenty times worse; for while my answer before led them to believe that she was a perfect stranger to me, I was ass enough to let out just now that I knew her. Then there was that supper. I could not make out at the time why they greeted me so heartily. Now, of course, it is plain enough; and now, just after this blowing-up business, here am I caught with four notorious conspirators, and mixed up in a fight in which eight or ten policemen are killed, and the roof blown off a house. That would be circumstantial evidence enough to condemn a man in England, let alone Russia.

"I don't suppose they are going to hang me, because they publish the names of the fellows they hang; but imprisonment for years in one of their ghastly dungeons is bad enough. If it is to be, it will be Siberia, I hope. There must be some way of getting out of a big country like that—north, south, east, or west. Well, I don't see any use bothering over it. I have got into a horrible scrape, there is no doubt about that, and I must take what comes."

Godfrey was essentially of a hopeful nature, and always looked at the bright side of things. He was a strong believer in the adage, "Where there is a will, there is a way." He had been in his full share of scrapes at school, and had always made a rule of taking things easily. He now examined the cell.

"Beastly place!" he said, "and horribly damp. I wonder why dungeons are always damp. Cellars at home are not damp, and a dungeon is nothing but a cellar after all. Well, I shall take a nap."

The next day Godfrey was again taken before the tribunal, and again closely questioned as to his knowledge of the Nihilists. He again insisted that he knew nothing of them.

"Of course I knew Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff; but I had only been in their rooms once before, and the only person I met there before was the young woman who called herself Katia, but who you say was somebody else. This was at the lodgings they occupied before."

"But you were found with Alexander Kinkoff and Paul Kousmitch."

"They only arrived a short time before the police entered. I had never seen either of them before."

These two prisoners had been examined before Godfrey entered, and had been questioned about him. Kousmitch had declared that he had never seen him before, and the court knew that the spies who had been watching the house had seen him enter but a short time before the police force arrived. As the two statements had been made independently it was thought probable that in this respect Godfrey was speaking the truth. Not so, however, his assertions that he was unacquainted with any of the other conspirators.

He was again taken back to his cell, and for the next week saw no one but the warder who brought his bread and water, and who did not reply by a single word to any questions that he asked him. Godfrey did his best to keep up his spirits. He had learnt by heart at Shrewsbury the first two books of the Iliad, and these he daily repeated aloud, set himself equations to do, and solved them in his head, repeated the dates in Greek history, and went through everything he could remember as having learned.

He occasionally heard footsteps above him, and wondered whether that also was a cell, and what sort of man the prisoner was. Once or twice at night, when all was quiet, he heard loud cries, and wondered whether they were the result of delirium or torture. His gruff jailer was somewhat won by his cheerfulness. Every day Godfrey wished him good morning as he visited the cell, inquired what the weather was like outside, expressed an earnest hope that silence didn't disagree with him, and generally joked and laughed as if he rather enjoyed himself than otherwise. At the end of the week an official entered the cell.

"I have come to inform you, prisoner, that the sentence of death that had been passed upon you has, by the clemency of the Czar, been commuted to banishment for life to Siberia."

"Very well, sir," Godfrey said. "I know, of course, that I am perfectly innocent of the crime of which I am charged; but as the Czar no doubt supposes that I am guilty of taking part in a plot against his life, I acknowledge and thank him for his clemency. I have no peculiar desire to visit Siberia, but at least it will be a change for the better from this place. I trust that it shall not be long before I start."

As the official was unable to make out whether Godfrey spoke in mockery or not, he made no reply.

"These Nihilists are men of iron," he said afterwards. "They walk to the scaffold with smiling faces; they exist in dungeons that would kill a dog in twenty-four hours, and nothing can tempt them to divulge their secrets; even starvation does not affect them. They are dangerous enemies, but it must be owned that they are brave men and women. This boy, for he is little more, almost laughed in our faces; and, in spite of his stay in that damp cell, seemed to be in excellent spirits. It is the same with them all, though I own that some of them do break down sometimes; but I think that those who commit suicide do so principally because they are afraid that, under pressure, they may divulge secrets against each other. Ossip, who attends that young fellow, says that he is always the same, and speaks as cheerfully to him every morning as if he were in a palace instead of in a dungeon."

Two days later Godfrey was aroused in the night.

"Why, it is not light yet," he said. "What are you disturbing me at this time for?"

"Get up," the man said; "you are going to start."

"Thank goodness for that!" Godfrey said, jumping up from his straw. "That is the best news that I have heard for a long time."

In the court-yard seven prisoners were standing. They were placed at some distance from each other, and by each stood a soldier and a policeman. A similar guard took their places by the side of Godfrey as he came out. An official took charge of the whole party, and, still keeping a few paces apart, they sallied out through the prison doors and marched through the sleeping city. Perhaps Godfrey was the only one of the party who did not feel profoundly impressed. They were going to leave behind them for ever family and friends and country, and many would have welcomed death as an escape from the dreary prospect before them. Godfrey's present feeling was that of exhilaration.

He had done his best to keep his mind at work, but the damp and unwholesome air of the cell had told upon him, enfeebled as he had been by the attack of fever. As he walked along now he drew in deep breaths of the brisk night air, and looked with delight at the stars glistening overhead. As to the future, just at that moment it troubled him but little. He knew nothing of Siberia beyond having heard that the prisoners there led a terrible life. That he should escape from it some time or other seemed to him a matter of course. How, he could form no idea until he got there; but as to the fact he had no misgiving, for it seemed to him ridiculous that in a country so enormous as Siberia a prisoner could not make his way out sooner or later.

When they reached the railway-station a train stood in readiness. Each prisoner had a separate compartment, his two guards accompanying him. Godfrey addressed a word to his custodians. The policeman, however, said, "You are forbidden to speak," and in a minute or two the train moved off.

Godfrey dozed occasionally until morning, and then looked out at the dark woods through which they passed for hours. Twice the train stopped at lonely stations, and the prisoners were supplied with food. In the afternoon Godfrey saw the gilded and painted domes of a great city, and knew that it must be Moscow. Here, however, they made no stay, but steamed straight through the station and continued their way. Godfrey slept soundly after it became dark, waking up once when the train came to a standstill. At early morning he was roused and ordered to alight, and in the same order as before the prisoners were marched through the streets of Nijni Novgorod to the bank of the Volga. Few people were yet abroad in the streets, but all they met looked pityingly at the group of exiles, a sight of daily occurrence in the springtime of the year. Ordinary prisoners, of whom from fifteen to twenty thousand are sent annually to Siberia, are taken down the Volga in a convict barge, towed by a steamer, in batches of six or seven hundred. Political prisoners are differently treated; they are carried on board the ordinary steamer, each having a separate cabin, and during the voyage they are allowed no intercourse whatever, either with each other or with the ordinary passengers.

Map of Russian Empire

Of these there were a considerable number on board the steamer, as the season had but just begun, and merchants, traders, and officials were taking advantage of the river's being open to push forward into Siberia. At present, however, these were all below. The prisoners were conducted to the cabins reserved for them, and then locked in. Presently Godfrey heard a buzz of many voices and a general movement in the cabin outside, and the fact that he was a prisoner and cut off from the world came to him more strongly than it had hitherto done. An hour later there was a movement and shouting overhead. Then he felt the paddles revolving, and knew that the steamer was under way. He could, however, see nothing. A sort of shutter was fastened outside the scuttle, which gave him the opportunity to take a glimpse of the sky, but nothing of the shore or water. Nothing could be more monotonous than the journey, and yet the air and light that came down through the port-hole rendered it far more pleasant than existence in a prison cell. He knew, too, that, dull as it was in the cabin, there would be little to see on deck, for the shores of the rivers were everywhere flat and low.

After twenty-four hours' travel the steamer stopped. Since Godfrey had been in Russia he had naturally studied the geography of the empire, and knew a good deal about the routes. He guessed, therefore, that the halt was at Kasan, the capital of the old Tartar kingdom. It was a break to him to listen to the noises overhead, to guess at the passengers who were leaving and coming on board, to listen to scraps of conversation that could be heard through the open port-hole, and to the shouts of farewell from those on board to those on shore as the vessel steamed on again. He knew that after two hours' more steaming down the Volga the vessel turned up the Kama, a large river running into it and navigable for 1400 miles. Up this the vessel steamed for three days and then reached Perm. In the evening Godfrey and his companions were disembarked and, strictly guarded as before, were marched to the railway-station, placed in a special carriage attached to a train, and after twenty-four hours' travel at the rate of about twelve miles an hour reached Ekaterinburg. This railway had only been open for a year, and until its completion this portion of the journey had been one of the most tiresome along the whole route, as the Ural Mountains intervene between Perm and Ekaterinburg; their height is not great here, and the railway crosses them at not more than 1700 feet above sea-level.

On arriving at the station half the prisoners were at once placed in vehicles and the others were sent to the prison. Godfrey was one of the party that went on at once. The vehicle, which was called a telega, was a sort of narrow waggon without springs, seats, or cover; the bottom was covered with a deep layer of straw, and there were some thick rugs for coverings at night. It was drawn by three horses. Godfrey was in the last of the four vehicles that started together. His soldier guard took his place beside him, four mounted Cossacks rode, two on each side of the procession. The driver, a peasant, to whom the horses belonged, cracked his short-handled whip and the horses sprang forward. Siberian horses are wiry little animals, not taking to the eye, but possessing speed and great endurance. The post-houses are situated from twelve to twenty-five versts apart, according to the difficulty of the country, a verst being about two-thirds of an English mile. At these post-houses relays of horses are always kept in readiness for one or two vehicles, but word is sent on before when political prisoners are coming, and extra relays are obtained by the post-masters from the peasants.

To Godfrey the sensation of being whirled through the air as fast as the horses could gallop was, after his long confinement, perfectly delightful, and he fairly shouted with joy and excitement. Now that they were past Ekaterinburg, Godfrey's guard, a good-tempered-looking young fellow, seemed to consider that it was no longer necessary to preserve an absolute silence, which had no doubt been as irksome to him as to his companion.

"We can talk now. Why are you so merry?"

"To be in the air again is glorious," Godfrey said, "I should not mind how long the journey lasted if it were like this. How far do we travel in carriages?"

"To Tiumen, 300 versts; then we take steamer again, that is if you go farther."

"You don't know where we are going to then?"

"Not at all, it will be known at Tiumen; that is where these things are settled generally, but people like you are under special orders. You don't look very wicked;" and he smiled in a friendly way as he looked at the lad beside him.

"I am not wicked at all, not in the way you think," Godfrey said.

"Do not talk about that," the soldier interrupted, "I must not know anything about you; talk about other things, but not why you are here."

Godfrey nodded. "If we go on beyond Tiumen we go by steamer, do we not?"

"Yes, through Tobolsk to Tomsk, beyond that we shall drive. You are lucky, you people, that you drive, the others walk; it is long work, but not so long as it used to be, they say. I have been told that in the old times, when they started on foot from Moscow it took them sometimes two years to reach the farthest places. Now they have the railway, and the steamers on the river as far as Tomsk."

"How do they take them in the steamers?"

"They take them in great barges that are towed; we passed two on our way to Perm. They hold five or six hundred, there is a great iron cage on deck, and they let half the number up at a time in order to get air. They are always going along at this time of year, for they all go early in the season so as to get to the journey's end before the frosts set in."

"But surely all these men cannot be guilty of great crimes," Godfrey said, "for I have heard that about twenty thousand a year are sent away?"

"No, many of them are only lazy fellows who drink and will not work. We sent away three from my village the year before I was taken for a soldier. They were lazy and would not do their share of work, so the heads of the village met and decided that they should go to Siberia. They drew up a paper, which was sent to be confirmed by the judge of the district, and then soldiers came and took them away."

"But you don't mean to say," Godfrey said, "that men are sent to prison all their lives because they are lazy."

"Oh no, no one would think of such a thing as that! Men like these are only sent to the big towns, Tiumen, or Perm, or Tobolsk, and then they are settled on land or work in the towns, but they are free to do as they like. The country wants labour, and men who won't work at home and expect the community to keep them have to work here or else they would starve. Then there are numbers who are only guilty of some small offence. They have stolen something, or they have resisted the tax-gatherer, or something of that sort. They only go to prison for the term of their sentences, perhaps only three or four months, and then they too are free like the others, and can work in the towns, or trade if they happen to have money to set them up, or they can settle in a village and take up land and cultivate it. They can live where they like in Siberia. I had many rich men pointed out to me in Tobolsk who had come out as convicts."

"You have been here before then?" Godfrey said.

"Yes, this is my second journey. I hope I shall come no more. We get a little extra pay and are better fed than we are with the regiment, and we have no drill; but then it is sad. Last time I had one with me who had left his wife and family behind; he was always sad, he talked to me sometimes of them, there was no one else to talk to. He was here for life, and he knew he should never see them again. She was young and would marry again."

"But she couldn't do that as long as he lived," Godfrey said.

"Oh yes; from the day a prisoner crosses the frontier his marriage is annulled and his wife can marry again. She may come with him if she likes, but if she does she can never go back again."

"And do many wives come?"

"A good many," the soldier said; "but I only know what I have heard. I was with one of you last time, and it was only on the way back that I heard of things about the others. Formerly the guards remained in Siberia if they chose, it was too far to send them back to Russia; but now that the journey is done so quickly, and we can get back all the way from Tomsk by the rivers, except this little bit, we go back again as soon as we have handed over our charges. I did not go farther than Tomsk last time, and I was back at Nijni in less than three months after starting. What part of Russia do you come from?"

"I am an Englishman."

The soldier looked round in surprise. "I did not know Englishmen could speak our language so well; of course I noticed that your speech was not quite like mine, but I am from the south and I thought you must come from somewhere in the north or from Poland. How did—" and here he stopped. "But I must not ask that; I don't want to know anything, not even your name. Look there, we are just going to pass a convoy of other prisoners."

In a minute or two they overtook the party. It consisted of about a hundred and fifty prisoners escorted by a dozen mounted Cossacks. The men were in prison garb of yellowish-brown stuff with a coloured patch in the back between the shoulders. They had chains fastened to rings round the ankles and tied up to their belts. They were not heavy, and interfered very little with their walking. The procession in no way accorded with Godfrey's preconceived idea. The men were walking along without much attempt at regular order. They were laughing and talking together or with their guards, and some of them shouted chaffing remarks to the four vehicles as they swept past them.

"They do not look very unhappy," Godfrey said.

"Why should they?" the soldier replied; "they are better off than they would be at home. Lots of men break the law on purpose to be sent out; it is a good country. They say wives get rid of their husbands by informing against them and getting them sent here. I believe there are quite as many husbands with scolding wives who get themselves sent here to be free of them. As long as they are on the road or employed in hard labour they are fed better than they ever were at home, better a great deal than we soldiers are. Even in the prisons they do not work so very hard, for it is difficult to find work for them; only if they are sent to the mines their lot is bad. Of that I know nothing, but I have heard. As for the rest, from what I have seen of it I should say that a convict here is better off than a peasant at home. But here we are at the post-house."

CHAPTER V.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

The stay at the post-houses was very short. As soon as the vehicles were seen coming along the straight level road, the first set of horses were brought out, and the leading tarantass was ready to proceed in two or three minutes. The other horses were changed as quickly, and in less than ten minutes from their arrival the whole were on their way again. While the horses were being changed the prisoners were permitted to get out and stretch their legs, but were not allowed to exchange a word with each other or with anyone else. At every fourth stage a bowl of soup with a hunch of bread was brought to each prisoner by one of the guards at the ostrov or prison, where the convicts were lodged as they came along. There were rugs in the vehicles to lay over them at night when the air was sharp and chilly, although in the day the sun had great power, and the dust rose in clouds under the horses' feet.

There was little of interest to be seen on the journey. Only round the villages was there any cultivation, and the plains stretched away unbroken save by small groups of cattle, horses, and sheep. Although Godfrey had not minded the shaking of the springless vehicle for the first stage or two, he felt long before he reached the journey's end as if every bone was dislocated. As a rule the road was good, but in some places, where it passed through swampy tracts, it had given in the spring thaw, and had been cut into deep ruts. Here the shaking as they passed along at night was tremendous. Godfrey and his companion were dashed against each other or against the sides with such force that Godfrey several times thought his skull was fractured, and he was indeed thankful when, after forty hours on the road, they drove into Tiumen.

Tiumen is a town of over 15,000 inhabitants, and is the first town arrived at in Siberia proper, the frontier between Russia and that country running between Ekaterinburg and that town. Here the prisoners were at once placed on board a steamer, and Godfrey was glad indeed to throw himself down upon the bed, where he slept without waking until the steamer got under way in the morning. He was delighted to see that the port-hole was not, as in the first boat, blocked by an outside shutter, but that he could look out over the country as they passed along. For a time the scenery was similar to that which they had been passing over, bare and desolate; but it presently assumed a different character; fields of green wheat stretched away from the river side; comfortable-looking little villages succeeded each other rapidly as the steamer passed along, and save for the difference of architecture and the peculiar green domes and pinnacles of the little churches he might have been looking over a scene in England.

The river was about two hundred yards wide here, a smooth and placid stream. The steamer did not proceed at any great pace, as it was towing behind it one of the heavy convict barges, and although the passage is ordinarily performed in a day and a half, it took them nearly a day longer to accomplish, and it was not until late in the afternoon of the third day that Tobolsk came in sight. Through his port-hole Godfrey obtained a good view of the town, containing nearly 30,000 inhabitants, with large government buildings, and a great many houses built of stone. It is built in a very unhealthy position, the country round being exceedingly low and marshy. After passing Tobolsk they entered the Obi, one of the largest rivers in Asia. The next morning the steamer again started for her sixteen-hundred-mile journey to Tomsk. The journey occupied eight days, the convict barge having been left behind at Tobolsk.

The time passed tediously to Godfrey, for the banks were low and flat, villages were very rare, and the steamer only touched at three places. Herds of horses were seen from time to time roaming untended over the country. The only amusement was in watching the Ostjaks, the natives of the banks of the Obi. These people have no towns or villages, but live in rough tents made of skins. He saw many of them fishing from their tiny canoes, but the steamer did not pass near enough to them to enable him to get a view of them, as they generally paddled away towards the shore as the steamer approached. He heard afterwards that they are wonderfully skilful in the use of the bow, which they use principally for killing squirrels and other small animals. These bows are six feet long, the arrows four feet. The head is a small iron ball, so as to kill without injuring the fur of small animals, and the feats recorded of the English archers of old times are far exceeded by the Ostjaks. Even at long distances they seldom fail to strike a squirrel on the head, and Godfrey was informed by a man who had been present that he saw an Ostjak shoot an arrow high into the air, and cut it in two with another arrow as it descended, a feat that seemed to him altogether incredible, but is confirmed by the evidence of Russian travellers.

Tomsk is situated on the river Tom, an affluent of the Obi. The town is about the same size as Tobolsk; the climate of the district is considered the best in Siberia; the land is fertile, and among the mountains are many valuable mines. Although a comparatively small province in comparison to Tobolsk on one side and Yeneseisk on the other, it contains an area of half a million square miles, and, excluding Russia, is bigger than any two countries of Europe together. It contains a rural population of 725,000-130,000 natives, chiefly Tartars and Kalmucs, and 30,000 troops.

Here Godfrey was landed, and marched to the prison. Of these there are two, the one a permanent convict establishment, the other for the temporary detention of prisoners passing through. Godfrey slipped a few roubles into the hand of his guard, for his watch, money, and the other things in his pockets had been restored to him before starting on his journey. After two days' stop in the prison the journey was continued as before, a soldier sitting by the driver, a police-officer taking the place of the soldier who had before accompanied him. He began to speak to Godfrey as soon as they started.

"We are not so strict now," he said. "You will soon be across the line into Eastern Siberia, and you will no longer meet people through whom you might send messages or letters. As to escape, that would be out of the question since you left Ekaterinburg, for none can travel either by steamer or post without a permit, or even enter an inn, and the document must be shown at every village."

"But I suppose prisoners do escape sometimes," Godfrey said.

"There have not been a dozen escapes in the last fifty years," the policeman said. "There are great numbers get away from their prisons or employments every year, but the authorities do not trouble about them; they may take to the mountains or forests, and live on game for a few months in summer, but when winter arrives they must come in and give themselves up."

"What happens to them then?" Godfrey asked.

"Perhaps nothing but solitary confinement for a bit, perhaps a beating with rods, just according to the temper of the chief official at the time. Perhaps if it is a bad case they are sent to the mines for a bit; that is what certainly happens when they are political prisoners."

"Why can't they get right away?"

"Where are they to go to?" the officer said with a laugh. "To the south there are sandy deserts where they would certainly die of thirst; to the north trackless forests, cold that would freeze a bullock solid in a night, great rivers miles wide to cross, and terrible morasses, to say nothing of the wolves who would make short work of you. The native tribes to the west, and the people of the desert, are all fierce and savage, and would kill anyone who came among them merely for his clothes; and, besides, they get a reward from government for every escaped prisoner they bring in alive or dead. No, we don't want bolts or bars to keep prisoners in here. The whole land is a prison-house, and the prisoners know well enough that it is better to live under a roof and to be well fed there than to starve in the forest, with the prospect of a flogging at the end of their holiday. Still there are thousands take to the woods in the summer. The government does not care. Why should it? It is spared the expense of feeding them, and if they starve to death or kill each other off in their quarrels (for the greater part of them would think no more of taking life than of killing a fowl) there is an end of all further trouble about them, for you understand, it is only the men who have life sentences, the murderers, and so on, that attempt to run away; the short-sentence men are not such fools.

"No," he went on kindly, seeing that Godfrey looked depressed at what he had heard; "whatever you do don't think of running away. If you behave well, and gain the good opinion of the authorities, you won't find yourself uncomfortable. You will be made a clerk or a store-keeper, and will have a good deal of liberty after a time. If you try to run away, you will probably be sent to the mines; and though it is not so bad there as they say, it is bad enough."

But even this prospect was not very cheering to Godfrey. Hitherto it had seemed to him that there could be no real difficulty, although there might be many hardships and privations, in making his escape from so vast a prison. He had told himself that it must be possible to evade pursuit in so vast a region; but now it seemed that nature had set so strong a wall round the country that the Russians did not even trouble themselves to pursue, confident that in time the prisoners must come back again. But he was not silent long. With the buoyancy of youth he put the question aside for the present with the reflection, "Where there is a will there is a way; anyhow some fellows have got away, and if they have done it, I can."

Godfrey had not as yet realized his situation; the sentence "for life" had fallen upon his ears but not upon his mind; he still viewed the matter as he might have viewed some desperate scrape at school. He had, as he would have said, put his foot in it horribly; but that he should really have to pass his whole life in these wilds, should never see England again, his father, mother, or sisters, was a thing that his mind absolutely refused to grasp. "Of course I shall get away somehow." This had been the refrain that was constantly running through his mind, and even now a satisfactory reply to the assertion that not a dozen men had made their escape at once occurred to him. There was no motive to induce them to make their escape. They could not return to Russia, and in any other country they would be even more in exile than here, where everyone spoke their language, and where, as far as he had seen, the climate was as good as that of Russia, and the country no more flat and ugly.

"There is nothing they can want to escape for," he repeated to himself. "I have everything to escape for, and I mean to do it." Having once re-established that view to his satisfaction, he began to chat away cheerfully again to his companion. "It is not everyone," he said, "who possesses my advantages, or who can travel five or six thousand miles by rail, steamer, and carriage, without ever having to put his hand in his pocket for a single kopec. The only objection to it is that they don't give me a return ticket."

"That is an objection," the policeman agreed, smiling.

"We are not going to travel night and day, as we did between Ekaterinburg and Tiumen, I hope?"

"Oh, no; we shall only travel while it is light."

"Well, that is a comfort. It was bad enough for that short distance. It would be something awful if it had to be kept up for a fortnight. How long shall we be before we get to Irkoutsk?"

"About a month. I know nothing as to what will be done with you beyond that. You may, for anything I know, go to the mines at Nertchinsk, which are a long distance east beyond Irkoutsk; or you may go to Verkhoyansk, a Yakout settlement 3000 miles from Irkutsk, within the Arctic Circle. There are lots of these penal settlements scattered over the country. They do not send the ordinary convict population there. There is no danger from them; but the theory is that the politicals are always plotting, and therefore they are for the most part sent where by no possibility can they get up trouble."

Godfrey set his lips hard together and asked no questions for the next half-hour. Although the journey was not continued by night the telega was still Godfrey's constant place of abode. Sometimes it was wheeled under a shed, sometimes it stood in the road, but in all cases the policeman was by his side night and day. Godfrey was indifferent whether he slept in a bed or in the telega, which, when the straw was fresh shaken up and a couple of rugs laid upon it, was by no means uncomfortable. The nights were not cold and no rain had fallen since he left Nijni. He further reflected that probably there would be fleas and other vermin in the post-houses, and that altogether he was a gainer instead of a loser by the regulation.

He was pleased with the appearance of Atchinsk, a bright little town a day's journey from Tomsk. It was, like all the Siberian towns, built of wood, but the houses were all painted white or gray, picked out with bright colours. It stood in the middle of a large grass plain, with inclosed meadows of luxuriant herbage and bright flowers, among which large numbers of sheep and cattle were feeding. Beyond this the country again became dull and monotonous. Krasnoiarsk was the next town reached. Between this town and Kansk the country was again cultivated.

Scarce a day passed without large gangs of convicts being overtaken on the road. For some distance Godfrey suffered terribly from mosquitoes, which swarmed so thickly that the peasants working in the fields were obliged to wear black veils over their faces. Fortunately he had been warned by his guard at Atchinsk that there would be trouble with these pests on further, and the man had, at his request, bought for him a few yards of muslin, under which they sat during the day and spread over the telega at night. It was, however, a long and dreary journey, and Godfrey was heartily glad when at last they saw the domes of Irkoutsk, a city of fifty thousand inhabitants.

They drove rapidly through the town to the prison, where he was placed in a cell by himself. The morning after his arrival the warder entered with a man carrying a basin and shaving apparatus.

"Confound it!" Godfrey muttered. "I have been expecting this ever since I saw the first gang of convicts, but I hoped they did not do it to us."

It was of course useless to remonstrate. His hair, which had grown to a great length since he left St. Petersburg, was first cut short; then the barber lathered his head and set to work with a razor. Godfrey wondered what his particular style of hair was going to be. He had noticed that all the convicts were partially shaved. Some were left bare from the centre of the head down one side; others had the front half of the head shaved, while the hair at the back was left; some had only a ridge of hair running along the top of the head, either from the forehead to the nape of the neck or from one ear to the other.

"He is shaving me like a monk," he said to himself as the work proceeded. "Well, I think that is the best after all, for with a cap on it won't show."

When the barber had done he stepped back and surveyed Godfrey with an air of satisfaction; while the jailer, as he wrote down the particulars in a note-book, grinned. Godfrey passed his hand over his head and found that, as he supposed, he had been shaved half-way down to the ears; but in the middle of this bald place the barber had left a patch of hair about the size of half-a-crown which stood up perfectly erect. He burst into a shout of laughter, in which the other two men joined. The jailer patted him approvingly on the shoulder. "Bravo, young fellow!" he said, pleased at seeing how lightly Godfrey took it, for many of the exiles who had stood bravely the loss of their liberty were completely broken down by the loss of a portion of their hair, which branded them wherever they went as convicts.

Godfrey was then taken out into a large court-yard and out through a gate into another inclosure. This had evidently been added but a very short time to the precincts of the prison. It was of considerable size, being four or five acres in extent, and was surrounded on three sides by a palisade some fourteen feet in height, of newly-sawn timber. The wall of the prison formed the fourth side of the square. In each corner of the inclosure was placed a clump of six little wooden huts. Two low fences ran across the inclosure at right angles to each other, dividing the space into four equal squares. Where the fences crossed each other there was an inclosure a few yards across, and in this were two sentry-boxes with soldiers, musket in hand, standing by them. A few men were listlessly moving about, while others were digging and working in small garden patches into which the inclosures were divided. The policeman who accompanied Godfrey led him to one of the little huts. He opened the door and went in. A young man was sitting there.

"I have brought you a companion," the policeman said. "He will share your hut with you. You can teach him what is required." With this brief introduction he closed the door behind him and left. The young man had risen, and he and Godfrey looked hard at each other.

"Surely we have met before!" the prisoner said. "I know your face quite well."

"And I know yours also," Godfrey replied.

"Now that you speak I know you. You are the young Englishman, Godfrey Bullen."

"I am," Godfrey replied; "and you?"

"Alexis Stumpoff."

"So it is!" Godfrey exclaimed in surprise, and, delighted at this meeting, they shook hands cordially.

"But what are you here for?" Godfrey asked. "I thought that you had obtained an appointment at Tobolsk."

"Yes, I was sent out as assistant to the doctor of one of the prisons. I suppose you understood that it was not the sort of appointment one would choose."

"I was certainly surprised when I heard that you were going so far away," Godfrey said, "as my friends told me that you had property. It seemed almost like going into banishment."

"That was just what it was," the young doctor laughed. "I had been too outspoken in my political opinions, and one or two of our set had been arrested and sent out here; and when I was informed, on the day after I passed my examinations, that I was appointed to a prison at Tobolsk, it was also intimated to me that it would be more agreeable to go there in that capacity than as a prisoner. As I was also of that opinion, and as, to tell you the truth, some of our friends were for pushing matters a good deal farther than I cared about doing, I was not altogether sorry to get out of it."

"But how is it that you are here as a prisoner?" Godfrey asked.

"That is more than I can tell you. Some two months ago the governor of the prison entered my room with two warders, and informed me briefly that I was to be sent here as a prisoner. I had ten minutes given me to pack up my things for the journey, and half an hour later was in the cabin of a steamer, with a Cossack at the door. What it was for, Heaven only knows. I had never broken any regulations, never spoken to a political prisoner when in the hospital except to ask him medical questions, and had never opened my lips on politics to a soul there."

"I think perhaps I can enlighten you," Godfrey said; and he related to him the attempt to blow up the emperor at the Winter Palace, and the fate of Petroff Stepanoff and Akim Soushiloff.

"That does indeed explain it," Alexis said. "I was very intimate with both of them, and it is quite enough to have been intimate with two men engaged in a plot against the life of the Czar to ensure one a visit to Siberia. So that is it! I have thought of everything, and it seemed to me that it must have been something at St. Petersburg—that my name had been found on a list when some of the Nihilists were arrested, or something of that sort; for I certainly did join them, but that was before there was any idea of taking steps against the Czar. No wonder you are here, after being mixed up in that escape of Valerian Ossinsky, and then being caught again with four Nihilists just after that terrible attempt to blow up the Czar. I wonder they did not hang you."

"I wonder too," Godfrey said. "I suppose if I had been a year or two older they would have done so; but I can assure you I had not the slightest idea that Petroff and Akim were Nihilists. I do think that the country is horribly misgoverned, but as a foreigner that was no business of mine; and however strongly I felt, I would have had nothing to do with men who tried to gain their end by assassination. I was just as innocent in the affair of Ossinsky. I behaved like a fool, I grant, but that was all. I had met the woman, who as I now know was Sophia Perovskaia, but she was only known to me then from having met her once in Petroff and Akim's room, and she was introduced to me as Akim's cousin Katia. I met her at the Opera-house, and she told me a cock-and-bull story about a young officer who had come to see a lady there, and had left his regiment at Moscow without leave to do so. His colonel, who was at the Opera-house, had heard of his being there and was looking for him, and I was persuaded to change dominoes with him to enable him to slip off."

"Oh that was it!" Alexis said. "I wondered how you got mixed up in the affair, and still more why they let you out after your having been caught in what they considered a serious business. Well, here we are, victims both, and it is a curious chance that has thrown us together again."

"Well, what is our life here?" Godfrey asked.

Alexis shrugged his shoulders. "As a life it is detestable, though were it for a short time only there would be nothing to grumble about. We are fairly fed; we have each a patch of ground, where we can grow vegetables. The twelve men in these huts can visit and talk to each other. When that is said all is said. Oh, by the way, we are also permitted to make anything we like! that is, we can buy the materials if we have money, and the work can be sold in the town. There is one man has made himself a turning-lathe, and he makes all sorts of pretty little things. There is another man who was an officer in the navy; he carves little models of ships out of wood and bone. Another man paints. I have not decided yet what I shall do. I had two or three hundred roubles when I was sent off here, and as I only spent four or five on the road, I have plenty to last me for some time for tea and tobacco."

"But how do you get them?"

"The warders smuggle them in. It is an understood thing, and there is no real objection to it, though they are very strict about bringing in spirits. Still we can get vodka if we have a mind to; it is only a question of bribery."

"How long are you here for, Alexis?"

"Fifteen years."

"I am supposed to be in for life," Godfrey said.

"Fifteen years is as bad as life," the young doctor said. "What is the use of your life after having been shut up here for fifteen years?"

"Well, I don't mean to stay, that is one thing," Godfrey said. "There can't be any difficulty in escaping from here."

"Not the least in the world," Alexis said quietly. "But where do you propose to go?"

"I have not settled yet. It seems to me that any one with pluck and energy ought to be able to make his way out of this country somehow; besides, from what I hear great numbers do get away, and take to the woods."

"Yes, but they have to give themselves up again."

"That may be; but I hear also that if they give themselves up a long way from the prison they escape from, and refuse to give any account whatever of themselves, they are simply sent to prison again as vagabonds. In that case they are treated as ordinary convicts. Now from what I hear, an ordinary convict is infinitely better off than a political one. Of course you have to associate with a bad lot; still that is better than almost solitary confinement. The work they have to do is not hard, and if they are well conducted they are let out after a time, whereas there is no hope for a political prisoner. At any rate, even if I knew that if I was retaken I should be hung at once, I should try it."

"But the distance to the frontier is enormous, and even when you get there you would be arrested at the first place you come to if you have no papers; besides, how could you get through the winter?"

"I should get through the winter somehow," Godfrey said stoutly. "There are hundreds and thousands of people in scattered villages who live through the winter. Why shouldn't I? I would make friends with the natives in the north, and live in their huts, and hunt with them. But I am not thinking of that. The distance is, as you say, enormous, and the cold terrible. My idea is to escape by the south."

"It is a desert, Godfrey."

"Oh they call it a desert to frighten people from trying to escape that way. But I know there is a caravan route by which the teas come from China; besides, there are tribesmen who wander about there and pick up a living somehow. I don't say that I am going to succeed; I only say I am going to try. I may lose my life or I may be sent back again. Very well, then, I will try again some other way. We are not far from the Chinese frontier here, are we?"

"No; the frontier is at Kiakhta, not more than three or four hundred miles away."

"What are the people like?"

"They are called Buriats, and are a sort of Mongol tribe, living generally in tents and wandering with their flocks and herds through the country like the patriarchs of old."

"If they have large flocks and herds," Godfrey said, "the reward the Russians offer for escaped convicts can't tempt them much. Most likely they are hospitable; almost all these wandering tribes are. If one had luck one might get befriended and stick for a time to one of these tribes in their wanderings south, and then get hold of some other people, and so get passed on. There can't be anything impossible in it, Alexis. We know that travellers have made their way through Africa alone. Mungo Park did, and lots of other people have done so, and some of the negro tribes are, according to all accounts, a deal more savage than the Asiatic tribes. Once among them it doesn't much matter which way one goes, whether it is east to China or west to Persia."

Alexis sat and looked with some wonder at his companion. "By the saints, Godfrey Bullen, I begin to understand now how it is that your people, living in a bit of an island which could be pinched out of Russia and never missed, are colonizing half the world; how they go in ships to explore the polar seas, have penetrated Africa in all directions as travellers, go among the wildest people as missionaries. We are brought up to have everything done for us: to think as we are told to think, to have officials keep their eyes over us at every turn, to be punished if we dare to think independently, till we have come to be a nation of grown-up children. You are only a boy, if you will forgive my calling you so, and yet you talk about facing the most horrible dangers as coolly as if you were proposing going for a promenade on the Nevski. We won't talk any more about it now, for you have made me feel quite restless. There, you have been here two hours, and I have forgotten all my duties as host, and have not even offered you a cup of tea; it is shameful." And Alexis brought out a samovar and soon had water boiling and tea made.

After they had drunk it they went out of the hut, and Godfrey was introduced to the other exiles. Two of them who lived together were quite old men; they had been professors at the University of Kieff, and were exiled for having in their lectures taught what were considered pernicious doctrines. There were three military and two naval officers, a noble, another doctor, and two sons of merchants. All received him cordially, and Godfrey saw that in any other place the society would be a pleasant one; but there was an air of settled melancholy in the majority of the faces, while the sentry fifty yards away, and the high prison wall behind, seemed ever in their minds.

By common consent, as it seemed, no allusion was ever made to politics. They had all strong opinions, and had sacrificed everything for them, but of what use to discuss matters the course of which they were powerless to influence in the smallest degree. Free, there was probably not one of them but would again have striven in one way or another to bring about reforms, either by instructing the ignorant, rousing the intelligent, or frightening the powerful. But here, with no hope of returning, the whole thing was best forgotten. The past was dead to them, and they were without a future. The news that Godfrey brought of the blow that had been struck against the Czar roused them for a few days. The war then was still being carried on. Others were wielding the weapons they had forged, but of what had happened afterwards Godfrey was ignorant. Four men had been arrested or killed; but whether they had played an important part in the matter he knew not, nor whether others had shared their fate. All he could say was, that so far as he heard, numerous arrests had taken place.

But the excitement caused by the news very speedily died away, and they again became listless and indifferent. All worked for a little time in their gardens, but beyond that only those who had made some sort of occupation for themselves had anything to interest themselves actively in. Sometimes they played chess, draughts, or cards, but they did so, as Godfrey observed, in a half-hearted manner, with the exception, indeed, of one of the professors, who was by far the strongest chess-player of the party, and who passed all his time in inventing problems which, when complete, he carefully noted down in a book, with their solutions.

"When I am dead," he said one day to Godfrey, who was watching him, "they will send this book to a nephew of mine; you see I have written his name and address outside. He is a great chess-player, and will send it to England or France to be published; and it is pleasant for me to think that my work, even here in prison, may serve as an amusement to people out in the world."

Except in the dulness and monotony of the life there was little to complain of, and Godfrey was surprised to find how far it differed from his own preconceived notions of the life of a political prisoner in Siberia. It was only when, by an effort, he looked ahead for years and tried to fancy the possibility of being so cut off from the world for life, that he could appreciate the terrible nature of the punishment. Better a thousand times to be one of the murderers in the prison behind the wall. They had work to occupy their time, and constantly changing associates, with the knowledge that by good conduct they would sooner or later be released and be allowed to live outside the prison.

When at eight o'clock in the evening the prisoners were locked up in their huts, he endeavoured to learn everything that Alexis Stumpoff knew of Siberia.

He found that his knowledge was much more extensive than he had expected. "As I came out nominally, Godfrey, as a free man, I brought with me every book I could buy on the country, and I almost got them by heart. It seemed to me that I was likely to be kept here for years, if not for life. I might be sent from one government prison to another, from Tobolsk to the eastern sea; therefore every place possessed an interest for me. Besides this, although I was not actually a political prisoner myself I was virtually so, and my sympathies were wholly with the prisoners, and I thought that I might possibly be able to advise and counsel men who came under my charge: to describe to them the places where they might have relations or friends shut up, and to dissuade those who, like yourself, meditated escape, for my studies had not gone far before I became convinced that this was well-nigh hopeless. I learned how strict were the regulations on the frontier, how impossible, even if this were reached, to journey on without being arrested at the very first village that a fugitive entered, and that so strict were they that although numbers of the convict establishments were within comparatively short distances of the frontier, escapes were no more frequent from them than from those three thousand miles to the east. When I say escapes I mean escapes from Siberia. Escapes from the prisons are of constant occurrence, since most of the work is done outside the walls. There are thousands, I might almost say tens of thousands, get away every spring, but they all have to come back again in winter. The authorities trouble themselves little about them, for they know that they must give themselves up in a few months."

"Yes, my guard told me about that. He said they were not punished much when they came in."

"Sometimes they are flogged; but the Russian peasant is accustomed to flogging and thinks but little of it. More often they are not flogged. They have, perhaps, a heavier chain, for the convicts all wear chains—we have an advantage over them there—and they are put on poorer diet for a time. They lose the remission of sentence they would obtain by good behaviour, that is all, even when they are recognized, but as a rule they take care not to give themselves up at the prison they left, but at one many hundred miles from it. In the course of the summer their hair has grown again. They assert stoutly that they are free labourers who have lost their papers, and who cannot earn their living through the winter. The authorities know, of course, that they are escaped convicts, but they have no means of identifying them. They cannot send them the rounds of a hundred convict establishments; so instead of a man being entered as Alexis Stumpoff, murderer, for instance, he is put down by the name he gives, and the word vagabond is added. The next year they may break out again; but in time the hardships they suffer in the woods become distasteful and they settle down to their prison life, and then, after perhaps six, perhaps ten years of good conduct they are released and allowed to settle where they will. So you see, Godfrey Bullen, how hopeless is the chance of escape."

"Not at all," Godfrey said. "These men are most of them peasants—men without education and without enterprise, incapable of forming any plan, and wholly without resources in themselves. I feel as certain of escaping as I am of being here at present. I don't say that I shall succeed the first time, but, as you say yourself, there is no difficulty in getting away, and if I fail in one direction I will try in another."

CHAPTER VI.

AN ESCAPE.

The evenings were spent principally in conversations about Siberia, Godfrey being eager to learn everything that he could about its geography and peoples.

Alexis told him all he knew as to the mountains and rivers, the various native tribes, the districts where the villages were comparatively numerous, and the mighty forests that, stretching away to the Arctic Sea, could hardly be said to be explored. Books and paper were forbidden to the political prisoners, and so strict were the regulations that the warders would not under any considerations bring them in. But Godfrey wrote all the particulars that he judged might in any way be useful with a burnt piece of stick upon the table as Alexis gave them, and then learned them by heart, washing them off after he had done so.

But few of the details Alexis could give him would be of any use in the attempt he first intended to make. The southern frontier was so temptingly close that it seemed absurd to turn from that and to attempt a tremendous journey north, involving the certainty of having to struggle through an Arctic winter, and to face the difficulties of the passage west, either by land or sea. Beyond the fact that from Irkutsk he would have to make for the southern point of Lake Baikal, some sixty miles away, and then strike about south-east for another two hundred through a country inhabited almost entirely by Buriats, the doctor could tell him little.

"Kiakhta," he said, "or rather, as far as the Russians are concerned, Troitzkosavsk, which is a sort of suburb of Kiakhta, is the frontier town. Kiakhta is a sort of neutral town inhabited only by merchants, and by a treaty between Russia and China no officer or stranger is allowed to sleep there. Across the frontier, a few miles away, is the Chinese, or I suppose I should say the Mongol, town of Maimatchin. Beyond the fact that the people about there are Mongols rather than Chinese, and that such religion as they have is that of Thibet rather than China, for their priests are called lamas, I know nothing except that the caravan route from Kiakhta to Pekin is somewhere about a thousand miles, and that the camels do it in about thirty-five days."

"Then they make about thirty miles a day," Godfrey said. "I suppose there must be wells at their halting-places."

"Ah! that is another matter, Godfrey. You see a camel can go three days without water easily enough, and of course they would carry skins of water for the travellers."

"Oh, that is no odds," Godfrey said. "One could walk the ninety miles easily enough in three days, and there would be no difficulty in carrying water enough for that time. Besides, one would of course join a caravan if one could. Luckily enough I had two hundred roubles in notes when I was captured, and they restored them as well as my watch and other things when I started. I suppose the Mongols are just as fond of money as other people. The Chinese are, certainly, and I might get some Chinese tea-merchant to let me go in his train for a consideration."

The Russian laughed. "'Pon my word, Godfrey, I begin to think you will do it."

"There can't be anything impossible in doing it," Godfrey said. "Why, did not Burton disguise himself and go with a caravan to Mecca and visit the holy places, and that was twenty times as difficult and dangerous. Going along the caravan route of course the difficulty is the language and the Buriats. If one could talk Mongol, or whatever the fellows call their language, it would be easy sailing; but I own that it is a difficult thing to get along and explain what you want with people who cannot understand a word you say. I suppose the Buriats speak Russian."

"I should say that a great many of them do, Godfrey. I know there are missionaries and schools among them, and some of them live in settled villages, though they are so wedded to their own wandering life that they build their houses on the exact model of their tents, with a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. Still, as they deal with the towns and come in to sell their cattle and sheep and herds and so on, no doubt the greater part of them, at any rate on this side of the frontier, speak a certain amount of Russian. The difficulty will be to persuade them not to give you up."

"But I can pay them more not to give me up than they can get for doing so," Godfrey said.

"They would kill you for what you have, Godfrey. They are permitted to kill runaways, in fact encouraged to do so, and the reward is the same whether they are brought in dead or alive."

"I should think, Alexis, it is easier to bring in a live man than a dead one."

"I don't know," the Russian laughed. "I don't think a Buriat would find it very easy to take you any distance alive, but there would be no trouble in chucking you into a cart and bringing you here after the preliminary operation of knocking you on the head."

Godfrey smiled. "You forget there would be some preliminary trouble in knocking me on the head, Alexis; but seriously, I don't think any natives who have been in contact at all with civilization are disposed to take life without some strong motive. Of course robbery would be a motive, but I should certainly have nothing about me that a Tartar or a Buriat—I suppose they are all something of the same thing—would covet. You were telling me yourself that many of these people have very large flocks and herds. Is it likely such people as these would cut a stranger's throat on the chance of finding a few roubles in his pocket?"

"Well, one would think not, Godfrey; but of course they are not all rich."

"No; they may not be rich, but you say they are always nomads. Well, people who are nomads must always have some sort of animals to carry their tents, and a certain amount, anyhow, of cattle, horses, or sheep. No, I don't at all believe in cutting throats without a motive."

"But let us understand a little more about your intentions, Godfrey. Do you mean to climb over that fence and then to stroll away to the south with your hands in your pockets and your hat on one side of your head, and to ask the first man you come upon to direct you to the shortest road to Pekin?"

Godfrey laughed. "No, not quite that, Alexis. These clothes did very well in St. Petersburg, and though they are all the worse for the journey here I daresay they would pass well enough in the streets of Irkutsk. The first thing to do will be to get some clothes, for as far as I could see coming along the natives all dress a good deal like the Russians. I suppose in winter they wrap up more in furs, or they may wear their furs differently, but any sort of peasant dress would do, as it would not excite attention, while this tweed suit would be singular even in the streets here."

"That fur-lined great-coat would be all right, Godfrey."

"Yes. I bought that at St. Petersburg. I don't know that it would go very well with a peasant's dress, and it is certainly not suitable for the time of year, though I shall take it with me if I can. If I could roll it up and carry it as a knapsack it would be first rate for sleeping in, besides it might do as something to exchange when one gets to places where money is of little use. If I can get hold of a pistol anyhow I shall be glad. A pistol will always produce civility if one meets only one or two men. The other things I should want are a box of matches for making fires, a good knife, or better still, a small axe, for chopping wood, and a bottle or skin for holding water."

"You will be seized and sent back in a week, Godfrey."

"Very well, then, there will be no harm done. I regard this as a sort of preliminary investigation. I shall ascertain the difficulties of travel in Siberia, and shall learn lessons for next time. I believe myself the true way is to strike one of the great rivers, to build or steal a boat, to go down in it to the Arctic Sea, and then to coast along until one gets to Norway; but that is a big affair, and besides it is a great deal too late in the year for it. When I attempt that I shall make off as early in the spring as possible."

"Remember you may be flogged when you are caught, Godfrey."

"Well, I shouldn't like to be flogged, but as you say the convicts don't think much of it, I suppose I could bear it. They used to flog in our army and navy till quite lately."

"It is a dishonour," Alexis exclaimed passionately.

Godfrey shrugged his shoulders.

"The dishonour lies in the crime and not in the punishment," he said. "At our great public schools in England fellows are flogged. Well, there is no disgrace in it if it's only for breaking the rules or anything of that sort, but it would be a horrible dishonour if it were for thieving. All that sort of thing is absurd. I believe flogging is the best punishment there is. It is a lot better to give a man a couple of dozen and send him about his business, than it is to keep him for a year in prison at the public expense, and to have to maintain his wife and children also at the public expense while he is there. Besides, I thought you said the other day that they did not flog political prisoners."

"Well, they don't, at least not at any of the large prisons; but in some of the small establishments, with perhaps a brutal drunken captain or major as governor, no doubt it may be done sometimes."

"Well, I will take my chance of it."

"And when do you think of starting?" Alexis asked after a pause.

"Directly. I have only to decide how I am to get out after the door is locked, and to make a rope of some sort to climb the fence with. The blankets tied together will do for that. As to the getting out there is no difficulty. One only has to throw a blanket over that cross beam, get up on that, and get off one of the lining boards, displace a few tiles, crawl through."

"I have half a mind to go with you, Godfrey."

"Have you, Alexis? I should be awfully glad, but at the same time I would not say a word to persuade you to do it. You know I make light of it, but I know very well that there will be some danger and a tremendous lot of hardship to be gone through."

"I don't think I am afraid of that, Godfrey," Alexis said seriously. "It is not that I have been thinking of ever since you began to talk to me of getting away. I consider it is a hundred to one against success; but, as you say, if we fail and get brought back no great harm is done. If we get killed or die of hunger and thirst, again no harm is done, for certainly life is not a thing to cling to when one is a prisoner in Siberia; but it is not that. You see I am differently situated to you. If you do succeed in getting away you go home, and you are all right; if I succeed in getting away what is to become of me? I speak Russian and German, but there would be no return for me to Russia unless some day when a new Czar ascends the throne, or on some such occasion, when a general amnesty is granted; but even that would hardly extend to political prisoners. What am I to do? So far as I can see I might starve, and after all one might almost as well remain here as starve in Pekin or in some Chinese port. Granted that I could work my way back to Europe on board ship, what should I do if I landed at Marseilles or Liverpool? I could not go through the streets shouting in German 'I am a doctor, who wants to be cured?'"

"No, Alexis," Godfrey agreed, "you could not well do that; but I will tell you what you could do. Of course at the first place I get to, where there is a telegraph to England, I will send a message to my father to cable to some firm there to let me have what money I require. Very well. Then, of course, you would go home with me to England, and there is one thing I could promise you, and that is a post in my father's office. You know we trade with Russia, and though our correspondence is generally carried on in German, I am quite sure that my father would, after you had been my companion on such a journey as that we propose, make a berth for you in the office to undertake correspondence in Russian and German, and that he would pay a salary quite sufficient for you to live in comfort; or if you would rather, I am sure that he would find you means for going out and settling, say in the United States, in the part where German is the general language."

"Then in that case, Godfrey," the Russian said, shaking his hand warmly, "I am your man. I think I should have gone with you anyhow; but what you have said quite decides me. Now, then, what is our first proceeding?"

Godfrey laughed.

"I should say to take an inventory of our belongings, Alexis, or rather of your belongings, for mine are very briefly described. Two hundred roubles in notes, a watch, a pocket-knife, the suit of clothes I stand up in, half a dozen pairs of socks, and three flannel shirts I bought on the way, one great-coat lined with fur; I think that is about all. It is a very small share. Yours are much more numerous."

"More numerous, but not much more useful," Alexis said. "They let me bring one large portmanteau of clothes, but as I can't carry that away on my shoulders it is of very little use. All I can take in that way is a suit of clothes and a spare flannel shirt or two, and some socks. I have got two cases of surgical instruments. I will take a few of the most useful and some other things, a pair of forceps for instance. We may come across a Tartar with a raging tooth, and make him our friend for ever by extracting it, and I will put a bandage or two and some plaster in my pocket. They are things one ought always to carry, for one is always liable to get a hurt or a sprain. As to money, I have a hundred and twenty roubles; they are all in silver. I changed my paper at Tobolsk, thinking that silver would be more handy here. Unfortunately they took away my pistol, but a couple of amputating knives will make good weapons. I have got a leather waistcoat, which I will cut up and make from it a couple of sheaths. Of course I have got fur cloaks, one of them a very handsome one. I will take that and another. There ought to be no difficulty whatever in getting some one to give us two peasants' dresses in exchange for that coat, for all these people know something of the value of furs."

"Yes, and if you can get a gun and some ammunition thrown into the bargain, Alexis, it will be most useful, for we may have to depend upon what we shoot sometimes."

"Yes, that would be a great addition, Godfrey. Well, we will set about making the sheaths at once. I have got a store of needles and stout thread."

"They will be useful to take with us," Godfrey said, "not only for mending our clothes, if we want it, but for exchange. Women have to sew all over the world, and even the most savage people can appreciate the advantage of a good needle."

"That is so, Godfrey. I have got a packet of capital surgical needles, and some silk. I will put them in with the others; they won't take up much room. Well, shall we start to-morrow night?"

"I think we had better wait for two or three days," Godfrey said. "We must save up some of our food."

"Yes, we shall want some bread," Alexis agreed. "We can't well get that in through the warders, it would look suspicious, but I will get in some meat through them. We have got some of the last lot left, so we can do with very little bread."

For the next two days they found plenty to occupy them, while their stock of bread was accumulating. One of the Russian's coats was cut up and made into two bags like haversacks, with a band to pass over the shoulder, for carrying their belongings. Straps were make of the cloth for fastening the great-coats knapsack fashion. They agreed that however long they might have to wait they must choose a stormy night for their flight, as otherwise they could hardly break through the roof and scale the fence without being heard by the sentries who kept watch night and day. They were eager to be off, for it was already the end of July, and the winter would be severe in the country over which they had to travel. On the fourth day a heavy rain set in, and in the evening it began to blow hard.

"Now is our time," Godfrey said; "nothing could have been better."

They had already loosened two of the lining boards of the roof, and as soon as they had been locked up for the night they removed these altogether. They packed their haversacks with the articles they had agreed to take, with six pounds of bread each and some meat, rolled four blankets up and knotted them tightly together, strapped up the three fur-lined cloaks, and placed the knives in their belts. Then without much difficulty they prised up one of the thick planks with which the hut was roofed. Godfrey got through the opening, and Alexis passed out to him the haversacks and coats, and then joined him, and they slid down the roof and dropped to the ground.

The paling was but twenty yards behind the huts. As soon as they reached it Godfrey climbed upon his companion's shoulders, threw the loop of a doubled rope over one of the palisades and climbed on to the top. Then with the rope he pulled up the coats and haversacks and dropped them outside. Alexis pulled himself up by the rope; this was then dropped on the outside and he slid down by it. Godfrey shifted the rope on to the point of one of the palings, so that it could be easily shaken off from below, and then slipped down it. The rope shaken off and two of the blankets opened, the haversacks hung over their shoulders, and the great-coats strapped on, each put one of the twisted blankets over his shoulder, scarf fashion, wrapped the other round as a cloak, and then set out on their way. Fortunately the prison lay on the south side of the town and at a distance of half a mile from it; and as their course to the extremity of Lake Baikal lay almost due south, they were able to strike right across the country.

The wind was from the north, and they had therefore only to keep their backs to it to follow the right direction. It was half-past ten when they started, for the nights were short, and had it not been that the sky was covered with clouds and the air thick with rain, it would not have been dark enough for them to make the attempt until an hour later. By three o'clock it was light again, but they knew there was little chance of their escape being discovered until the warders came to unlock the hut at six in the morning, as the planks they had removed from the roof were at the back of the hut, and therefore invisible to the sentries.

"No doubt they will send a few mounted Cossacks out to search for us, as we are political prisoners," Alexis said; "but we may calculate it will be seven o'clock before they set out, and as this is the very last direction they will imagine we have taken we need not trouble ourselves about them; besides, we shall soon be getting into wooded country. I believe it is all wood round the lower end of the lake, and we shall be quite out of the way of traffic, for everything going east from Irkutsk is taken across the lake by steamer."

After twelve hours' walking, with only one halt of half an hour for refreshment, they reached the edge of the forest, and after again making a hearty meal of their bread and cold meat, and taking each a sip from a bottle containing cold tea, they lay down and slept until late in the afternoon.

"Well, we have accomplished so much satisfactorily," Alexis said. "Now we have to keep on to Kaltuk, at the extreme south-western point of the lake. It is a very small place, I believe, and that is where we must get what we want. We shall be there by the evening. We shall be just right, as it wouldn't do for us to go in until it is pretty nearly dark. A place of that sort is sure to have a store where they sell clothes and other things, and trade with the people round."

They struck the lake a mile or two from its extremity, and following it until they could see the roofs of the houses lay down for an hour until it should be dark enough to enter.

"We had better put on our fur coats," Alexis said. "The people all wear long coats of some fashion or other, and in the dusk we shall pass well enough."

It was a village containing some fifty or sixty houses, for the most part the tent-like structures of the Buriats. They met no one in the street, and kept on until they saw a light in a window of a house larger than any others, and looking in saw that it was the place for which they were in search. Opening the door they went in and closed it behind them. A man came out from the room behind the shop. He stopped for a moment at seeing two strangers, then advanced with a suspicious look on his face.

"Do you want a bargain?" Alexis asked him abruptly.

"I have little money to buy with," he said sullenly.

"That matters little, for we will take it out in goods."

The man hesitated. Alexis drew out the long keen amputating knife. "Look here," he said. "We are not to be fooled with. You may guess what we are or not; it is nothing to us and nothing to you. We want some of your goods, and are ready to give you good exchange for them; we are not robbers. Here is this coat; look at it; it is almost unworn. I have used it only one winter. You can see it is lined with real sable, and it cost me three hundred roubles. At any rate, it is worth a hundred to you, even if you take out the lining, sell the skins separately, and burn the coat. Examine it for yourself."

The shopkeeper did so. "They are good skins," he said, and Alexis could see that he quite appreciated their value.

"Now," Alexis said, "I want two peasant dresses complete, coat, trousers, high boots, and caps. What do you charge for them?"

"Twenty roubles each suit."

"Very well. Pick two suits the right size for us, and lay them down on the counter. Now we want two pounds of brick-tea and two pounds of tobacco. We want two skins that will each hold a gallon or a gallon and a half of water, and a tin pot that will hold a quart, and two tin drinking mugs. We want a gun and ammunition; it need not be a new one. I see you have got half a dozen standing over there in the corner. What do you charge your customers for those? I see they are all old single barrels and flint-locks."

"I charge fifteen roubles a piece."

"Well we will take two of them, and we want two pounds of powder and six pounds of shot, and a couple of dozen bullets. Now add that up and see how much it comes to."

"Ninety-two roubles," the man said.

"Well, I tell you what. I will give you this cloak and twelve paper roubles for them. I don't suppose the goods cost you fifty at the outside, and you will get at least a hundred for the skins alone."

"I will take it," the man said. "I take it because I cannot help it."

"You take it because you are making an excellent bargain," Alexis said fiercely. "Now, mind, if you give the alarm when we have gone it will be worse for you. They won't catch us; but you will see your house on fire over your head before the week is past."

Godfrey placed a ten-rouble note and two one-rouble notes on the table; they gathered up their goods and made them into a bundle, carefully loaded their guns, and put the powder and shot into their haversacks. Then Alexis lifted the bundle, and shouldering the guns they left the shop.

"Will he give the alarm, do you think?" Godfrey asked.

"Not he. He is thoroughly well satisfied. I daresay he will get a hundred and fifty roubles for the coat; besides, he knows that escaped convicts are desperate men, and that we should be likely to execute my threat. Besides, I don't suppose he would venture to stir out. For aught he knows we may be waiting just outside the shop to see what he does, and he will fear that he might get that hungry-looking knife into him if he came out to raise the alarm."

All was quiet, and they were soon beyond the limits of the village, and struck out for the country.

They held on for two or three miles, filled their water-skins at a little stream running towards the lake, and then entering a wood pushed on for some little distance, lighted a fire, and made themselves some tea.

"We are fairly off now, Godfrey. We have become what they call wanderers, and should be safe enough among the Russian peasants, most of whom have been convicts in their time, in the villages north, for they are always willing enough to help men who have taken to the woods. Well, except in the villages, of which there are few enough about here, we are not likely to come upon them. From here to the frontier are Buriats, and indeed beyond the frontier. However as we have both got guns, we need not be afraid of any small party. Of course some of them have guns too; but I don't suppose they will be fools enough to risk throwing their lives away for nothing. At any rate there is one comfort. There is nothing to show that we are political prisoners now. We might be honest peasants if it were not for these confounded heads of hair."

"I should think," Godfrey said, "we had better get rid of our hair altogether. It will be some time before it grows, but anything will be better than it is now."

"We have got no scissors, Godfrey, and we have no soap. If we had, those knives of ours are sharp enough to shave with."

"We can singe it off," Godfrey said. "Not now, but in the morning when we can see. I will do it for you, and you can do it for me. I would rather be bald-headed altogether than be such a figure as I am now."

Accordingly in the morning they singed off their hair with red-hot brands, then they changed their clothes for those they had obtained the night before, folded up their great-coats, divided the tea, tobacco, and the greater part of the powder and shot between them, put a portion in their haversacks, and rolled the rest up in the coats, then strapped these to their shoulders and started on their way.

"Now I feel ready for anything," Alexis said as they tramped along. "We have no weight to speak of to carry, and we have means of getting a meal occasionally. Now if we keep a little west of south we shall strike the Selenga river, which runs through Maimatchin, and then we shall be in China. We shall have to avoid the town, because I know there is a treaty between Russia and China about sending back exiles who cross the frontier. Still, when we get there we are at the starting-place of the caravans."

"Is it a desert the whole distance?"

"No. The first part is a mountainous country with two or three rivers to cross. I don't think the real desert is more than eight or ten days' march across. We shall certainly have no difficulty about water for some time to come. There are plenty of squirrels in these woods; at least I expect so, for they abound in all the forests. We must knock some of them over if we can. I believe they are not bad eating, though I never tried one. Then by the streams we ought to be able to pick up some wild duck, though of course at this time of year the greater portion of them are far north. Still I have great hopes we shall be able to keep ourselves in food with the assistance of what we may be able to buy occasionally. I think the only thing we have got to fear at this part of our journey is the Buriats. The thing I am really afraid of is the getting into China. I don't mean the frontier here; this is Mongolia, and it is only nominally Chinese; but when we get across the desert and enter China itself, I tell you frankly I don't see our way. We neither of us can speak a word of the language. We have no papers, and we may be arrested and shut up as suspicious vagabonds. There is one thing; at Kalgan, which is close to the Great Wall, there are Russian traders, and I should go boldly to them and ask their help. Russians out of Russia are sure to be liberal, though they may not dare to be so when they are at home, and I feel sure they would help us when we tell them our story, if we can only get at them. However we need not trouble ourselves much about that at present."

Once beyond the forest they were in an undulating country, the hills sometimes rising to a considerable height. Occasionally they saw in the distance encampments of natives, with sheep, cattle, and horses in considerable numbers. They kept clear of these, although occasionally they had to make wide detours to do so. Time was no object to them, and they made but short journeys, for the Russian, who had never been accustomed to walk long distances, had blistered both his feet badly on the first night's journey, and the subsequent travelling had added to the inflammation. On the fourth evening they halted for the night on a little rivulet, after making only five or six miles.

"It is no use, Alexis," Godfrey said; "we must stop here until your feet are quite well. We shall gain by it rather than lose, for when you are quite right again we could do our five-and-twenty or thirty miles a day easily, and might do forty at a push; but your feet will never get well if you go on walking, and it makes your journey a perfect penance; so I vote we establish ourselves here for three or four days. There is water and wood, and I dare say I shall be able to shoot something—at any rate you can't go on as you are now."

"It is horribly annoying," Alexis said, "to be knocked up like this just at the start."

"But it makes no difference," Godfrey urged. "We are not due at Pekin on any given day. It is very pleasant out here, where one can enjoy one's freedom and exult that there is no policeman or Cossack watching every movement. It would make no difference to me if we stopped here for a month. Now let me pull those boots off for you, then you can sit with your feet in this little pool."

"Warm water would be better, Godfrey. If you will get the kettle to boil I will dip my two flannel shirts in and wrap them round and keep on at that. That will be better than cold water."

"All right! I will soon get a fire alight. By Jove, they are bad!" he exclaimed, as Alexis pulled off his stocking. "They must have been hurting you desperately. Why did you not say how bad they were two days ago? We might as well have stopped then as now."

"I hoped they would have got better when I put on these big boots instead of those I started with. But I did not think they were as bad as they are. I am afraid this is going to be a troublesome business, Godfrey."

"Well, it can't be helped," Godfrey said cheerfully. "At any rate, don't worry on my account."

The Russian's feet were indeed greatly swollen and inflamed. The skin had been rubbed off in several places, and the wounds had an angry look, their edges being a fiery red, which extended for some distance round them.

"Well, you have plenty of pluck, Alexis, or you never could have gone on walking with such feet as those. I am sure I could not have done so."

"We thought over most difficulties, Godfrey, that we might possibly have to encounter, but not of this."

"No, we did not think of it, though we might really have calculated upon it. After being three or four months without walking twenty yards it is only natural one's feet should go at first. We ought to have brought some soap with us—I do not mean for washing, though we ought to have brought it for that—but for soaping the inside of our stockings. That is a first-rate dodge to prevent feet from blistering. Well, I must see about the fire. I will go up to those trees on the hillside. I daresay I shall be able to find some sticks there for lighting it. These bushes round here will do well enough when it is once fairly burning, but we shall have a great trouble to get them to light to begin with."

A SUPPER OF ROASTED SQUIRRELS.

In half an hour he was back with a large faggot.

"It is lucky," he said, "there is a fallen tree. So we shall have no difficulty about firewood. We ought to have brought a hatchet when we got the other things. These knives are first-rate for cutting meat and that sort of thing, but they are of no use for rough work. My old knife is better."

While he was talking he was engaged in cutting some shavings off the sticks. Then he split up another into somewhat larger pieces, and laying them over the shavings, struck a match, and applied it. The flame shot up brightly, and in five minutes there was an excellent fire, on which the kettle was placed.

"We had better have our dinner first, Godfrey. Then I can go on steadily with these fomentations while you take your gun and look round."

"Perhaps that will be the best way," Godfrey said. "We have nothing left but six squirrels. We finished the last piece of bread this morning and the meat last night. How had we better do these squirrels?"

"I will skin them, Godfrey, while you are seeing to the fire. Then we will spit them on a ramrod, and I will hold them in the flame."

"I think we can manage better than that," Godfrey said, and he went to the bushes and cut two sticks of a foot long with a fork at one end. He stuck these in the ground, on the opposite sides of the fire. "There," he said, "you can lay the ramrod on these forks, and all you have got to do is to give it a turn occasionally."

"How long do you suppose these things want cooking?"

"Not above five minutes, I should think. I know that a steak only takes about eight minutes before a good fire, and these little beggars are not half the thickness of a steak. They are beginning to frizzle already, and the water is just on the boil."

The squirrels were pronounced very good eating. When the meal was over Godfrey filled the kettle again and gave it to Alexis, and then, taking his gun, started down the valley. He was away three hours, and brought back twenty birds of various sorts, but for the most part small.

"No very great sport," he said as he emptied his haversack. "However, they will do for breakfast, and I may have better luck to-morrow. There are some fish in the pools, but I do not see how we are to get them. I saw one spring out of the water; it must have weighed a couple of pounds."

"You might shoot them, Godfrey, if you could find a place where the bank is pretty high so as to look down on the water."

"So I could; I did not think of that. I must try to-morrow."

"If it hadn't been for my feet," Alexis said, "we should have been down on the Selenga to-morrow, and we had calculated on being able to buy food at one of the villages there."

"We shall be able to hold on here," Godfrey said, "for a few days, and I expect that one day's good tramp, when your feet are better, will take us there. After that we ought to have no great difficulty till we get down near the desert."

CHAPTER VII.

THE BURIAT’S CHILD.

After three days' rest the Russian's feet were so much better that he said he should be able to make a start the next morning. Godfrey, however, would not listen to the proposal.

"We are getting on all right," he said. "I am not much of a shot, but at any rate I am able to bag enough birds to keep us going, and though I have only succeeded in shooting one fish as yet, it was a good big one and was a real help to us. It is no use going on till your feet get really hard, for you would only be laming yourself again. It will be quite time enough to talk about making a start in three days' time."

The next morning Godfrey was roughly awakened by a violent kick. Starting up he saw a group of six Buriats standing round them. Three of them had guns, which were pointed at the prisoners, the others were armed with spears. Resistance was evidently useless; their guns had been removed to a distance and the knives taken from their belts before they were roused. Godfrey held out his hands to show that he surrendered, and addressed the usual Russian salutation to them. The men were short, square-built figures, with large skulls, low foreheads, flat noses, and long eyes like those of the Chinese. Their cheek-bones were high and wide apart, the complexion a yellow-brown, and the hair jet black and worn in a platted tail down the back. They made signs to their prisoners to accompany them. Alexis pulled on his boots. Two of the men with guns stood guard over them while the others examined the stores, and were evidently highly pleased with the two brightly polished knives.

"Rather an abrupt termination to our journey, Godfrey."

"Painfully so. I was almost afraid everything was going on too well with us, Alexis. It began to look so easy that one could not understand why there should not be hundreds of prisoners every year make their way across."

"I should not have minded so much," Alexis said, "if we had not got such a satisfactory kit together. We had everything we really wanted for a journey across Asia."

"Except food and water, Alexis."

"Well, yes, those are important items certainly, and if we had difficulty about it here in a decent sort of country, what might be expected on farther? Well, we have had our outing; I only hope they won't give us up at Irkutsk. I suppose it depends where their grazing-grounds are. There are another two months of summer; I wish we could have had our fling till then."

Half a mile along the valley they came upon a tent, evidently belonging to the men who had taken them. They talked a good deal among themselves as they approached it, but went straight on without making a stop.

"I expect they are taking us down to some chief or other, if they call them chiefs," Alexis said. "I expect they came out to hunt for horses or cattle that have strayed."

Seven or eight miles farther the valley opened on to a plain, and a short distance in front of them, on the stream, stood ten tents, one of which was considerably larger than the others. Great flocks of sheep grazed on the plain, and at a distance they could see numbers of cattle, while some horses with their saddles on were hobbled near the tents.

"I think we are lucky, Godfrey. The owner of all this must be a rich man, and can hardly covet the roubles he would get for giving us up. Besides, he is sure to talk Russian."

As they came up to the huts they saw that their occupants were all gathered, talking excitedly in front of a large tent. One of the men ran on and then returned; the news he gave was evidently bad. He talked excitedly, pointing to his own leg about half-way between the knee and the ankle. The men broke into exclamations of regret.

"I wonder what is the matter, Alexis; something has happened. I should think that someone must have met with an accident."

"Without wishing ill to anyone, Godfrey, I sincerely wish it may be so, then I might be able to win their good-will."

Little attention was paid to the party when they joined the group, all were too busy in discussing some event or other. Three or four minutes later a man came to the door of the tent and waved his hand, and gave some order. His dress was a handsome one. The little crowd fell back, but one of the men who had brought the captives in went up and spoke to him. He again waved his hand impatiently, and was turning to enter the tent when Alexis cried loudly: "I am a doctor, if anyone has been hurt I may be of service to him."

The man stepped hastily forward. "Do you say you are a doctor?"

"I am."

"Come in then," he said abruptly, and entered the tent.

"I will call you if you can be of any use," Alexis said to Godfrey as he followed him.

The tent was a large one. Some handsome Koord carpets covered the ground. Facing the door was another opening leading into a small tent serving as the women's apartment.

There were several piles of sheep-skins round the tent, and by one of these three women were standing. Two of these were richly dressed in gowns of handsome striped materials. They wore head-dresses of silver work with beads of malachite and mother-of-pearl, and had heavy silver ornaments hanging on their breasts. Their hair fell down their backs in two thick braids. The other woman was evidently of inferior rank. All were leaning over a pile of skins covered with costly furs, on which a boy of seven or eight years old was lying. His father, for such the man evidently was, said something in his own language, and the women turned eagerly to Alexis.

"You are a Russian doctor!" one of the women exclaimed joyfully.

"I am, lady," he said. "I graduated at St. Petersburg."

"Can you do anything for my son?" she asked. "Half an hour ago he went up incautiously behind a young horse that had been driven in from the herd only yesterday and it kicked him. See, it is terrible," and she burst into tears.

Alexis went forward and lifted a wet cloth that had been placed on the leg. A slight exclamation broke from his lips as he did so. The bone was evidently completely smashed, and one of the splintered ends projected through the skin.

"He must die," the mother sobbed, "nothing can save him."

The father did not speak, but looked inquiringly at Alexis. The latter made a sign to him to move to the other side of the tent.

"Well," the Buriat asked, "must he die?"

"There is no reason for his dying," Alexis said, "but there is no possibility of saving his leg, it must be amputated."

"What would be the use of living without a leg?" the Buriat exclaimed.

"A great deal of use," Alexis said quietly. "There are hundreds, aye thousands, of men in Russia who have lost a leg, some from an accident like this, or from a waggon going over them, some from a wound in battle. In some cases the leg is taken off much above the knee, but even then they are able to get about and enjoy their lives; but when it is below the knee, like this, they are able to do everything just the same as if they had both feet. They can walk and ride, and, in fact, do everything like others; besides, for such men there are people at St. Petersburg who make feet of cork, and when these are on, with a boot and trousers, or with a high boot, no one could tell that the wearer had not two feet. I have met men who had lost a leg, and they walked so well that I did not know till I was told that they had not two legs."

"I will speak to his mother," the Buriat said, and returning to the women he spoke to them in their own language. At first they appeared shocked and even terrified at the idea, but as he went on, evidently repeating what Alexis had told him, the expression of their faces changed. The Buriat called Alexis across.

"You cannot hesitate, lady," he said, "when your child's life is at stake. No Russian mother would do so for a moment. It may seem to you dreadful that he should have but one foot, but in a little time, even with so rough a limb as I could make for him, he would be running about and playing again, and, as I have been telling his father, he can obtain from St. Petersburg a foot so perfect that when wearing a high boot no one would suspect the misfortune that has happened to him."

"Can he not be cured without that?"

"No, lady. If it had been a simple fracture his leg might be bandaged up so that it would heal in time, but, as you can see for yourself, the bone is all splintered and broken, and unless something is done mortification will set in, and in a few days he will cease to live."

"But are you sure that he will live if you do it?"

"I am sure, lady, that the operation will not kill him. I believe that he will live, but that is in the hands of God. You see him now, the shock has prostrated him. He has but little life in him, and if he dies he will die from that and not from the taking off of his foot. But I do not think he will die, he is young and hardy, and on my faith as a Russian gentleman I believe that he will live."

"It shall be tried," the Buriat said abruptly. "God has doubtless sent you here at this moment. Why otherwise should a doctor be brought to my door when this has happened? Do as you will."

Alexis felt the boy's pulse. "I must wait," he said, "until he has recovered somewhat from the shock. Give him some warm milk with a spoonful, not more, of vodka in it. Your men have taken the knives that I and my friend carried; they were specially made for this, and we shall need them. Do not fear as to the operation, it is the most simple in surgery. Let him have the milk at once. Let him remain quiet upon his back, and do not let him attempt to move his leg. Do not tell him about this, it would frighten and agitate him. If I had medicines that we use in our hospitals I could send him to sleep so that he would know nothing about it, and when he woke up would be ignorant that his foot had been removed; but as there is none of it within a hundred miles of us we must manage it as we best can. Please tell your men to release my friend, I shall need his assistance."

After bidding the woman heat some milk at once the Buriat went out and ordered Godfrey's guards to release him at once, and to restore to them their knives and all their other possessions. Alexis informed Godfrey of what had taken place, and what he proposed to do.

"The operation would be a very easy one if we had chloroform and proper implements. Unfortunately there is no chance of their having such a thing as a fine saw, and how in the world I am to make a clean cut through the bone I do not know. The knife that you carry is just the right thing for the job; but how about a saw? If we could have chloroformed him, we could, after making the cuts through the flesh, have put the leg on a log of wood and have cut clean through the bone with a chopper. It would not be a good plan, for it would probably splinter the bone, but it might have been tried, but without chloroform it is not to be thought of."

Godfrey thought for a moment. "The knives are of a very good steel, Alexis?"

"Oh yes, of the very best steel!"

"Is it hard steel like that of a razor?"

"Yes, very much the same."

"Then I should think it could be managed. I know the least thing will notch a razor. Now I should think if we took the large knife, and with my pocket-knife or with the edge of a hard stone notch the edge carefully all the way down, it would make a very good saw."

"I should think it might do anyhow, Godfrey, and the idea is a very good one. Well, let us set about it at once. I can get a piece of fresh bone to try on; no doubt they kill a sheep here every day."

They set to work and in ten minutes had notched the blade of the knife all the way down. Alexis had, as he expected, no trouble in obtaining a freshly-picked bone, and they found that the knife sawed through it very cleanly. Then Alexis went in to see the boy again. Before, he had been lying with his eyes half-closed, without a vestige of colour in his cheeks; the warm milk had done its work almost instantaneously, and he was perfectly conscious and there was a slight colour in his cheeks. His pulse had recovered strength wonderfully. Alexis nodded approvingly to the Buriat. He drew him outside the tent.

"If I were you," he said, "I would send away all the people from the other huts. If the poor child screams they may get excited and rush in, and it is better that everything should be perfectly quiet. I should send away also the ladies, unless of course his mother particularly wishes to be with him; but it will be trying for her, and I own that I would rather not have anyone in the tent but you and my friend."

The Buriat went inside; he returned in two or three minutes. "My wife will stay; my sister and the attendant will go." Then he called to the men who were standing at the doors of their huts:

"The doctor says there must be silence for some time; he is going to do something and he wishes that all shall retire to a distance until I wave my hand for them to return. Will there be anything you want?" he asked Alexis.

"A large jug of warm water," he said, "a bowl, and some soft rag—that is all. By the time that is ready I shall be. You will have to hold his leg, Godfrey," he went on as the Buriat returned to his tent. "You must hold it just under the knee as firmly as possible, so as to prevent the slightest movement. But I am going to try to mesmerize him. I have seen it done with perfect success, and at any rate it is worth trying. In the weak state he is in I ought to be able to succeed without difficulty. Now I want a couple of small flat stones with rounded edges, a strip of soft skin, and a bit of stick three or four inches long and as thick as your finger, to make a tourniquet with."

By the time that these were ready a perfect stillness reigned in the camp. The whole of the natives had gone away to a distance of over a quarter of a mile, and were sitting in a group watching the tents, and, Godfrey had no doubt, debating hotly as to the folly of allowing a stranger to have anything to do with the son of their employer. He now followed Alexis into the tent, where all was in readiness. The child's head was slightly raised by a skin folded and placed under it. His mother knelt beside him.

"What do you wish me to do?" the Buriat asked.

"I wish you to stand beside him and aid his mother to hold him should he struggle, and I may need you to dip the rag into the warm water, squeeze it out, and give it me."

"Of course he will struggle," the Buriat said; "we men can bear pain, but a child cannot."

"I am going to try to put him to sleep," Alexis replied; "a sleep so sound that he will not wake with the pain. I do not say that I shall be able to, but I will try."

The Buriat looked at Alexis as if he doubted his sanity. That a Russian doctor should be able to take off the child's leg was within his comprehension. He had once seen a man in the street of Irkutsk with only one arm, but that anyone could make a child sleep so soundly that he would not wake under such an operation seemed to him beyond the bounds of possibility.

"Tell the child that I am going to do him good," Alexis said to the mother, "and that he is to look at my eyes steadily." He placed himself at the side of the couch and gazed down steadily at the child; then he began to make passes slowly down his face. For three or four minutes the black eyes looked into his unwinkingly, then the lids closed a little. Alexis continued his efforts, the lids drooped more and more until they closed completely. He continued the motions of his hand for another minute or two, then stooping he lifted an eyelid; the eye was turned upwards, so that the iris was no longer visible.

"Thank God, he has gone off!" he said. "Now for the tourniquet. That is right; twist gradually now, Godfrey, and place the stone on the main artery. Now," he said to the Buriat, "hold this stick firm with one hand and place the other on his chest to prevent his moving. Do you lay your arm across him," this to the mother; "that is right. Kneel with your face against his. Now, Godfrey, grasp the leg just below the knee and hold it firmly."

Godfrey did so, and then shut his eyes as he saw the doctor about to use the knife, expecting to hear a piercing scream from the child. There was no sound, however, and in a very few seconds he heard Alexis utter a low exclamation of satisfaction. He looked now; the flesh was already cut through and no cry had escaped the child. Another moment the foot and the lower portion of the leg came away at the point where the bone was crushed; then Alexis pushed the flesh upwards so as to expose another inch of the shin-bone, and then took the saw and cut through it. Some strands of silk lay close to his hand; with a long needle he took up the ends of the arteries and tied them with the silk; then he took hold of the stick of the tourniquet and loosened it a little. The result was satisfactory; the arteries were securely tied. Then he tightened it again and gave it to the Buriat to hold, wiped the wound with the damp rag, drew down the flesh over the end of the bone, brought up the flap of flesh from behind, and with a few stitches sewed it in its place.

"It is all done," he said, rising to his feet. Then he passed his hand several times across the child's forehead. "Tell him softly, when he opens his eyes," he said to the mother, "that he will soon be well now, and that he must go to sleep." He continued the passes for some time, occasionally lifting the eyelid. "He is coming round now," he said at last. A few more passes and the child drowsily opened its eyes. His mother spoke to him softly, and with a faint smile he closed them again. Alexis stood quietly for another minute or two. "He is asleep now," he said to the Buriat; "you need hold him no longer."

The tears were running down the man's cheeks; he seized one of the hands of Alexis and pressed it to his lips, while the mother, sobbing with joy, did the same to the other. To them it seemed almost a miracle.

"Have some milk kept warm," Alexis said, "and give it to him when he awakes. Do not tell him anything about his foot having been taken off. Keep a blanket lying over him so that he will not see it It is well that he should not be agitated, but tell him that he must lie perfectly quiet and not move his leg, as it would hurt him if he did so. Now, chief, it would be as well if you called the others back and told your servant to get some breakfast, for my friend and I have had nothing to eat since your men woke us this morning."

The Buriat went outside the tent and waved a blanket, and the others came running in at the signal.

"Tell them not to make a noise," Alexis said; "the longer the child sleeps quietly the better."

The Buriats uttered exclamations of the most profound astonishment when the chief told them that the Russian doctor had taken off the leg of the child without his feeling the slightest pain, and that there was every hope of his speedily recovering, whereupon they looked at Alexis with a feeling of respect amounting to awe. A sheep was at once killed, skinned, cut up, and placed in a great cooking pot over a fire; but long before this was done two great bowls of hot milk were brought out by the Buriat to Alexis and Godfrey, to enable them to hold on until the meal was prepared. At his order the men at once set about erecting a tent for them close to his own, and as soon as this was up, piles of soft skins were brought in.

"That has been a lucky stroke indeed, Godfrey," Alexis said as they took possession of their new abode.

"It has indeed, Alexis. Nothing could have been more providential. We are in clover as long as we choose to stop here. Do you think the child will recover?"

"I think there is every hope of his doing so. These natives are as hard as nails. I don't suppose the child has ever had a day's illness in his life, and in this pure dry air there is little fear of the wound doing badly. The next thing to do is to make him a pair of crutches to get about with till he can bear to have a wooden stump on. The only nuisance is that we shall be delayed. As a doctor, I cannot very well leave my patient till he is fairly on the road towards recovery."

"Certainly not," Godfrey agreed. "Well, I daresay we shall put away the time pleasantly enough here."

Half an hour later two horses were brought up, and these with their saddles and bridles were presented by the Buriat to his guests, and were picketed by their tent. The next three weeks passed pleasantly; they rode, hunted, and shot. The little patient made rapid progress towards recovery, and at the end of that time was able to get about on two crutches Godfrey had made for him.

"It is better that you should make them, Godfrey, and also the wooden leg when he is ready for it," Alexis had said. "It is just as well that their gratitude should be divided a little, so I will hand that part of the work over to you."

The Buriats were delighted indeed when they saw the child hopping about the camp with his crutches, and their gratitude knew no bounds to their guests. Alexis had made no secret to the Buriat of their intention of trying to make their way to Pekin. He endeavoured in every way to dissuade them from it.

"You will never find your way across the desert," he said, "and will die for want of water. The people are wild and savage. They are ruled by their lamas, and if they do not put you to death, which they would be likely to do for what you have, they will certainly send you back to Kiakhta and hand you over to the Russians there; and even if you got through the desert the Chinese would seize you and send you back. It would be madness to try. It would be better than that to go south and make for Thibet, although even that would be a desperate expedition. The tribes are wild and savage, the desert is terrible for those who do not know it. You would never find the wells, and would perish miserably of thirst even if you escaped being killed by the tribesmen. Still your chances would be greater than they would be of reaching Pekin. But you had far better make up your minds to live here. I will give you flocks and herds. You should be as of my family, and you, Alexis, should marry my sister, who is rich as well as pretty, for she owns a third of all the flocks and herds you see."

Alexis warmly thanked the Buriat for the offer, but said they must take time to consider it. "One might do worse," he said, laughing, to Godfrey when they were alone. "The women are certainly a great deal better-looking than the men, and the girl would be considered fair-looking even in Russia. At any rate it would be vastly better being a Buriat here than being inside that prison at Irkutsk."

"I agree with you there, Alexis; but it would be horrible being cut off here from the world for life."

"But one is cut off in prison, Godfrey; and though I agreed to share your attempt I have never been very hopeful about its success, and I am still less hopeful now from what I hear of the difficulties ahead of us. As I said when you first talked of it, there must be some frightful difficulties here, or this would be the way by which convicts would always try to escape, and yet we have never heard of one doing so."

"Yes, I begin to think myself I have made a mistake, Alexis, in choosing this route instead of a northern one. Besides, we shall have winter upon us in a very few weeks now, which would of course add tremendously to our difficulties. But you are not seriously thinking of stopping here, are you?"

"I don't know, Godfrey. You see you have got a home and friends waiting for you if you do get away, I have nothing but exile. I do believe we shall never succeed in getting out through China, and I think we couldn't do better than stop here for a year or two. By the end of that time we may succeed in establishing relations by means of this Buriat with some of the tea merchants at Kiakhta, and getting one of them to smuggle us through with a caravan; but, at any rate, if you still hold to going I shall go too. I have no intention of deserting you, I can assure you."

In another fortnight Godfrey had made a stump for the child. The hollow was lined with sheepskin to take off the jar, and it strapped firmly on to the limb. The wound was not quite sufficiently healed yet for the child to use it regularly, but when on first trying it he walked across the tent the joy of his father and mother knew no bounds.

They had only been waiting for this to make a move, for the pasture had for some time been getting short, and on the following day the tents were pulled down, and for three days they journeyed east, and then finding a suitable spot again pitched their tents. They were now, as the Buriat told them, only some thirty miles from Kiakhta. Godfrey and Alexis had talked matters over during the journey. They agreed that the season was now too late for them to think of attempting the journey until the following spring, and had almost concluded that the attempt to get through China should be altogether abandoned. Going north there were the rigour of the climate and the enormous distances as obstacles, but the passage would be chiefly by water. There was no danger from the tribes they would have to pass through, no difficulties such as they might meet with from the opposition of the Chinese, and they had pretty well resolved to pass the winter with the Buriats and to make a start in the spring.

Their host was greatly pleased when they informed him of their intention at any rate to spend the winter with them, for he hoped that before the spring Alexis would have made up his mind to accept his offer, and to settle down as a member of the tribe.

The day after the Buriats pitched their fresh camp one of the men reported that he had seen a large bear at the edge of a forest two miles from the huts. Alexis and Godfrey at once took their guns, borrowed a couple of long spears and two hunting knives, and started for the wood, the native going with them to show them the exact spot where he had seen the bear. There was a good deal of undergrowth about, and they thought it probable that the animal was not far off. The Buriat had brought a dog with him, and the animal at once began sniffing the ground. His master encouraged it, and presently it started, sniffing the ground as it went. It had gone but a few hundred yards when it stopped before a thick clump of bushes and began growling furiously. They had a short consultation, and then the two friends took up their post one at each corner of the bushes, while the Buriat went round to the rear of the clump with his dog and began beating the bushes with his stick, while the dog barked and yelped. A minute later a bear broke out of the bushes within four yards of Alexis.

The Russian levelled his gun. Godfrey heard a report far louder than usual, and something flew close to his head. A moment later he saw Alexis struck to the ground by the bear. Godfrey rushed up, and fired when within two paces of the animal, which with a fierce growl turned upon him. He sprang aside and plunged his spear deep into its side. The bear struck at the handle and broke it in two, and then rose on its hind-legs. Godfrey drew his knife and awaited its rush, but it stood stationary for half a minute, swayed to and fro, and then fell on its side. Godfrey leaned over it and plunged his knife in deep behind its shoulders, pressing it until the blade disappeared. Then feeling certain it was dead he ran to Alexis, who lay motionless on the ground. By the side of him lay the stock of the gun and a portion of the barrel; it had exploded, completely shattering the Russian's left hand. But this was not his only or even his most serious injury. The bear had struck him on the side of the head, almost tearing off a portion of the scalp and ear.

The Buriat had by this time come round, and Godfrey bade him run to the camp at the top of his speed to fetch assistance. Feeling in his friend's pocket he drew out the bandage which Alexis always carried, and wrapped up as well as he could his shattered hand, of which the thumb and two first fingers were altogether missing; the wound on the head was, he felt, altogether beyond him. In less than half an hour the chief Buriat and four of his men dashed up on horseback. They had brought with them two poles and a hide to form a litter. The chief was deeply concerned when he saw how serious were the Russian's injuries. No time was lost in lashing the hides to the poles. Alexis was lifted and laid upon the litter, and two of the Buriats took the poles while the others led back the horses. As soon as he arrived in camp Godfrey bathed the wounds with warm water, and poured some spirits between the lips of the wounded man, but he gave no signs of consciousness.

"I am afraid," he said to the Buriat, who was looking on anxiously, "that his skull is injured or there is concussion of the brain. The only thing that I can see will be for him to be carried at once to Kiakhta. There is sure to be a hospital there and doctors."

"That would be best," the Buriat said; "but I will take a house there, and my wife and sister shall nurse him."

"That will be better than going into the hospital," Godfrey agreed, "for two reasons. In the first, because Alexis would certainly get more careful nursing among his friends than in a hospital, and he might then avoid, if he survives his injuries, being again imprisoned."

No time was lost. Four Buriats took the poles, Godfrey walked beside the litter, and the Buriat, his wife and sister, mounted and rode off to have everything ready for them when they arrived at Troitzkosavsk, the suburb of Kiakhta. It was late before they reached it. The Buriat met them half a mile outside the town, and at once conducted them to a house that he had hired from a friend established there. As soon as Alexis was laid upon a couch Godfrey and the Buriat went out and ascertained where one of the surgeons of the military hospital lived. On reaching the house they were shown by the Cossack who acted as the doctor's servant to his room.

"A friend of mine has been badly injured by a bear," the Buriat said; "I wish you to come and see him at once. He is in a house I have taken near this. I will be responsible for all charges."

The doctor looked keenly at Godfrey and then said, "I will come. You are not a Buriat?" he said to Godfrey as they started.

"I am not, doctor; though I have been living with them for some time."

"And the man who is ill, is he a Buriat?"

"No, sir; he is a Russian, and a member of your own profession."

"He is clever," the Buriat said. "He saved the life of my child by taking off his leg, and he is running about again now. He is as a brother to me, and I would gladly give a thousand cattle rather than that he should die."

No other words were spoken until they arrived at the house. The surgeon stooped over Alexis, lifted one of his eyelids, and felt his pulse.

"Concussion of the brain," he said; "a serious case. Bring me rags and hot water." He bathed the wound for some time and then carefully examined it. "There is a fracture of the skull," he said to Godfrey, "and I fancy there is a piece of bone pressing on the brain. Put wet cloths round his head for the present; I will go and fetch my colleague, and I will send down some ice from the hospital. His hand is bandaged up, what is the matter with that?"

"His gun burst, doctor, and has mangled his hand dreadfully. That was how it was the bear got at him and struck him."

The surgeon removed the bandages and examined it. "Keep it bathed with warm water until I return," he said.

Half an hour later he came back with the other surgeon, a man older than himself, both carrying cases of instruments. The wound on the head was again examined. They then proceeded to operate, and in a few minutes removed a portion of splintered bone. Then the flap of skin was carefully replaced in its position, and a few stitches put in to hold it. The hand was then attended to.

"No, I don't think it need come off," the senior surgeon said; "we may save the third and little fingers. At any rate we will try; if it does not do we can take the whole off afterwards."

The operation was performed, then ordering the ice that had just been brought to be applied to the head, the surgeons left.

"We will look in again early in the morning," one of them said to Godfrey, "and then we will have a chat with you."

The women took it by turns to watch, and Godfrey, worn out by the excitement of the day, slept until morning. Alexis was restless, moving uneasily and muttering to himself. His eyes were open, but he took no notice of what was going on around him. The surgeon they had first seen came alone.

"He is better," he said to the Buriat, "but he is very far from being out of danger yet. It will be a long illness, but I hope that we may be able to bring him round. I will send him some medicine presently. Keep cloths with cold water and ice to his head." He beckoned to Godfrey to follow him out of the room.

"I don't want to ask any questions," he said, "about my patient. I have been called in by this Buriat to see a friend of his, and it does not concern me who or what he may be; but it is different with you. As a Russian officer I cannot be seeing you daily without reporting that I have met a person who scarcely appears to be what he seems. It is painful to me to be obliged to say so. I do not give advice any way. I only say that if you do not wish to be asked questions, it would be best for you to leave here after nightfall; until then, I shall not consider it necessary to make any report. I shall be back again once or twice to-day; you had better think the matter over."

Godfrey had been thinking the matter over as he walked beside the litter, and had already arrived at a decision. It was evident that many weeks, if not months, must elapse before Alexis would be fit to sustain the hardships that would attend an attempt to escape, and he thought it probable that more than ever he would be inclined to throw in his lot with the wandering Buriats; he had therefore only himself to think about. He had foreseen that he would not be able to stop at Kiakhta without being exposed to being questioned, and that there remained therefore only the option of living with the Buriats during the winter or of giving himself up. The former plan would be the most advantageous in the event of his trying to reach Pekin; but the difficulties in that direction appeared to him so great that he shrank from the thought of facing them, especially as he should now be alone, and he preferred the idea of trying to escape by the north.

In this case a further sojourn among the Buriats would be useless; in a Russian prison he would be able to pick up many valuable hints from the men with whom he would work, and might find someone ready to make the attempt with him. The difficulties of escape from prison did not seem very great, and would, he thought, be even less at one of the penal settlements than if confined in an ordinary jail. When, however, the doctor spoke to him, Godfrey only thanked him, and said he would speak with him again when he next called. The Buriat saw that he was looking serious when he returned to the room.

"What did he say to you?" he asked. "Did he threaten to report you?"

"He spoke very kindly," Godfrey replied. "But he said that it would be his duty to do so if I remained here."

The Buriat shook his head. "I was thinking of that yesterday, and was afraid for you. Out on the plains there would have been none to question you; but here in the town a stranger is noticed at once, for every resident is known. You must make off at once. You can take my horse, we will watch over your friend. Once in my tents you will be safe."

Godfrey thanked him warmly, but told him that he had not quite decided as to what he should do, but would let him know later on. Then, as he could do nothing for Alexis, he threw himself down on a pile of skins, and thought the matter over in every light.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MINES OF KARA.

Godfrey found it a difficult matter to decide what was best to be done; but after two hours' thinking his mind was quite made up. He did not stand in the same position as Alexis with the Buriats. It was Alexis who had laid them under such an obligation by saving their child's life. He himself was simply liked as the doctor's companion, and without Alexis the long months of winter would be dreary indeed. He thought that imprisonment would be preferable to living alone in a Buriat hut. Accordingly he rose at last, and told the Buriat that his course was decided.

"I shall give myself up," he said. "I know that you would make me welcome in your tents; but from what you have told me, I see that there is no prospect whatever of an escape through China, and that if I go out to the plains I shall be there for life, while if I go to a prison I may in time be released, or at any rate I can again escape."

"Whenever you come to us you will be welcome," the Buriat said. "For yourself, you know best; but we shall be all sorry to lose you. Is there anything I can do for you? I know the governor here, for I have had large dealings with him for sheep and cattle for the troops."

"I shall be very glad if you will go with me to him," Godfrey said. "A word from you may be of great advantage to me. There are no prisons here, and I am most anxious to be sent to Nertchinsk and not to Irkutsk, because it was from there we escaped."

The Buriat's wife and sister were sorry when they heard Godfrey's determination, but they were too much occupied with Alexis to try and dispute it.

"When will you go?" the Buriat said.

"At once, if you will take me. I have no preparations to make; I only cause extra trouble here, and can be of no assistance. But first, if you will procure paper, pen, and ink, I will write a letter for you to give to Alexis when he recovers, telling him why I leave him."

The Buriat sent out one of his men, who presently returned with writing materials, and Godfrey then wrote a long letter to Alexis, explaining at length the reasons that actuated him in deciding to give himself up.

"You are in good hands," he said, "and I could do nothing for you; and in any case I should have to leave you now, for did I not give myself up I must leave this evening, therefore I could do no good to you in any case. I know that you were half inclined to stay with the Buriats, and you will now have even greater reasons for doing so than before. If, however, you should at any future time change your mind and try to make your escape, I need not tell you how delighted I should be to see you in England. I inclose the address of my father's office, where you will be sure either to find me or to hear of me. But even if I have not got home you will receive the heartiest welcome when you tell him of our having been together and show him this letter, and you may rely upon it that my father will be able to procure a situation for you in London, even if he cannot find a berth for you in his own house of business."

When he had finished he handed the letter to the Buriat to give to Alexis.

"Here is money," the Buriat said, "which my wife found upon Alexis. You had better take it with you."

"I cannot do that," Godfrey said, "it is his; I have some of my own. I know he would gladly give it to me if he were conscious; but I cannot take it now."

"Very well," the Buriat said, "you are doubtless right; but at any rate you can take some from me. I am rich. I have many thousands of sheep and cattle. If you do not take it I shall be offended, and shall think that in some way we have displeased you. A thousand roubles are nothing to me; I have given as much for one suit of furs for my wife. You must take this; if you ever attempt to escape again, you will need money."

After much debate Godfrey accepted five hundred roubles in notes, seeing that the Buriat would be really pained by his refusal, and knowing that the money would indeed be useful to him when he next tried to make his escape. Being anxious to hear the surgeon's next report about Alexis, Godfrey delayed his start until after his visit.

"There is no change," the doctor said, after examining his patient, "nor did I expect there would be after such serious injuries as he has received. It would be strange, indeed, if he did not suffer from the shock. It may be some days before any change takes place. It is vastly better that he should be restless, or even wildly delirious, than lying unconscious as he was when I first saw him. Well, and what are you going to do, young fellow?"

"I am going to give myself up," he said.

"You have had enough of the plains, eh?"

"Yes, sir, for the present."

"Mind, don't be foolish enough to say that you have escaped; there is not the least occasion for that; that would make the case a great deal worse."

"My friend here was going with me to the governor, doctor, to tell him that I have been living with him for some time."

"Yes, that is all well enough; but if you give yourself up it is a confession that you have escaped; that won't do at all. I tell you what will be the best thing: I will go with you to Colonel Prescoff, the governor. I shall tell him the truth, that I was attending one of the Buriat's men, who had been badly injured by a bear, when I saw you there. I found that you could not give a good account of yourself, and had no papers, and that, therefore, as was my duty, I brought you to him. Then you must say that you have been working here and there, and that you come from, say, Tomsk. I suppose you have been there?"

Godfrey smiled.

"That is near enough," the doctor went on. "As for your papers, you lost them, or they were burnt or stolen from you. He won't ask you many questions. Then the Buriat will speak up for you—he is rather an important man, being one of the richest of his tribe—and say what he can for you. Is there anything you want done particularly?"

"I want to be sent to Nertchinsk instead of to Irkutsk. I would rather work in the mines or anywhere else than be shut up in prison."

"And besides, you would not be known?" the doctor laughed.

"That is the principal thing, sir."

"Whatever you do, my lad," the doctor said, "if you have been a political prisoner—mind, I don't ask the question, and don't want to know—but if you have been, don't let it out. It is better to have been a murderer than a Nihilist out here. I dare say the colonel would send you to Nertchinsk if your friend here asks him, but it is a good deal further and a more expensive journey."

"I will gladly pay for the vehicle, sir."

"Ah, well; if you will do that, I should think it could be managed. I will go in first with your friend and have a talk with the colonel, and we will see if we can put the matter straight for you before you are called in."

Godfrey took his fur-lined coat, said good-bye to the two ladies, gently put his hand on his comrade's shoulder, and followed the doctor and his host. When they arrived at the governor's house the doctor left him in the room where two military clerks were writing, and went in with the Buriat to the governor. In five minutes the bell rang. An orderly answered it, and returning, bade Godfrey follow him. The governor was seated at a table, the doctor and the Buriat standing near.

"So I hear," the colonel said, looking sharply at Godfrey, "that you are unable to give an account of yourself, and have nothing but a cock-and-bull story of having wandered about through the country. We understand what that means. However, our friend here," and he motioned to the Buriat, "speaks well of you, and says that you have done him some service. However that cannot be taken into consideration. It is clear that having no papers and no domicile, you are a vagabond, and as such must be committed to prison. You will be taken to Nertchinsk." Godfrey bowed. The colonel touched the bell again, and the orderly entered. "Take this man to the cells."

The Buriat stepped forward and shook hands with Godfrey. "Come again," he said in a low voice, "you will always be welcome."

The doctor nodded. "I shall see you before you start," he said. Godfrey saluted the colonel and followed the orderly out of the room. He was taken across a court-yard to a cell.

"A good style of young fellow," the colonel said when he left. "He has either been an officer and got into some scrape with his colonel, or he is a political."

"One or the other, colonel, no doubt," the doctor agreed.

"Well, it is no business of mine," the colonel said. "I suppose he has had four or five months in the woods and wants to get into snug quarters again before winter. Well, good morning, gentlemen!" and his visitors took their leave.

Late in the evening the doctor came into Godfrey's cell. "By the bye," he said, "I put your name down as Ivan Holstoff. It was as good as any other, and you had to be entered by some name. I feared that you might blurt out your own whatever it may be, and that might be fatal, for if you are a political prisoner your name will have been sent to every station where there are troops."

"I am very much obliged to you, doctor, for your kindness," Godfrey said. "I will take care to remain Ivan Holstoff. How much am I to pay for the carriage?"

"Your friend the Buriat has seen to that, and handed the governor money for a vehicle there and back, as the soldier in charge of you will have to return."

"It is very good of him," Godfrey said gratefully. "Please tell him when you see him how much obliged I am to him for his kindness to me."

"I think my patient will do," the doctor said. "He is quieter and less feverish this evening. I think he will pull round; and now good bye! I think you have done right in giving yourself up. You are but a lad yet, and with good conduct, now that you are entered only as a vagabond, you will get leave to work outside the prison in two or three years, and get a permit to settle anywhere in Siberia a couple of years later."

The next morning at daybreak Godfrey was placed in a vehicle. A soldier mounted by the side of the driver, the latter shouted to his horses, and started at full gallop. Soon after leaving the town they passed a caravan of forty carts carrying tea. The soldier, who appeared a chatty fellow, told him they would be three months on their way to Moscow. At a town named Verchne Udinsk they regained the main road and turned east and continued their journey through Chita, a town of three thousand inhabitants, to Nertchinsk, a distance of six hundred miles. The country was hilly, and for the most part wooded, but varied at times by rolling prairies on which large herds of cattle were grazing. The journey was far more pleasant than that Godfrey had before made, for being no longer regarded as a political prisoner his guard chatted with him freely; and at night, instead of having to sleep in the vehicle in the open air, he was lodged in the convict stations, which, as the season was late, were for the most part unoccupied. He was glad, however, when he arrived at Nertchinsk, for the jolting of the springless vehicle was very trying. He did not see the governor of the prison, but was at once assigned to a cell there on the guard handing to the authorities the official report of the governor at Kiakhta.

"You are to go on again to-morrow," the warder said to him that evening. "We are full here, and there is a party going on to Kara. You will go with them. The barber will be here to shave you directly. You have not been out very long, judging by the length of your hair. Here is your prison dress. You must put that on to-morrow instead of the one you have on, but you may carry yours with you if you like, it will be useful to you when your term in the prison is done."

Accordingly the next morning Godfrey was taken into the court-yard, where some fifty other prisoners were assembled, and ten minutes later marched off under a guard of eight mounted Cossacks. He carried his peasant's clothes and fur coat rolled up into a bundle on his shoulder, and had, after he changed his dress, sewn up his money in the collar of his jacket with a needle and thread he had brought with him, keeping out some twenty roubles for present purposes. The journey occupied five days, the marches averaging twenty-five miles apiece. The prisoners talked and sung by the way, picked the blackberries and raspberries that grew thickly on the bushes by the wayside, and at night slept in the stations, their food consisting of very fair broth, with cabbage in it, meat, and black bread. Godfrey was asked no questions. He did not know whether this was because the convicts thought only of themselves, and had no curiosity about their companions, or whether it was a sort of etiquette observed among them. Godfrey was surprised to find how much the country differed from the ideas he had formed of Siberia.

The forests were beautiful with a great variety of foliage. Late lilies bloomed by the roadside with flowers of other kinds, of whose names he was ignorant. To the north was a chain of hills of considerable height. The forest was alive with birds, and he frequently caught sight of squirrels running about among the branches. No objection was offered by the guards to their making purchases at the villages through which they passed, except that they would not allow them to buy spirits. At the first opportunity Godfrey laid out four or five roubles in tea and tobacco, some of which he presented to the guards, and divided the rest among his fellow-prisoners, who forthwith dubbed him "the count." At length Kara was reached. It was not a town, but purely a convict settlement, the prisoners being divided among four or five prisons situated two or three miles from each other. They were first marched to the most central of these. Here they were inspected by the governor, who had the details of each case reported by the authorities of the prisons they had left. They were at once divided into parties in accordance with the vacancies in the various prisons.

Only four were left behind. These were taken to a guardroom until allotted to the various wards. One by one they were taken out, Godfrey being the last to be summoned. He was conducted to a room in which several convicts were seated writing; through this a long passage led to the governor's room.

"You are known as Ivan Holstoff," the governor said when the warder had retired.

"Yes, sir."

"Age?"

"Seventeen."

"Charged with being a vagabond, found without papers or documents, and unable to give a satisfactory account of yourself."

Godfrey bowed. The colonel glanced through the paper by his side signed by the governor at Kiakhta, and saying that the prisoner had been most favourably reported upon by a wealthy Buriat, a government contractor with whom he had been living out on the plains.

"You persist in giving no further account of yourself?" the governor asked.

"I would rather say nothing further, sir," Godfrey replied.

"You are not a Russian," the governor said sharply.

"I am a Russian born," the lad replied.

"You speak with a slight accent."

"I was away for some years from my country," Godfrey replied.

"I suppose you would call yourself a student?"

"Yes, sir, I was a student until lately."

"You are a young lad to have got yourself into trouble. How was it? Do not tell me what crime you are charged with, but you can tell me anything else. It will go no farther, and there will be no record of what you say."

Godfrey liked the officer's face. It was stern, but sternness is a necessity when a man is in charge of some three thousand prisoners, the greater proportion of whom are desperate men; but there was a kindness in the half-smile with which he spoke.

"I am here, sir, from pure misfortune. I have no doubt most people you question declare they are innocent, and I do not expect you to believe me. The facts against me were very strong, so strong that I believe any jury would have convicted me upon them, but in spite of that I was innocent. I behaved like a fool, and was made the dupe of others, but beyond that I have nothing whatever to blame myself for or to regret."

"It may be as you say," Colonel Konovovitch said. "I am not here to revise sentences, but to see them carried out. Conduct yourself well, lad, and in two years you will get a permit to reside outside the prison. Three years later you will be practically free, and can go where you like in Siberia and earn your living in any way you choose. Many of the richest men in the country have been convicts. I shall keep an eye on you, and shall make matters as easy for you as I can."

He touched the bell, and the warder re-entered and led Godfrey away. The colonel sat for some little time in thought. He liked the lad's face and his manner, which, although perfectly respectful, had none of the servility with which Russians generally address their superiors. "He did not say that he was a Russian," he said to himself, "only that he was born in Russia. I should say from his appearance and manner that he was English. What was he sent out here for, I wonder? He may have been a clerk and been condemned for forgery or embezzlement. He may have been a political prisoner, most likely that I should say. He may have got mixed up in some of these Nihilist plots; if so, he has done well to become a vagabond. I can't help thinking he was speaking the truth when he declared he was innocent. Well, perhaps in the long run it will be the best for him. A clerk's lot is not a very bright one, and I should say he is likely to make his way anywhere. He has a hard two years' time before him among those scoundrels, but I should think he is likely to hold his own."

Then he dismissed the subject from his thoughts and turned to a pile of papers before him.

Godfrey, on leaving the presence of the governor, was taken by the warder to one of the prison blocks, and was handed over to the prison official in charge of it. He was taken to a small room and there furnished with a bag in which to keep his underclothing and other effects.

"You will use this bag for a pillow at night," the official said. "What money you have you can either give to me to take charge of for you, or can hand it over to the head man of the room to lay out for you as you require it, or you can keep it yourself. If you choose to hold it yourself you had better keep a very sharp look-out; not that there are any professional thieves here, it is only for very serious offences that men are sent east of Irkutsk."

Godfrey thanked the official, but said that what little he had he might as well keep with him. His money in paper was safely hidden in the lining of his convict jacket, and as he knew that that would be worn by night as well as by day, it was perfectly safe there. He was provided with some flannel shirts and other underclothing.

"I see you have underclothing of your own," the official said; "but of course you have the regular allowance given you; if you run short of money you can sell them. Now come along with me."

Godfrey was led into a large room, where the scene somewhat widely differed from what he had pictured to himself would be the interior of a prison at the dreaded mines of Kara. The room was large and fairly lofty; the walls were clean and whitewashed; down both sides ran benches, six feet wide, similar to one he had seen in an English guard-house. There were some sixty men in the room; some of these were lying upon the bed-places smoking pipes, others were sitting on them talking together or mending their clothes, and several parties were engaged in card-playing. Save for the ugly gray uniforms with the coloured patches in the centre of the back, significant of the term of imprisonment to which their wearers had been sentenced, and the strangely shaved heads of those present, he might have been in a singularly free-and-easy barrack-room. Most of the men looked up as the official entered.

"A new comrade," he said. "Mikail Stomoff, do you take him in your charge;" and having said this he at once left the room.

Mikail Stomoff, a big powerful man, came across to Godfrey. He was the starosta or head man of the ward, elected to the position by the votes of his fellow-prisoners. It was his duty to keep order and prevent quarrelling, and to see that the ward was swept out and kept tidy. He transacted all business for the prisoners, made their purchases outside, and was generally the intermediary between them and the authorities. In return for all this he was free from labour at the mines.

"Well, my lad," he said, "you began early. How long are you in for, and what have you done?"

"I am in here for being a vagabond," Godfrey said, "and I believe the punishment for that is five years."

"A vagabond, eh? we have not many of them here. The wanderers generally work their way west. However, I daresay you had your reasons, and I don't know that you are not right, for most of us prefer hard work here to the dulness of the prisons in the west. Now, lad," he went on, dropping his voice, "if you have got any money do not say a word about it. You will be robbed to a certainty if you keep it yourself. The best thing you can do is to hand it over to me, and I will take care of it for you." Godfrey nodded, and putting his hand in his pocket pulled out the ten-rouble note he had set aside, and two or three smaller notes, and slipped them into the man's hand.

"You can have it out as you want it," the man said; "and anything you want outside I can get for you out of it. The only thing prohibited is vodka."

Some of the other men came round, and Godfrey thought he had never seen more villainous faces. Some of them were heavy, stolid, and stupid; others were fierce and passionate.

"He is a vagabond," Mikail said to them. "I don't know what he has been before that, and if he is wise," and he gave a significant glance at Godfrey, "he will keep that to himself."

"I should say he had been a political," one of the men said in a tone of contempt, for there was a certain jealousy of the politicals among the convict class; because, although their lot was really much harder than that of ordinary convicts, they were allowed to retain their own clothes, were lodged separately, and were almost all men of education, and in many cases of noble family. The feeling was evidenced by the indifference with which the rest of the men strolled away again when they heard the suggestion.

"How do they all get tobacco?" Godfrey asked the starosta. "Is it part of the rations? Surely the money they may have when they come in here must soon be spent."

"We may buy the tobacco," Mikail said. "Every man has something for his work. They pretend it is half the value of the work we do, but of course we know better than that. Still we all get something each day, and can spend it as we like. I don't think they allow smoking in the western prisons, but they do in all those east of Irkutsk. The authorities encourage it, indeed, for it is considered healthy and keeps away fever. There are no fevers in summer, but in winter, from so many men being shut up together, the air gets bad and sometimes we have outbreaks of fever."

"But where do you buy your tobacco?"

"People come to the prison gates and sell it as we come back from work. You can buy anything except vodka, and you can buy that, though not openly; it gets smuggled in."

"How many hours do you work a day?"

"Thirteen; but of course it is only for five months in the year. In winter the ground is too hard."

"Too hard!" Godfrey repeated. "Why, it never gets cold in mines."

"You don't think you are going to work underground, do you?" the man said; "there are very few underground mines here. It is all on the surface. There are some underground, because I have worked in them. I would rather work there than here. They can't look after you so sharp, and you can take it as easily as you like."

Godfrey looked astonished. His ideas of the Siberian mines had been taken from stories written by men who had never been within thousands of miles of them, and who drew terrible pictures of the sufferings of exiles simply for the purpose of exciting feeling throughout Europe against the Russian government.

"But it is very unhealthy in the mines underground, is it not?"

"No; why should it be? It is much cooler and pleasanter working underground than it is in the dust and heat, I can tell you."

"But I thought all quicksilver mines were unhealthy."

"Quicksilver!" the man repeated; "there is not a quicksilver mine in all Siberia. There is gold and silver, but I don't believe there is a place where quicksilver is found. Anyhow there is not one that is worked. They have been gammoning you, young fellow."

"Well, they have gammoned a good many other people too," Godfrey said. "I know I have read frightful accounts of the sufferings of prisoners in quicksilver mines."

"Who wrote them?" Mikail asked. "There are a few convicts who may years afterwards be proved innocent, and allowed to return to Russia, but they are not the sort that would write lies about this place, for if they did they would soon find themselves on the road again. There are not a dozen men who have ever made their escape. Some of them may have invented lies for the sake of getting pity, and make themselves out to be hard used. Have you ever read any books by them?"

"Only one," Godfrey said. "It was written by Baron Rosen; he was a political prisoner who was pardoned after being here a great many years. He described the life of political prisoners, of course, and even that was not very bad. Many of them had their wives with them, and they seem to have lived together pretty comfortably."

"Ah! well, I don't think a political prisoner who came here now would say as much. They are sent to lonely settlements, many of them up at Yakutsk; though, of course, there are some down here. It is a horribly dull life. Some of them do work in the mines, but they are better off than those who have no work to do at all. I would rather be in for murder a hundred times than be a political; and what name do you go by, young fellow?"

"I am entered as Ivan Holstoff."

"That will do well enough. Don't you be fool enough to tell any one what your real name is. There are sneaks here as well as elsewhere who are glad enough to curry favour so as to get easy jobs, or to be let out sooner than they otherwise would be, by acting as spies; so you keep your real name to yourself. If it got to the ears of the governor he might find out what prison you escaped from and what you were in for, and if you were a political you would either be sent back there, or put with the politicals here, so keep it to yourself."

"Shall I give you my watch?"

"Yes, I think you had better. It would be of no good to anyone who took it as long as he was in here, but he would be able to sell it when he went to live outside. I will take care of it for you. I have got a safe where I keep the money and things locked.

"We have got to work, and pretty hard, but I tell you we are a good bit better off than they are in the prisons of Russia. We have got plenty to eat, though I cannot say much for its niceness; anyhow we are a long way better fed than the soldiers who look after us; but here comes the food."

A warder brought in a huge tray upon which were placed bowls of a sort of soup, while two others brought baskets piled up with huge chunks of black bread. Mikail took from a cupboard a spoon, and gave it to Godfrey. "You keep this for yourself," he said; "we don't have knives and forks, and do not want them."

"Is this a day's allowance of bread?" Godfrey asked, as he took hold of one of the lumps.

"No. You get as much as that in the morning. Our allowance is four pounds a day, two in the morning and two in the evening. The evening bread generally lasts for evening and morning soup, and we take the morning bread away with us to eat in the middle of the day."

Godfrey sat down on the edge of the bed bench and ate his supper. As he looked at the men more carefully he saw that there were greater differences between them than he had at first noticed. Some of them he judged to have been gentlemen, and he afterwards found that there were three or four who had been officers in the army, but sentenced for grave military crimes. There were half a dozen in for forgery or embezzlement, and over thirty for murder. Some among the prisoners were Tartars. These were all in for murder or robbery with violence.

"Where am I to sleep?" he presently asked Mikail.

"I sleep in that corner next to the wall. Put your bag next to mine. They are not so likely to play tricks with you then."

Godfrey was not sorry to lay himself down on the boards. There was no attempt at undressing on the part of any of the convicts. He would have thought the bed a very hard one a few months since; but he was now well contented with it, though he would have preferred rather more room on each side.

"I suppose I ought to feel very miserable," he said to himself. "I can't make out why I don't. Here am I shut up with about a hundred as villainous-looking fellows as one could want to see—something like half of them murderers, all desperate criminals. I ought to be down in the dumps. It seems unnatural that I shouldn't be. I suppose I have a sort of Mark Tapley disposition, and get jolly under difficulties. Of course I should feel it more if I hadn't made up my mind to escape somehow. The colonel seems a good sort of fellow, and even the prisoners speak well of him. Then it is a comfort to hear that all that talk about the quicksilver mines was a lie, and the work is going to be no worse than a gold-digger would have in California or a navvy at home. There is no great hardship about that, at any rate for a time. If it was not for the thought of how horribly anxious they must be at home about me, I should not mind. It will be something to talk about all one's life. The first thing for me to do is to learn from the others as much as possible about the country. I have learned a lot about the geography of Siberia from Alexis, and have got a good idea about all the rivers. I dare say I shall learn a good deal more from some of these men. Another thing is to pick up as much of their language as I can from these Tartar fellows. They seem to be scattered pretty well all over the country. At least I have seen some of them all the way I have gone. I know there are other tribes. Those fishing chaps they call Ostjaks are the ones I should have most to do with. I expect one could get on with them if one happened to get them in the right vein. I suppose they speak some sort of dialect like that of these Tartars. At any rate I should think it would be sure to be near enough for the natives to understand each other. I believe Russian helps with all these languages, for the Russians are themselves only civilized Tartars. At any rate one of the first things to be done is to learn to speak the language, and I should be able to learn a lot about the country from them too. I have got eight or nine months before one can think of making a start, for of course it must be done in the spring. It is the end of September now, though I have lost all account of the days of the month."

So he lay thinking for a long time, always confidently and hopefully. Soon after daylight the convicts were astir.

"Is there any place where we can get water to wash?" he asked Mikail.

"There is a tap and a trough out there in the yard," the man said, looking somewhat surprised at the request.

Godfrey hurried out, threw off his jacket and shirt, turned the tap on to his head, and enjoyed a thorough sluice. Feeling vastly better for the wash, he slipped on his things again and went into the room. He was not surprised now that he had woke with something like a headache, for the air of the room was close and unwholesome. Breakfast similar to the supper the night before was soon served. Godfrey had plenty of bread left from the evening before, and put the piece now served out to him under his jacket. Half an hour later the convicts, ranged two and two, started for the mines. The distance was five miles. The heavy tools were taken in carts drawn by horses, and a guard of soldiers with loaded muskets marched beside the line.

The mine was a large open cutting, and the prisoners were employed in digging the sand and carrying it on hand-barrows to the place where it was to be washed. The work was not entirely performed by prisoners, as there were many free labourers also employed. Godfrey was given a shovel, and his work consisted in loading the sand and gravel, as the pickmen got it down, on to the barrows. Being unaccustomed to work, his back ached and his hands were blistered by the end of the day; but he knew, from his experience in rowing, that this would pass off before long. At any rate the labour was far easier than he had anticipated. He had expected to see overseers with whips, but there was nothing of the sort. A few men directed the labour, and spoke sharply enough if they saw any of the prisoners shirking, but there was nothing to distinguish it from any other work of the kind, save the Cossack guards here and there leaning upon their muskets, and certainly the men worked no harder than ordinary labourers would do. Indeed, when the time was up and the prisoners started on their return towards the prison, the free labourers continued their work, and would do so, he afterwards learned, for some hours, as it would take a considerable time for all the sand obtained during the day to be thoroughly washed up and the gold extracted. Godfrey had at first looked narrowly at the sand as he shovelled it, for specks of gold, but had seen none; and indeed the proportion of gold at the mines of Kara was so small that they would not have paid if worked by free labour; but the produce served to lessen the expenses of the prisons, and the mines afforded work to the convicts. The prisoners were not forbidden to talk, and Godfrey, who had happened to be placed next to a young fellow of the better class, learned a good many particulars as to the mines. He had seen no women at them, and asked if they were not employed at that labour.

"I never heard of such a thing," the other said. "They have to work; they wash and mend our clothes, and scrub the floors, and help the cooks, but that is all. After working for a certain time, according to the length of their sentence, they are allowed to live out of prison, and after a still further time are at liberty to settle down anywhere in Siberia they choose."

"Have you been here long?" Godfrey asked.

"I have been here three years," he said, "and I should be out by this time if I had not run away last year."

"How did you get on?"

"I got on well enough till the cold weather came. There are plenty of berries in the woods, and besides we occasionally came down and stole things from the carts waiting at night at the post-houses. We got a chest of tea once, and that lasted us all through the summer. There were ten of us together. Besides that, the people all along the road are very good to escaped prisoners. They dare not give them anything, because, if it were known they did so, they would be severely punished; but on the window-sill of almost every house is placed at night a plate with food on it, in case any wanderer should come along. Of course when winter came I had to give myself up."

"Do you think escape altogether is possible?"

"I don't say that it is not possible, for some have done it; but I suppose for every one who has tried it, hundreds have died. There is no living in the mountains in winter. Men do get free. There are a great many private mines, and in some of these they ask no questions, but are glad enough to engage anyone who comes along. After working there as a free labourer for a couple of years it is comparatively easy to move somewhere else, and in time one may even settle down as a free labourer in a town; but there is no getting right away then, for no one can leave Siberia without a passport giving particulars of all his life.

"You are not thinking of trying, are you? because, if you will take my advice, you won't. It is all very well to go out for a summer holiday, but that is a very different thing from attempting an escape. I was a fool to try it, but I had such a longing to be in the woods that I could not help it. So now I shall be obliged to work here for a couple of years longer before I can live outside the prison. I am here for knocking down my colonel. We were both in love with the same girl. She liked me best, and her father liked him best. He was a tyrannical brute. One day he insulted me before her, and I knocked him down. I was tried for that, and he trumped up a lot of other charges against me; and there was no difficulty in getting plenty of hounds to swear to them. So you see here I am with a ten years' sentence. I don't know that I am not lucky."

"How is that?" Godfrey asked.

"There were half a dozen fellows in the regiment—I was one of them—who ventured to think for themselves. We had secret meetings, and were in communication with men of other regiments. Well, I was sent off before anything came of it. But they got hold of the names of the others when they arrested some Nihilists at Kieff, and they were all sent out here for life. I met one of them a few months back, and he told me so. So you see it was rather lucky that I knocked down the colonel when I did. Besides, it is ever so much better to be a convict than a political. I don't know how it was you had the luck to get turned in with us. I can tell you there is no comparison between their lot and ours. Still it is hateful, of course, living among such a gang as these fellows."

"They look pretty bad," Godfrey said.

"Bad is not the word for it," the other said. "A man I know who works as a clerk in the office told me that there are about two thousand two hundred prisoners in the six prisons of Kara, but of these only about a hundred and fifty are women. They are even worse than the men, for of the hundred and fifty there are a hundred and twenty-five murderesses, and of the others twelve are classed as vagabonds, and I suppose most of these are murderesses too. Out of the two thousand men there are about six hundred and seventy murderers. That is not such a big proportion as among the women, though, as there are nearly seven hundred classed as vagabonds, you would not be far wrong if you put down every other man as a murderer."

"It is horrible," Godfrey said.

"Well, it is not pleasant; but you must remember that a great many of these murderers may be otherwise pretty honest fellows. A great many of them have killed a man or woman when mad with vodka; some of the others have done it in a fit of jealousy; a few perhaps out of vengeance for some great wrong. The rest, I grant, are thoroughly bad.

"By the way, my name is Osip Ivanoff. There are two or three decent fellows in our ward. I will introduce you to them this evening. It makes it pleasanter keeping together. We have got some cards, and that helps pass away the summer evenings. In winter it is too dark to play. There is only one candle in the ward; so there is nothing for it but to lay up and go to sleep as soon as it gets dark. There is the prison. I dare say you won't be sorry when you are back. The first three or four days' work is always trying."

CHAPTER IX.

PRISON LIFE.

Godfrey found that there was no Sunday break in the work at Kara, but that once a fortnight the whole of the occupants of the ward had baths, and upon these days no work was done. Upon a good many saints' days they also rested; so that, practically, they had a holiday about once in every ten days. For his own part he would have been glad had the work gone on without these breaks. When the men started for work at five in the morning, and returned to the prison at seven at night, the great majority, after smoking a pipe or two, turned in at once, while upon the days when there was no work quarrels were frequent; and, what was to him still more objectionable, men told stories of their early lives, and seemed proud rather than otherwise of the horrible crimes they had committed. His own time did not hang at all heavy upon his hands.

One of the Tartar prisoners who spoke Russian was glad enough to agree, in exchange for a sufficient amount of tobacco to enable him to smoke steadily while so employed, to teach him his own dialect. Godfrey found, as he had expected, a sufficient similarity between the two languages to assist him very greatly, and with two hours' work every evening, and a long bout on each holiday, he made rapid progress with it, especially as he got into the habit of going over and over again through the vocabulary of all the words he had learned, while he was at work in the mine. When not employed with the Tartar he spent his time in conversation with Osip Ivanoff and the little group of men of the same type. They spent much of their time in playing cards, whist being a very popular game in Russia. They often invited Godfrey to join them, but his mind was so much occupied with his own plans that he felt quite unable to give the requisite attention to the game.

He soon learnt the methods by which order and discipline were maintained in the prisons. For small offences the punishment was a decrease in the rations, the prohibition of smoking—the prisoners' one enjoyment—and confinement to the room. The last part of the sentence was that which the prisoners most disliked. So far from work being hardship, the break which it afforded to the monotony of their life rendered the privation of it the severest of punishments, and Godfrey learned that there was the greatest difficulty in getting men to accept the position of starosta, in spite of the privileges and power the position gave, because he did not go out to work. For more serious offences men were punished by a flogging, more or less severe, with birch rods. For this, however, they seemed to care very little, although sometimes incapacitated for doing work for some days, from the effects of the beating.

Lastly, for altogether exceptional crimes, or for open outbreaks of insubordination, there was the plete—flogging with a whip of twisted hide, fastened to a handle ten inches long and an inch thick. The lash is at first the same thickness as the handle, tapering for twelve inches, and then divided into three smaller lashes, each twenty-five inches long and about the thickness of the little finger. This terrible weapon is in use only at three of the Siberian prisons, of which Kara is one. From twenty to twenty-five lashes are given, and the punishment is considered equivalent to a sentence to death, as in many cases the culprit survives the punishment but a short time. The prisoners were agreed that at Kara the punishment of the plete was extremely rare, only being given for the murder of a convict or official by one of the convicts. The quarrels among the prisoners, although frequent, and attended by great shouting and gesticulation, very rarely came to blows, the Russians having no idea of using their fists, and the contests, when it came to that, being little more than a tussle, with hair pulling and random blows. Had the prisoners had knives or other weapons ready to hand, the results would have been very different.

Godfrey had not smoked until he arrived at Kara; but he found that in the dense atmosphere of the prison room it was almost necessary, and therefore took to it. Besides smoking being allowed as useful to ward off fevers and improve the health of the prisoners, it also had the effect of adding to their contentment, rendering them more easy of management, as the fear of the smoking being cut off did more to ensure ready obedience than even the fear of the stick. Tea was not among the articles of prison diet; but a samovar was always kept going by Mikail, and the tea sold to the prisoners at its cost price, and the small sum paid to the convicts sufficed to provide them with this and with tobacco.

Vodka was but seldom smuggled in, the difficulty of bringing it in being great, and the punishment of those detected in doing so being severe. At times, however, a supply was brought in, being carried, as Godfrey found, in skins similar to those used for sausages, filled with the spirit and wound round and round the body. These were generally brought in when one or other of the prisoners had received a remittance, as most of them were allowed to receive a letter once every three months; and these letters, in the case of men who had once been in a good position, generally contained money. This privilege was only allowed to men after two years' unbroken good conduct.

Godfrey's teacher in the Tartar language had been recommended to him by Osip as being the most companionable of the Tartar prisoners. He was a young fellow of three or four and twenty, short and sturdy, like most of his race, and with a good-natured expression in his flat face. He was in for life, having in a fit of passion killed a Russian officer who had struck him with a whip. He came from the neighbourhood of Kasan in the far west. Godfrey took a strong liking to him, and was not long before he conceived the idea that when he made his escape he would, if possible, take Luka with him. Such companionship would be of immense advantage, and would greatly diminish the difficulties of the journey. As for Luka, he became greatly attached to his pupil. The Tartars were looked down upon by their fellow-prisoners, and the terms of equality with which Godfrey chatted with them, and his knowledge of the world, which seemed to the Tartar to be prodigious, made him look up to him with unbounded respect.

The friendship was finally cemented by an occurrence that took place three months after Godfrey arrived at the prison. Among the convicts was a man named Kobylin, a man of great strength. He boasted that he had committed ten murders, and was always bullying and tyrannizing the quieter and weaker prisoners. One day he passed where Luka and Godfrey were sitting on the edge of the plank bed talking together. Luka happened to get up just as he came along, and Kobylin gave him a violent push, saying, "Get out of the way, you miserable little Tartar dog."

Luka fell with his head against the edge of the bench, and lay for a time half stunned. Godfrey leapt to his feet, and springing forward struck the bully a right-handed blow straight from the shoulder. The man staggered back several paces, and fell over the opposite bench. Then, with a shout of fury, he recovered his feet and rushed at Godfrey, with his arms extended to grasp him; but the lad, who had been one of the best boxers at Shrewsbury, awaited his onset calmly, and, making a spring forward just as Kobylin reached him, landed a blow, given with all his strength and the impetus of his spring, under the Russian's chin, and the man went backwards as if he had been shot.

A roar of applause broke from the convicts. Mikail rushed forward, but Godfrey said to him:

"Let us alone, Mikail. This fellow has been a nuisance in the ward ever since I came. It is just as well that he should have a lesson. I sha'n't do him any harm. Just leave us alone for a minute or two; he won't want much more."

GODFREY PUNISHES KOBYLIN IN THE CONVICT PRISON.

The Russian rose slowly to his feet, bewildered and half stupefied by the blow and fall. He would probably have done nothing more; but, maddened by the taunts and jeers of the others, he gathered himself together and renewed the attack, but he in vain attempted to seize his active opponent. Godfrey eluded his furious rushes, and before he could recover himself, always succeeded in getting in two or three straight blows, and at last met him, as in his first rush, and knocked him off his feet.

By this time Kobylin had had enough of it, and sat on the floor bewildered and crestfallen. Everything that a Russian peasant does not understand savours to him of magic; and that he, Kobylin, should have been thus vanquished by a mere lad seemed altogether beyond nature. He could not understand how it was that he had been unable to grasp his foe, or how that, like a stroke of lightning, these blows had shot into his face. Even the jeering and laughter of his companions failed to stir him. The Russian peasant is accustomed to be beaten, and is humble to those who are his masters. Kobylin rose slowly to his feet.

"You have beaten me," he said humbly. "I do not know how; forgive me; I was wrong. I am ignorant, and did not know."

"Say no more about it," Godfrey replied. "We have had a quarrel, and there is an end of it. There need be no malice. We are all prisoners here together, and it is not right that one should bully others because he happens to be a little stronger. There are other things besides strength. You behaved badly, and you have been punished. Let us smoke our pipes, and think no more about it."

The sensation caused in the ward by the contest was prodigious, and the victory of this lad was as incomprehensible to the others as to Kobylin himself. The rapidity with which the blows were delivered, and the ease with which Godfrey had evaded the rushes of his opponent, seemed to them, as to him, almost magical, and from that moment they regarded Godfrey as being possessed of some strange power, which placed him altogether apart from themselves. Osip and the other men of the same stamp warmly congratulated Godfrey.

"What magic is this?" Osip said, taking him by the shoulders and looking with wonder at him. "I have been thinking you but a lad, and yet that strong brute is as a child in your hands. It is the miracle of David and Goliath over again."

"It is simply skill against brute force, Osip. I may tell you, what I have not told anyone before since I came here, that my mother was English. I did not say so, because, as you may guess, I feared that were it known and reported it might be traced who I was, and then, instead of being merely classed as a vagabond, I should be sent back to the prison I escaped from, and be put among another class of prisoners."

"I understand, Ivan. Of course I have all along felt sure you were a political prisoner; and I thought, perhaps, you might have been a student in Switzerland, which would account for you having ideas different to other people."

"No, I was sent for a time to a school in England, and there I learned to box."

"So, that is your English boxing," Osip said. "I have heard of it, but I never thought it was anything like that. Why, he never once touched you."

"If he had, I should have got the worst of it," Godfrey laughed; "but there was nothing in it. Size and weight go for very little in boxing; and a man knowing nothing about it has not the smallest chance against a fair boxer who is active on his legs."

"But you did not seem to be exerting yourself," Osip said. "You were as cool and as quiet as if you had been shovelling sand. You even laughed when he rushed at you."

"That is the great point of boxing, Osip. One learns to keep cool, and to have one's wits about one; for anyone who loses his temper has but a poor chance indeed against another who keeps cool. Moreover a man who can box well will always keep his head in all times of danger and difficulty. It gives him nerve and self-confidence, and enables him at all times to protect the weak against the strong."

"Just as you did now," Osip said. "Well, I would not have believed it if I had not seen it. I am sure we all feel obliged to you for having taken down that fellow Kobylin. He and a few others have been a nuisance for some time. You may be sure there will be no more trouble with them after the lesson you have given."

Luka's gratitude to Godfrey was unbounded, and from that time he would have done anything on his behalf, while the respect with which he had before regarded him was redoubled. Therefore when one day Godfrey said to him, "When the spring comes, Luka, I mean to try to escape, and I shall take you with me," the Tartar considered it to be a settled thing, and was filled with a deep sense of gratitude that his companion should deem him worthy of sharing in his perils.

Winter set in in three weeks after Godfrey reached Kara, and the work at the mine had to be abandoned. As much employment as possible was made for the convicts. Some were sent out to aid in bringing in the trees that had been felled during the previous winter for firewood, others sawed the wood up and split it into billets for the stoves, other parties went out into the forest to fell trees for the next winter's fires. Some were set to whitewash the houses, a process that was done five times a year; but in spite of all this there was not work for half the number. The time hung very heavily on the hands of those who were unemployed. Godfrey was not of this number, for as soon as the work at the mine terminated he received an order to work in the office as a clerk.

He warmly appreciated this act of kindness on the part of the commandant. It removed him from the constant companionship of the convicts, which was now more unpleasant than before, as during the long hours of idleness quarrels were frequent and the men became surly and discontented. Besides this he received regular pay for his work, and this was of importance, as it was necessary to start upon such an undertaking as he meditated with as large a store of money as possible. He had, since his arrival, refused to join in any of the proposals for obtaining luxuries from outside. The supply of food was ample, for in addition to the bread and soup there was, three or four times a week, an allowance of meat, and his daily earnings in the mines were sufficient to pay for tobacco and tea. Even the ten roubles he had handed over to Mikail remained untouched.

One reason why he was particularly glad at being promoted to the office was that he had observed, upon the day when he first arrived, a large map of Siberia hanging upon the wall; and although he had obtained from Alexis and others a fair idea of the position of the towns and various convict settlements, he knew nothing of the wild parts of the country through which he would have to pass, and the inhabited portion formed but a small part indeed of the whole. During the winter months he seized every opportunity, when for a few minutes he happened to be alone in the office, to study the map and to obtain as accurate an idea as possible of the ranges of mountains. One day, when the colonel was out, and the other two clerks were engaged in taking an inventory of stores, and he knew, therefore, that he had little chance of being interrupted, he pushed a table against the wall, and with a sheet of tracing paper took the outline of the northern coast from the mouth of the Lena to Norway, specially marking the entrances to all rivers however small. He also took a tracing, giving the positions of the towns and rivers across the nearest line between the head of Lake Baikal and the nearest point of the Angara river, one of the great affluents of the Yenesei.

The winter passed slowly and uneventfully. The cold was severe, but he did not feel it, the office being well warmed, and the heat in the crowded prison far greater than was agreeable to him. At Christmas there were three days of festivity. The people of Kara, and the peasants round, all sent in gifts for the prisoners. Every one laid by a little money to buy special food for the occasion, and vodka had been smuggled in. The convicts of the different prisons were allowed to visit each other freely, and although there was much drunkenness on Christmas Day there were no serious quarrels. All were on their best behaviour, but Godfrey was glad when all was over and they returned to their ordinary occupations again, for the thought of the last Christmas he had spent in England brought the change in his circumstances home to him more strongly than ever, and for once his buoyant spirits left him, and he was profoundly depressed, while all around him were cheerful and gay.

Nothing surprised Godfrey more than the brutal indifference with which most of the prisoners talked of the crimes they had committed, except perhaps the indifference with which these stories were listened to. It seemed to him indeed that some of the convicts had almost a pride in their crimes, and that they even went so far as to invent atrocities for the purpose of giving themselves a supremacy in ferocity over their fellows. He noticed that those who were in for minor offences, such as robbery with violence, forgery, embezzlement, and military insubordination, were comparatively reticent as to their offences, and that it was those condemned for murder who were the most given to boasting about their exploits.

"One could almost wish," he said one day to his friend Osip, "that one had the strength of Samson, to bring the building down and destroy the whole of them."

"I am very glad you have not, if you have really a fancy of that sort. I have not the least desire to be finished off in that sudden way."

"But it is dreadful to listen to them," Godfrey said. "I cannot understand what the motive of government can be in sending thousands of such wretches out here instead of hanging them. I can understand transporting people who have been convicted of minor offences, as, when their term is up, they may do well and help to colonize the country. But what can be hoped from such horrible ruffians as these? They have the trouble of keeping them for years, and even when they are let out no one can hope that they will turn out useful members of the community. They probably take to their old trade and turn brigands."

"I don't think they do that. Some of those who escape soon after coming out might do so, but not when they have been released. They would not care then to run the risk of either being flogged to death by the plete or kept in prison for the rest of their lives. Running away is nothing. I have heard of a man, who had run away repeatedly, being chained to a barrow which he had to take with him wherever he went, indoors and out. That is the worst I ever heard of, for as for flogging with rods these fellows think very little of it. They will often walk back in the autumn to the same prison they went from, take their flogging, and go to work as if nothing had happened. They are never flogged with the plete for that sort of thing; that is kept for murder or heading a mutiny in which some of the officials have been killed. No; the brigands are chiefly composed of long-sentence men who have got away early, and who perhaps have killed a Cossack or a policeman who tried to arrest them, or some peasant who will not supply them with food. After that they dare not return, and so join some band of brigands in order to be able to keep to the woods through the winter. I think that very few of the men who have once served their time and been released ever come back again."

During the winter the food, although still ample, was less than the allowance they had received while working. The allowance of bread was reduced by a pound a day, and upon Wednesdays and Fridays, which were fast days, no meat was issued except to those engaged in chopping up firewood or bringing in timber from the forest. Leather gloves were served out to all men working in the open air, but in spite of this their hands were frequently frost-bitten. The evenings would have been long indeed to Godfrey had it not been for his Tartar instructor; the two would sit on the bench in the angle of the room and would talk together in Tartar eked out by Russian. The young fellow's face was much more intelligent than those of the majority of his countrymen, and there was a merry and good-tempered expression in his eyes. They chatted about his home and his life there. His mother had been an Ostjak, and he had spent some years among her tribe on the banks both of the Obi and Yenesei, but had never been far north on either river. He took his captivity easily. His father and mother both died when he had been a child, and when he was not with the Ostjaks he had lived with his father's brother, who had, he said, "droves of cattle and horses."

"If they would put me to work on a river," he said, "I should not mind. Here one has plenty to eat, and the work is not hard, and there is a warm room to sleep in, but I should like to be employed in cutting timber and taking it in rafts down the river to the sea. I love the river, and I can shoot. All the Ostjaks can shoot, though shooting has brought me bad luck. If I had not had my bow in my hand when that Russian struck me I should not be here now. It was all done in a moment. You see I was on the road when his sledge came along. The snow was fresh and soft, and I did not hear it coming. The horses swerved, nearly upsetting the sledge, and knocking me down in the snow. Then I got up and swore at the driver, and then the Russian, who was angry because the sledge had nearly been upset, jumped out, caught the whip from the driver and struck me across the face. It hurt me badly, for my face was cold. I had been in the wood shooting squirrels, and I hardly know how it was, but I fitted an arrow to the string and shot. It was all over in a moment, and there he lay on the snow with the arrow through his throat. I was so frightened that I did not even try to run away, and was stupid enough to let the driver hold me till some people came up and carried me off to prison; so you see my shooting did me harm. But it was hard to be sent here for life for a thing like that. He was a bad man that Russian. He was an officer in one of the regiments there, and a soldier who was in prison with me afterwards told me that there was great joy among the soldiers when he was killed."

"But it was very wrong, Luka, to kill a man like that."

"Yes; but then you see I hadn't time to think. I was almost mad with pain, and it was all done in a minute. I think it is very hard that I should be punished as much as I am when there are many here who have killed five or six people, or more, and some of them women, and they have no worse punishment than I have. Look at Kobylin; he was a bandit first of all, as I have heard him say over and over again. He beat his wife to death, because she scolded him for being drunk, then he took to the woods. The first he killed was a Jew pedlar, then he burnt down the house of the head-man of a village because he had put the police on his track. He killed him as he rushed out from the door, and his wife and children were burnt alive. He killed four or five others on the road, and when he was betrayed, as he was asleep in the hut, he cut down with an axe two of the policemen who came to arrest him. He is in for life, but he is a great deal worse than I am, is he not?

"Then there is that little Koshkin, the man who is always walking about smiling to himself. He was a clerk to a notary, and he murdered his master and mistress and two servant women, and got away with the money and lived on it for a year; then he went into another family and did the same, but this time the police got on his track and caught him. Nine lives he took altogether, not in a passion or because they were cruel to him. I heard him say that he was quite a favourite, and how he used to sing to them and was trusted in every way. No, I say it isn't fair that I, who did nothing but just pay a man for a blow, should get as much as those two."

"It does seem rather hard on you, but you see there cannot be a great variety of punishments. You killed a man, and so you had sentence for life. They can't give more than that, and if they were to give less there would be more murders than there are, for every one would think that they could kill at least one person without being punished very heavily for it."

"I don't call mine murder at all," Luka said. "I would not kill a man for his money; but this was just a fight. Whiz went his whip across my face, and then whiz went my arrow."

"Oh, it is not so bad, Luka, I grant. If you had killed a man in cold blood I would have had nothing to do with you. I could not be friends with a man who was a cold-blooded murderer. I could never give him my hand, or travel with him, or sleep by his side. I don't feel that with you. In the eye of the law you committed a murder, and the law does not ask why it was done, or care in what way it was done. The law only says you killed the man, and the punishment for that is imprisonment for life. But I, as a man, can see that there is a great difference in the moral guilt, and that, acting as you did in a fit of passion, suddenly and without premeditation, and smarting under an assault, it was what we should in England call manslaughter. Before I asked you to teach me, when Osip first said that he should recommend me to try you, I saw by the badge on your coat that you were in for murder, and if it had not been that he knew how it came about, I would not have had anything to do with you, even if I had been obliged to give up altogether my idea of learning your language."

The starosta continued a steady friend to Godfrey. The lad acted as a sort of deputy to him, and helped him to keep the accounts of the money he spent for the convicts, and the balance due to them, and once did him real service. As Mikail's office was due to the vote of the prisoners, his authority over them was but slight, and although he was supported by a considerable majority of them there were some who constantly opposed him, and at times openly defied his authority. Had Mikail reported their conduct they would have been severely punished; but they knew he was very averse to getting any one into trouble, and that he preferred to settle things for himself. He was undoubtedly the most powerful man in the ward, and even the roughest characters feared to provoke him singly.

On one occasion, however, after he had knocked down a man who had refused to obey his orders, six or seven of his fellow convicts sprung on him. Godfrey, Osip, and three or four of the better class of convicts rushed to his assistance, and for a few minutes there was a fierce fight, the rest of the prisoners looking on at the struggle but taking no active part one way or the other. The assailants were eventually overpowered, and nothing might have been said about the matter had it not been that one of Mikail's party was seriously injured, having an arm broken and being severely kicked. Mikail was therefore obliged to report the matter, and the whole of the men concerned in the attack upon him received a severe flogging.

"I should look out for those fellows, Mikail," Godfrey said, "or they may injure you if they have a chance."

Mikail, however, scoffed at the idea of danger.

"They have got it pretty severely now," he said, "and the colonel told them that if there was any more insubordination he would give them the plete; and they have a good deal too much regard for their lives to risk that. You won't hear any more of it. They know well enough that I would not have reported them if I had not been obliged to do so, owing to Boulkin's arm being broken; therefore it isn't fair having any grudge against me. They have been flogged before most of them, and by the time the soreness has passed off they will have forgotten it."

Godfrey did not feel so sure of that, and determined to keep his eye upon the men. He did not think they would openly assault the starosta, but at night one of them might do him an injury, relying upon the difficulty of proving under such circumstances who had been the assailant.

The solitary candle that burned in the ward at night was placed well out of reach and protected by a wire frame. It could not, therefore, be extinguished, but the light it gave was so faint that, except when passing just under the beam from which it hung, it would be impossible to identify any one even at arm's-length. Two of those concerned in the attack on Mikail were the men of whom Luka had been speaking. Kobylin the bandit muttered and scowled whenever the starosta came near him, and there could be little doubt that had he met him outside the prison walls he would have shown him no mercy. Koshkin on the other hand appeared to cherish no enmity.

"I have done wrong, Mikail," he said half an hour after he had had his flogging, "and I have been punished for it. It was not your fault; it was mine. These things will happen, you know, and there is no need for malice;" and he went about the ward smiling and rubbing his hands as usual and occasionally singing softly to himself. As Godfrey knew how submissive the Russians are under punishment he would have thought this perfectly natural had he not heard from Luka the man's history. That was how, he thought to himself, the scoundrel smiled upon the master and mistress he had resolved to murder. "Of the two I think there is more to be feared from him than from that villain Kobylin, who has certainly been civil enough to me since I gave him that thrashing. I will keep my eye on the little fellow."

Of necessity the ward became quiet very soon after night set in. The men talked and smoked for a short time, but in an hour after the candle was lit the ward was generally perfectly quiet. Godfrey, working as he did indoors, was far less inclined for sleep than either the men who had been working in the forest or those who had been listlessly passing the day in enforced idleness, and he generally lay awake for a long time, either thinking of home and school-days, or in meditating over his plans for escape as soon as spring arrived, and he now determined to keep awake still longer. "They are almost all asleep by seven o'clock," he said to himself. "If any of those fellows intend to do any harm to Mikail they will probably do it by ten or eleven, there will be no motive in putting it off longer; and indeed the ward is quieter then than it is later, for some of them when they wake light a pipe and have a smoke, and many do so early in the morning so as to have their smoke before going to work."

Five evenings passed without anything happening, and Godfrey began to think that he had been needlessly anxious, and that Mikail must understand the ways of his own people better than he did. The sixth evening had also passed off quietly, and when Godfrey thought that it must be nearly twelve o'clock he was about to pull his blanket up over his ear and settle himself for sleep when he suddenly caught sight of a stooping figure coming along. It was passing under the candle when he caught sight of it. He did not feel quite sure that his eyes had not deceived him, for it was but a momentary glance he caught of a dark object an inch or two above the level of the feet of the sleepers.

Godfrey noiselessly pushed down his blanket, gathered his feet up in readiness for a spring, and grasped one of his shoes, which as usual he had placed behind the clothes-bag that served as his pillow. Several of the sleepers were snoring loudly, and intently as he listened he heard no footfall. In a few seconds, however, a dark figure arose against the wall at the foot of the bench; it stood there immovable for half a minute and then leaned over Mikail, placing one hand on the wall as if to enable him to stretch as far over as possible without touching the sleeper. Godfrey waited no longer but brought the shoe down with all his force on the man's head, and then threw himself upon him pinning him down for a moment upon the top of Mikail. The latter woke with a shout of surprise followed by a sharp cry of pain. Godfrey clung to the man, who, as with a great effort he rose, dragged him from the bed, and the two rolled on the ground together. Mikail's shout had awakened the whole ward and a sudden din arose. Mikail leapt from the bench and as he did so fell over the struggling figures on the ground.

"Get hold of his hands, Mikail," Godfrey shouted, "he has got a knife and I can't hold him."

But in the dark it was some time before the starosta could make out the figures on the floor. Suddenly Godfrey felt Mikail's hand on his throat.

"That's me," he gasped. The hand was removed and a moment later he felt the struggles of his adversary cease, and there was a choking sound.

"That is right, Mikail, but don't kill him," he said.

At this moment the door at the end of the ward opened and two of the guard ran in with lanterns. They shouted orders to the convicts to keep their places on the benches.

"This way," Mikail called, "there has been attempted murder, I believe."

The guards came up with the lanterns.

"What has happened to him?" one of them said, bending over the man who was lying insensible on the ground.

"He is short of wind," Mikail said, "that is all that ails him; I had to choke him off."

"But what is it all about?"

"I don't know myself," Mikail said. "I was asleep when I felt a thump as if a cow had fallen on me, then I felt a sharp stab on the hip, two of them one after the other, then the weight was lifted suddenly off and I jumped up. As I put my feet on the ground I tumbled over Ivan here and—who is it? Hold the lantern close to his face—ah, Koshkin. What is it, Ivan, are you hurt?"

"He ran his knife pretty deep into my leg once or twice," Godfrey said. "I got his arms pinned down, but I could not keep him from moving his hands. If we had lain quiet he would have hurt me seriously, I expect; but we were both struggling, so he only got a chance to give me a dig now and then."

"But what is it all about, Ivan, for I don't quite understand yet?" Mikail asked.

"I told you, Mikail, that fellow would do you a mischief. You laughed at me, but I was quite sure that that smiling manner of his was all put on. I have lain awake for the last five nights to watch, and to-night I just caught sight of something crawling along at the edge of the bench. He stood up at your feet and leant over, as I thought then, and I know now, to stab you, but I flung myself on him, and you know the rest of it."

"Well, you have saved my life, there is no mistake about that," and Mikail lifted and laid him on the bench. "Now," he said to the guards, "you had better take that fellow out and put him in the guard cell, the cold air will bring him round as soon as you get him out of this room. You had better hold him tight when he does, for he is a slippery customer. When you have locked him up will one of you go round to the doctor's? This young fellow is bleeding fast, and I fancy I have lost a good deal of blood myself."

As soon as the soldiers had left the ward carrying Koshkin between them Mikail called Osip and Luka. "Here," he said, "get the lad's things down from under his iron belt and try and stop the bleeding till the doctor comes. I feel a bit faint myself or I would ask no one else to do it."

In ten minutes the doctor arrived. Godfrey had three cuts about half-way between the hip and the knee.

"They are of no consequence except for the bleeding," the doctor said. "Has anyone got a piece of cord?"

"There is a piece in my bag," Mikail replied. The doctor took it and made a rough tourniquet above the wounds, then drew the edges together, put in two stitches in each, and then strapped them up. Then he attended to Mikail. "You have had a narrow escape," he said; "the knife has struck on your hip bone and made a nasty gash, and there is another just below it. If the first wound had been two inches higher there would have been nothing to do but to bury you."

"Well, this is a nice business," Mikail said, when the doctor had left. "To think of that little villain being so treacherous! You were right and I was wrong, Ivan, though how you guessed he was up to mischief is more than I can imagine."

"Well, you know the fellow's history, Mikail, and that he had murdered nine people he had lived among and who trusted him. What could one expect from a villain like that?"

"Oh, I know he is a bad one," Mikail said, "but I did not think he dare take the risk."

"I don't suppose he thought there was much risk, Mikail. If I had been asleep he would have stabbed you to the heart, and when we found you dead in the morning who was to know what prisoner had done it?"

"Well, it was a lucky thought my putting you next to me, young fellow; I meant it for your good not for my own, and now you see it has saved my life."

"A kind action always gets its reward, Mikail—always, sooner or later; in your case it has been sooner, you see. Now I shall go off to sleep, for I feel as drowsy as if I had been up for the last three nights."

CHAPTER X

PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT.

The next morning Godfrey and Mikail were by the doctor's orders carried to the hospital and placed in a comfortable and well-arranged ward. "You won't have to be here many days," the doctor said when he came round the ward. "I only had you brought here because the air is sweeter and better than it is in that room you were in." An hour later the governor with a clerk came in. Mikail was first called upon for his statement, which was written down by the clerk.

"Had you any reason for supposing that the man had any special enmity against you?" the governor asked.

"Only because of that flogging he had for the row in the ward last week, sir."

"Ah, yes, he was one of those who attacked you then and was flogged; that accounts for it."

Then Godfrey gave his account of what had happened.

"Did you observe anything that made you specially watchful?" the governor asked.

"I thought perhaps one of them might try to take revenge on Mikail, sir. One or two of them were very sullen and surly, and would, I thought, do him harm if they had the chance; but I suspected this man more than the others because he seemed so unnaturally pleasant, and as I had heard him boasting about the things for which he is here, I thought he was more dangerous than those who grumbled and threatened."

The governor nodded. "Yes, he is a thorough-paced villain; you have done very well, young man, and I shall not forget it."

Five days later there was a stir in front of the hospital, and Mikail, whose bed was by the side of the window, raised himself on his elbow and looked out.

"It is a punishment parade," he said; "I expect they are going to flog Koshkin with the plete. No governor of a prison is allowed to do that until the circumstances of the case have been sent to the governor of the province, and the sentence receives his approval; that is no doubt what has caused the delay. All the prisoners are mustering."

Godfrey, who was in the next bed, managed to draw himself on to Mikail's, and then to sit up so as to look out. The whole of the convicts of that prison, some eight hundred in number, were drawn up forming three sides of a square; in front of them, four paces apart, were a line of soldiers with fixed bayonets, while behind was another line. Then Koshkin, stripped to the waist, was brought forward and bound to a thick board having an iron leg, so that when laid down the board inclined to an angle of about thirty degrees. On this he was so strapped as to be perfectly immovable. Then a man approached with the dreaded whip and took his place on one side of the criminal. The governor then entered the square. He was attended by all the prison officials. His face was very grave and stern, and he walked along the lines, scrutinizing closely each man as he passed him. Then he took his place in the centre of the square and held up his hand.

"This man," he said, "has attempted to murder the starosta of his ward, and is for this sentenced to fifty lashes. Let this be a lesson to all here."

Then he signalled to the executioner, who brought down his lash with great force upon the bare back of the prisoner. A terrible cry broke from Koshkin. Two more blows were given, and then the executioner moved to the other side and delivered another three blows. In this way the lashes crossed each other at an angle. Godfrey could look no more, but crawled back on to his own bed. Mikail continued looking out until the punishment was over.

"He has not bled," he said; "he will die."

"How do you mean, Mikail?"

"Well, that is how it is, Ivan. It is as the executioner likes, or as he is ordered. He can, according to the way he strikes, cut the flesh or not each stroke. If it bleeds the man seldom dies, if it doesn't there is little chance for him. There are several ways of flogging the prisoner, and his friends generally bribe the executioner; then he strikes with all his strength the first blow that is terrible, but it seems to numb the flesh somehow, and afterwards he does not strike so hard, and the prisoner hardly feels the blows. The worst is when he hits softly at first and then harder and harder, then the man feels every blow to the end; but they are obliged to hit hard, if not they get flogged themselves. I saw a case where the executioner had been well bribed and, therefore, hit gently, and the prisoner was taken down and he was tied up in his place and got twenty lashes. Years ago they used the plete at all the prisons, now they only use it at three prisons, where the worst criminals are sent, and this is one of them."

A week later they were both discharged from the hospital and returned to the ward. The first thing they heard on entering it was that Koshkin had died the night before. Godfrey went back to his work in the office. He was doubtful how he should be received in the ward, but he found that, except by Kobylin and four or five others, he was welcomed quite cordially.

"You have done us all a service," Osip said. "There was sure to have been trouble sooner or later, and that flogging will cow these fellows for some time. This is only the second there has been since I came here—I mean, of course, at this prison. Besides, Mikail is a good fellow, and we all like him, and everyone would have been sorry if he had been killed."

"What is he in for? I never asked before. Of course, I see that he has the murderer's badge on his back. Do you know how it happened? I never heard him speak of it."

"Yes, he told us about it one evening, that was before he became starosta. Some vodka had been smuggled in and he had more than was good for him, and that opened his lips. He had been a charcoal-burner and having had the good fortune to escape the conscription he married. She was a pretty girl, and it seems that the son of a rich proprietor had taken a fancy to her, and when the next year's conscription came he managed by some unfair means to get Mikail's name put down again on the list. Such things can be done, you know, by a man with influence. Mikail ran away and took to the woods. He was hunted for two or three months in vain. Then someone betrayed him, and one morning he woke up in a hut he had built for himself and saw the place was surrounded by soldiers.

"With the officers was the man who had injured him. Mikail was mad with fury, and rushing out with a big club he had cut he stretched the fellow dead on the ground—and served him right. However, of course Mikail was taken, tried, and condemned. He had killed a noble's son, and three weeks later was on his way to Siberia. His wife has followed him, and is living now in a village two miles away. Another six months and Mikail will have served his ten years, which is the least time a murderer can serve before he gets leave to live outside the prison. He is sure to get it then, his conduct has been always good, and no doubt this affair will count in his favour. His wife came out two years after he was sent here. She keeps herself by spinning and helping at a farm. It has been a good thing for Mikail, for it has kept him straight. If it had not been for that he would have taken to the woods long ago."

"I don't call that a murder," Godfrey said indignantly. "If I had been on the jury I would never have convicted him. He was treated illegally and had the right to resist."

"I don't blame him very much myself," Osip said. "Of course it would have been wiser to have submitted, and then to have tried to get off serving, but I don't suppose anyone would have listened to him. If it hadn't been a noble he killed I have no doubt he would have got off."

"But you are noble yourself, Osip."

"Yes, but that does not give me any marked advantage at present. Of course it will make a difference when I get out. My friends will send me money, and I shall live at Tobolsk and marry some wealthy gold-miner's daughter, and be in the best society. Oh, yes, it is an advantage being noble born, even in Siberia."

Godfrey was quite touched with the joy that Luka manifested when, on his return from work, he found him in the ward. "Ah, my master," he exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, "why did you not tell me that you were watching? I would have kept awake all night and would have thrown myself on that dog; it would have made no matter if he had killed me. It would not have hurt me so much as it did to see you bleeding."

"You must not call me master," Godfrey said, holding out his hand, which the Tartar seized and pressed to his forehead. "You and I are friends, there are no masters here."

Godfrey learnt that every effort had been made by the authorities to discover how Koshkin had obtained the knife, but without success. He must have bribed one of the guards to fetch it in for him, but there was no tracing which had been concerned in the matter. All the prisoners had been searched and their bags examined, but no other weapons had been discovered. Godfrey did not hear a single word of pity for Koshkin, or of regret at his death. Indifference for others was one of the leading characteristics of the prisoners. Although living so long together they seldom appeared to form a friendship of any kind; each man lived for and thought only of his own lot. Godfrey observed that it was very seldom that a prisoner shared any dainty he had purchased with another, and it was only when three or four had clubbed together to get in a ham, a young sucking pig, or some vodka that they were seen to partake of it together.

Some of the prisoners, indeed, scarcely ever exchanged a word with the rest, but moved about in moody silence paying no attention to what was going on around them. Some again were always quarrelling, and seemed to take a delight in stirring up others by giving them unpleasant nicknames, or by turning them into ridicule.

"I am glad indeed, Mikail," Godfrey said, as he lay down beside the starosta that night, "that you were not seriously hurt. I only heard to-day that you had a wife waiting for you outside."

"Yes, it is true," Mikail replied. "I never talk of her. I dare not even let myself think of her, it seems too great a happiness to be true; and something may occur, one never knows. Ah, Ivan, if it had not been for you what news would have been taken to her! Think of it, after her long journey out here; after waiting ten years for me, to hear that it was useless. I tremble like a leaf when I think of it. That night I lay awake all night and cried like a young child, not for myself, you know, but for her. She has taken a cottage already, and is furnishing it with her savings. She is allowed to write to me, you know, once every month. At first it was every three months. What happiness it was to me when my first five years was up and she could write once a month! Do you think I shall know her? She will have changed much. I tell myself that always; and I—I have changed much too, but she will know me, I am sure she will know me. I tremble now at the thought of our meeting, Ivan; but I ought not to talk so, I ought not to speak to you of my happiness—you, who have no friend waiting to see you."

"I like to hear you talk of your wife, Mikail. My friends are a long way off indeed; but I hope that I shall see them before very long."

"You think that you may be pardoned?" Mikail asked.

"No, I mean to escape."

"Ah, lad," Mikail said kindly, "I don't suppose there is ever a prisoner comes here who does not say to himself, I will escape. Every spring there are thousands who take to the woods, and scarce one of these but hopes never to see the inside of a prison again, and yet they come back, every one of them."

"But there have been escapes, Mikail, therefore there is nothing impossible in it."

"There are twenty thousand convicts cross the frontier every year, lad. There is not one man makes his escape in five years."

"Well, I mean to be the man this five years, Mikail."

"I would not try if I were you. Were you in on a life sentence for murder, or still worse, as a political prisoner, I would say try if you like, for you would have nothing to lose; but you have a good prospect now. I am sure you must have been a political, but now that you have been a wanderer you are so no longer. You have won the governor's good-will, and as soon as your time is up, perhaps before, you will be allowed to live outside the prison. If you go away in the spring you will, when you return as winter comes on, forfeit all this, and have to begin again. When you come out there will be my little hut ready for you, and such a welcome from my wife and me that you will forget how small and rough it is, and there you will live with us till your five years are up, and you can go anywhere you like in Siberia."

"I thank you sincerely, Mikail, and I should, I am sure, be as happy as an exile could be with you and your faithful wife; but if I have to try afresh every year for twenty years I will break out and strive to escape. You know that I am English by my mother's side. I can tell you now that I am altogether English, and I will gain England or die. At any rate, if it is to be done I will do it. I have health and strength and determination. I have learnt all that there is to be learnt as to the difficulties of the journey. I have more to gain, more to strive for than other prisoners. Even if they escape they cannot return home. They must still be exiled from Russia; must earn their bread among strangers as they are earning it here. I have a home awaiting me—a father, mother, and sisters—to whom I shall come back as one from the grave. Why, man, the difficulties are nothing in comparison to the reward. A journey across Asia is as nothing to the journeys many of my countrymen have made across Africa. Here there is no fear of fever, of savage tribes, or savage beasts. It is in comparison a mere pleasure excursion. I may not succeed next time, just as I did not succeed last year, but succeed in the end I will."

"I believe you," Mikail said earnestly, infected by Godfrey's enthusiasm. "Did you not overthrow, as if he were a babe, Kobylin, whom everyone else feared? Yes, if anyone can do it you can."

At last the long winter was over, the thaw came, and the work at the mine was renewed. Godfrey was afraid that he might be still kept in the office, and he spoke to Mikail on the subject; the latter spoke to one of the officials, and told him that the prisoner Ivan Holstoff petitioned that he might be again put to work on the mine instead of being kept in the office, as he felt his health suffering from the confinement. Two days later Godfrey was called into the governor's room.

"I hear that you have asked to go to the mine again, lad."

"Yes, sir; I like active work better than sitting indoors all day."

The colonel looked at him keenly. "You are doing well here, lad; it will be a pity to have to begin over again. I can guess what is in your thoughts. Think it over, lad, don't do anything rash; but if—," and he hesitated, "if you are headstrong and foolish, remember you will be better off here than elsewhere, and that I am never very hard on runaways. That will do; you will go out again with the gang to-morrow."

"Thank you, sir," Godfrey said earnestly, and with a bow returned to his work at the desk in the next room.

On the following day work at the mine was resumed. Godfrey at once began his preparations for his flight, and as a first step managed to conceal under a lump of rock a heavy hammer and a pick used in the work; he had already laid in a stock of a dozen boxes of matches. The next evening he said to Mikail when they had lain down for the night,—

"Now, Mikail, I want you to help me."

"So you really mean to go?"

"Yes, my mind is quite made up. I want you to get me in some things from outside."

"I will get you anything if you will tell me what you want."

"I want most of all two long knives."

"Yes, knives are useful," Mikail said; "but they are awkward things to get. I dare not ask any of the people who trade here to get such a thing. Ah! I know what I will do; I am losing my head. I will steal you two from the kitchen; but that must be done the last thing, for if knives were missed there would be a great search for them. What is the next thing?"

"I should like a coil of thirty or forty yards of fine rope, and some string. They are always useful things to have."

"That is so," the convict assented.

"Then I shall want some thread and needles."

"There is no difficulty about that; I can buy them for you at the gate. I don't know what excuse to make to get you the rope, but I will think of something."

"I don't think there is anything else, except that I should like these twenty roubles changed into kopecks."

The man nodded. "When will you try?"

"To-morrow. It is dark now by the time we leave off work; it will be easy to slip away then. Luka is going with me."

"That is good," Mikail said, "he will be very useful; he is a good little fellow, and will be faithful to you. You had best keep steadily west, and give yourself up at Irkutsk. It is a rough road working round by the north of Lake Baikal; but you had better take that way, it is safer than by the south. But no doubt if you are careful you might go that way too. Then the summer after, if you can get away again, you can give up at Tomsk. Once fairly away from here there is no fear of your being overtaken; they never take the trouble to hunt the woods far, they know it is of no use. Remember, as long as you don't go too far from the road, you will light upon cottages and little farm-houses where you can get something to eat; but if you go too far into the woods you may starve. There will be no berries except strawberries yet, and strawberries are not much use to keep life together when you are travelling."

"Oh, by the by, there is one more thing I want you to get for me if possible, and that is fish-hooks and line."

"That is difficult," Mikail said; "however, a rouble or two will go a long way. But you must put off your start for another two or three days. The rope and the hooks will need time to get."

It was, indeed, the fourth evening before Mikail told Godfrey that he had got everything except the knives. "I will manage to get these in the morning," he said, "when I go into the kitchen and see about breakfast. If I were you, I would put on those two spare shirts over the one you wear, and take your three spare pairs of stockings. Of course you will wind the rope round your waist. I suppose you will buy bread from the others, there are always plenty ready to sell; you had better take enough for two or three days. Cut it in slices, put them inside your upper shirt with the other things you take, your belt will keep them safe. Don't try to slip away unless you see a really good opportunity; it is no use being shot at. Besides, with those irons on your legs, they would soon overtake you. Better put it off for another time than to run any risk."

Godfrey at once informed Luka that they were to try to escape on the following evening, told him to put on his spare shirts at night, gave him the matches, and told him to stow away in the morning as much bread as he could carry. The young Tartar made no reply beyond a pleasant nod; his confidence in his companion was unbounded. The next morning, while eating their breakfasts by the dim light of a candle, Mikail passed close to Godfrey and slipped two long knives into his hand; these he hid instantly inside his shirt.

"I have got the bread," Mikail said; "it was better for me to buy it than you. I have put it under your bag."

As it was quite dark in the corner of the room Godfrey had no difficulty in cutting up the hunks of bread, and concealing them without observation. Mikail strolled up while he was so engaged. Godfrey had already given him money for the various purchases, and he now pressed a hundred-rouble note into his hand, and said:

"Now, Mikail, you must take this from me; it is not a present to you, but to your brave wife. When you get out you will want to do your share towards making the house she has got for you comfortable. Till you get your free ticket you will still be working in the mines like the others; and though you will get the same pay as free labourers then, it will be some time before you can lay much by. When your term is over you will want to take up a piece of land and farm, and you must have money for this until your crops grow."

"I will not take it," the man said huskily; "it is a hundred roubles. I would not rob you; you will want every kopeck you have. The money would be a curse to me."

"I have five hundred still left, Mikail, which will be ample for me. You will grieve me if you refuse to take it. It will be pleasant to me, whether I am taken again or whether I escape, to think that I have made one home happier for my stay here, and that you and your brave wife, in your comfortable home, think sometimes of the young fellow you were kind to."

"If you wish it I will take it," Mikail said. "Feodora and I will pray before the ikon to the saints morning and night to protect you wherever you may be."

"Pray for me as Godfrey Bullen, Mikail; that is my real name. I am English, and it is to England I shall make my way."

"Godfrey Bullen," the man repeated four or five times over. "I shall not forget it. Feodora and I will teach it to our children if the good God should send us any."

"I should like to let you know if I get safely home," Godfrey said; "how can I write to you?"

"I can receive letters when I am out of prison," Mikail said. "You know my name, Mikail Stomoff; put Karoff, that is the name of the village my wife lives at—Karoff, near Kara. If the letter does not come until my term is over, and I have left, I will leave word there where it can be forwarded to me."

"I hope that you will get it long before that, Mikail. The journey is too long to do in one summer. I shall winter somewhere in the north, and I hope to be in England by the following autumn; therefore, if I have got safely away, you may look for a letter before the Christmas after next. If it does not come by that time, you will know that I have failed in my first attempt, and then you will, I hope, get one a year later. I shall, of course, be careful what I say; in case it should be opened and read, there will be nothing in it about your knowing that I intended to escape."

"We shall look for it, Godfrey Bullen, we shall look for it always, and pray the good God to send it to us."

The next morning when Godfrey rose he wrung Mikail's hand warmly.

"God bless you," the starosta said with tears in his eyes. "I shall not come near you again; they would see that something was strange with me, and when you were missing, would guess that I knew you were going. May all the saints preserve you."

Before they formed up to march to their work, Godfrey shook hands with his friend Osip. "I am going to try on our way back to-night," he said.

"Good-bye, and good luck to you," Osip replied. "I would go with you if I was in for life; but I have lost two years already by running away, and I dare not try again."

During the day Godfrey observed very carefully the spot where he had hidden the tools, so that he might be able to find it in the dark, piling three small stones one on the top of the other by the roadside at the point nearest to it. When work was over, he managed to fall in with Luka at the rear of the line. A Cossack marched alongside of him.

"Five roubles," Godfrey whispered, "if you will let us drop behind."

Five roubles was a large sum to the soldier. The life of the guards was really harder than that of the prisoners, except that they did no work, for they had to mount guard at night when the convicts slept, and their rations were much more scanty than those given to the working convicts, and they were accustomed to eke out their scanty pay by taking small bribes for winking at various infractions of the prison rules. The Cossack at once held out his hand. Godfrey slipped five rouble notes into it. They kept on till they reached a wood, where beneath the shadow of the trees it was already perfectly dark.

The Cossack had stepped forward two or three paces and was walking by the next couple.

"Now, Luka," Godfrey said, and the two sprang off the path among the trees. They waited two or three minutes, then returned to the road and hurried back to the mine. They had been the last party to start for the prison, and the place was quite deserted. It took them fully half an hour to find the tools. The rings round their ankles were sufficiently loose to enable the pick to be inserted between them and the leg; thrusting it in as far as it would go under the rivet, it was comparatively easy work to break off the head with the hammer. In ten minutes both were free. Leaving the chains and tools behind them, they made their way out of the cutting and struck across the country, and in an hour entered the forest. It was too dark here to permit them to proceed farther; they lay down and slept until day began to break, and then continued their way up the rising ground until, after four hours' walking, they were well among the mountains. They found an open space by the side of a rivulet where the wild strawberries grew thickly, and here they sat down and enjoyed a hearty meal of bread and strawberries.

"Now we have got to keep along on this side of that range of mountains in front of us till we get to Lake Baikal," Godfrey said. "We will push on for a day or two, and then we must find some cottages, and get rid of these clothes. What we want above all things, Luka, are guns."

"Yes, or bows and arrows," Luka said.

"It would be as difficult to get them as guns. They don't use them in these parts, Luka."

"I can make them," Luka said; "not as good as the Ostjaks' bows, but good enough to kill with."

"That is satisfactory, Luka. If I can get hold of a gun and you can make a bow and arrows we shall do very well."

For four days they continued their journey through the forest, gathering much fruit, chiefly strawberries and raspberries, and eating sparingly of their bread. At night they lit fires, for the evenings were still cold, and slept soundly beside them. On the fifth morning Godfrey said, "We must turn south now, Luka, our bread won't last more than two days at the outside, and we must lay in a fresh supply. We have kept as near west as we could, and we know by the mountains that we cannot be far wrong, still it may take us some time to find a village." To Godfrey's satisfaction they arrived at the edge of the forest early in the afternoon.

"We cannot be very far from Nertchinsk," he said. "We must be careful here, for there are lots of mines in the neighbourhood."

After walking for another three or four hours several large buildings were seen among the trees in the valley, and these it was certain belonged to one or other of the mines. When it became dark they descended still farther, and kept down until they came upon a road. This they followed until about midnight they came upon a small village. They found, as they had hoped, bread and other provisions upon several of the window-sills, and thankfully stowing these away again struck off to the hills.

"This is capital," Godfrey said, as after getting well into the forest they lighted a fire, threw themselves down beside it, and made a hearty meal. "If we could rely upon doing as well as this always I should not mind how long our journey lasted. It is glorious to be out in these woods after that close prison."

The Tartar nodded. The closeness of the air in the prison never troubled him, but he was quite ready to agree to anything that Godfrey might say. "Good in summer," he said, "but not very good in winter."

"No, I expect not; but we shall have to make the best of it, Luka, for it is quite certain that we shall have to spend the winter out somewhere."

"We will make skin coats and keep ourselves warm," Luka said confidently. "Make a good hut."

"Yes, that part of the thing seems simple enough," Godfrey agreed; "the difficulty will be in feeding ourselves. But we need not bother about that now. Well, we had better go off to sleep, Luka; we have been tramping fully eighteen hours, and I feel as tired as a dog."

In a few minutes they were fast asleep, but they were on their feet again at daybreak and journeyed steadily for the next three days, always keeping near the edge of the forest. On the fourth day they saw a small farm-house lying not far from the edge of the wood.

"Here is the place that we have been looking for for the last week," Godfrey said. "This is where we must manage to get clothes. The question is, how many men are there there? Not above two or three, I should say. But anyhow we must risk it."

They waited until they saw lights in the cottage, and guessed that the family had all returned from their work.

"Now then, Luka, come along. You must look fierce, you know, and try to frighten them a bit. But mind, if they refuse and show fight we must go away without hurting them."

Luka looked up in surprise. "Why that?" he asked. "You could beat that pig Kobylin as if he were a child, why not beat them and make them give?"

"Because I am not going to turn robber, Luka. I know some of the runaways do turn robbers, and murder peasants and travellers. You know some of the men in the prison boasted of what they had done, but that is not our way. We are honest men though we have been shut up in prison. I am willing to pay for what I want as long as I have money, after that we shall see about it. If these people won't sell we shall find others that will."

They went quietly up to the house, lifted the latch and walked in, holding their long knives in their hands. Two men were seated at table, three women and several children were near the fire. There was a general exclamation of alarm as the two convicts entered.

"Do not fear," Godfrey said loudly; "we do not wish to rob anyone. We are not bandits, we are ready to pay for what we require, but that we must have."

The men were both convicts who had long since served out their time. "What do you want?" one of them asked.

"We want clothes. You need not be afraid of selling them to us. If we were captured to-morrow, which we don't mean to be, we will swear to you that we will not say where we obtained them. We are ready to pay the full value. Why should you not make an honest deal instead of forcing us to take life?"

"We will sell them to you," one of the men said after speaking a few words in a low tone to the other, and then rising to his feet.

"Sit down," Godfrey said sternly. "We want no tricks. Tell the women to fetch in the clothes."

The man, seeing that Godfrey was determined, abandoned his intention of seizing a club and making a fight for it, and told one of the women to fetch some clothes down. She returned in a minute or two with a large bundle.

"Pick out two suits, Luka, one for you and one for me." Luka was making a careful choice when Godfrey said, "Don't pick out the best, Luka, I don't want Sunday clothes, but just strong serviceable suits; they will be none the worse for a patch or two. Now," he said to the men, "name a fair price for those clothes and I will pay you."

The peasants had not in the slightest degree believed that the convicts were going to pay them, and their faces lighted up. They hesitated as to the price.

"Come, I will give you ten roubles. I am sure that is more than they are worth to you now."

"Very well," the man said, "I am contented."

Godfrey placed a ten-rouble note upon the table. "Now," he said, "we want a couple of hats." Two fairly good ones were brought down.

"Is there nothing else?" the man asked, ready enough to sell now that he saw that he was to be paid fair prices.

"We want some meat and bread, ten pounds of each if you have got it."

"We have a pig we salted down the other day," the man said. "We have no bread—we are going to bake to-morrow morning but you can have ten pounds of flour."

"That will do. We want a small frying-pan, a kettle, and two tin mugs. Have you got any tea in the house?"

"I have got about a pound."

"We will take it all. We can't bother ourselves about sugar, Luka, we must do without that; every pound tells. We have brought plenty of tobacco with us to last some time. Have you got a gun?" he asked the man suddenly.

"Yes," he said, "we have got two. The wolves are troublesome sometimes in winter. Fetch the guns, Elizabeth."

The guns were brought down. One was a double-barrel of German make, the other a long single-barrel. "How much do you want for this?" he asked, taking up the former.

"I don't use it much," the man said, "one will be enough for me, I will take fifty roubles."

"No, no," Godfrey said. "You value your goods too high; money is not as plentiful with me as all that. I can't go higher than twenty roubles," and he laid the gun down again.

"I will take thirty," the man said.

After a good deal of bargaining Godfrey obtained the gun, a flask of powder, and a bag of bullets and shot for twenty-five roubles. Then he paid for the other goods he had purchased. Luka made them into a bundle and lifted them all on to his shoulder. Then saying good-bye to the peasants they again started for the forest.

"We are set up now, Luka."

"Yes indeed," the Tartar replied. "We could journey anywhere now; we want but two or three blankets and some furs and we could travel to Moscow."

"Yes, if we had one more thing, Luka."

"What is that?"

"Passports."

"Yes, we should want those; but I daresay we could do without them."

They enjoyed their suppers greatly that night, frying some pork and then some dough-cakes in the fat, and washing it down with numerous cups of tea.

"The next thing will be for you to make a bow and arrows, Luka. I did not buy the other gun for two reasons: in the first place because we could not afford it, and in the second because you said you liked a bow best."

Luka nodded. "I never shot with a gun," he said. "A bow is just as good, and makes no noise."

"That is true enough, Luka. Well, I shall be a good deal more comfortable when we leave those convict clothes behind us. Of course we shall be just as liable to be seized and shut up as vagabonds when we cannot produce papers as if we were in our convict suits, but there is something disgusting in being dressed up in clothing that tells every one you are a murderer or a robber, and to know there is that patch between one's shoulders."

Luka was quite indifferent to any sentimental considerations. Still he admitted that it was an advantage to get rid of the convict garb. In the morning they put on the peasants' clothes. As Godfrey was about the same size as the man whose garments he had got, the things fitted him fairly. Luka's were a good deal too large for him, but as the Russian peasants' clothes always fit them loosely, this mattered little. The other things were divided into two bundles of equal weight.

Luka would willingly have carried the whole, pointing out that Godfrey had the gun and ammunition, but the latter said:

"If you take the frying-pan and kettle and the two tin mugs that will make matters even, Luka."

The two convict suits were left at the foot of the tree where they had slept. Godfrey first thought of throwing them on to the fire, but changed his mind, saying:

"Some poor beggar whose clothes are worn out may come upon them, and be glad of them, some time during the summer; we may just as well let them lie here. Now, Luka, we must walk in good earnest. We ought to be able to make five-and-thirty miles a day over a tolerably level country, and at that rate we shall be a long way off before winter."

The forests abounded with squirrels. Although Luka assured him that they were excellent eating, Godfrey could not bring himself to shoot at the pretty creatures. "It would be a waste of powder and shot, Luka," he said. "We have plenty of meat to go on with at present, when it is gone it will be time enough to begin to think of shooting game; besides, there are numbers of mines about this country, and the sound of a gun might bring out the Cossacks."

CHAPTER XI.

AFLOAT.

It was a pleasant journey through the forest, with its thick and varied foliage, that afforded a shade from the sun's rays, with patches of open ground here and there bright with flowers. Godfrey had enjoyed it at first, but he enjoyed it still more after he had got rid of the convict badge. He had now no fear of meeting anyone in the woods except charcoal-burners or woodmen, or escaped convicts like themselves. By such they would not be suspected of being aught but what they seemed—two peasants; unless indeed, a hat should fall off. The first night after leaving the prison Godfrey had done his best to obliterate the convict brand, by singeing it off as he had done before.

Each day the air grew warmer, and they could pick as they walked any quantity of raspberries and whortleberries. Luka always filled the kettle at each streamlet they came to, as they could never tell how long they would be before they arrived at another, and the supply rendered them independent, and enabled them to camp whenever they took a fancy to a spot. They walked steadily from sunrise to sunset, and as they went at a good pace Godfrey was sure that they were doing fully the thirty-five miles a day he had calculated on. Although Sundays had not been observed at the prison, and the work went on those days as on others, Godfrey had not lost count, and knew that it was on a Monday evening that they had broken out, and each Sunday was used as a day of rest.

"We are travelling at a good pace, Luka," he said, "and thirty-five miles a day six days a week is quite enough, so on Sundays we will always choose a good camping ground by a stream, wash our clothes, and rest."

They had little trouble about provisions. At lonely houses they could always obtain them, and there they were received very hospitably, the peasants often refusing absolutely to accept money, or at any rate giving freely of all the articles they themselves raised, and taking pay only for tea and sugar, which they themselves had to purchase. When no such places could be met with they went down to villages at night, and never failed to find bread and cakes on the window-sills, though it was not often that meat was there, for the peasants themselves obtained it but seldom. Godfrey had no fear of his money running short for a long time. The six hundred roubles with which he arrived at Kara had been increased by his earnings during the nine months he had been there. He had spent but a few kopecks a week for tea and tobacco, and his pay while he had been a clerk was a good deal larger than while he had been working in the mine. Luka, too, had saved every kopeck he had received from the day when Godfrey told him that he would take him with him when he ran away. He had even given up smoking, and was with difficulty persuaded by Godfrey to take some tobacco occasionally from him. Between them in the nine months they had laid by nearly a hundred roubles, and had, therefore, after deducting the money given by Godfrey to Mikail and that paid for the gun and clothes, over five hundred roubles for their journey.

They were glad, indeed, when at last they saw the broad sheet of Lake Baikal. They had for some time been bearing to the north of west, and struck the lake some twenty miles from its head. There were a good many small settlements round the lake, a good deal of fishing being carried on upon it, although the work was dangerous, for terrible storms frequently swept down from the northern mountains and sent the boats flying into port. The lake is one of the deepest in the world, soundings in many places being over five thousand feet. Many rivers run into the lake, the only outflow being by the Angara. Baikal is peculiar as being the only fresh-water lake in the world where seals are found, about two thousand being killed annually. The shores are in most places extremely steep, precipices rising a thousand feet sheer up from the edge of the water, with soundings of a hundred and fifty fathoms a few yards from their feet. Fish abound in the lake, and sturgeon of large size are captured there.

Godfrey knew that there were guard-houses with Cossacks on the road between the northern point of water and the steep mountains that rise almost directly from it. He had specially studied the geography of this region, and knew that after passing round the head of the lake there was a track across the hills by which they would, after travelling a hundred and fifty miles, strike the main road from Irkutsk to Yakutsk, near the town of Kirensk, on the river Lena. From Kirensk it would be but little more than a hundred miles to the nearest point on the Angara, which is one of the principal branches of the Yenesei.

To gain this river would be a great point. The Lena, which was even nearer to the head of Lake Baikal, also flowed into the Arctic Sea; but its course was almost due north, and it would be absolutely hopeless to endeavour to traverse the whole of the north coast of Siberia. The Angara and the Yenesei, on the other hand, flowed north-west, and fell into the Arctic Sea near the western boundary of Siberia, and when they reached that point they would be but a short distance from Russia. It seemed to him that the only chance was by keeping by a river. In the great ranges of mountains in the north of Siberia there would be no means of obtaining food, and to cross such a district would be certain death. By the rivers, on the other hand, there would at least be no fear of losing their way. The journey could be shortened by using a canoe if they could obtain one, and if not, a raft. They would often find little native villages or huts by the banks, and would be able to obtain fish from them. Besides, they could themselves catch fish, and might possibly even winter in some native village. For all these reasons he had determined on making for the Angara.

Buying a stock of dried fish at a little fishing village on the lake they walked to within a mile of its head, there they slept for the night, and started an hour before daybreak, passed the Cossack guard-house unseen just as the daylight was stealing over the sky, and then went along merrily.

The road was not much used, the great stream of traffic passing across Lake Baikal, but was in fair condition, and they made good progress along it. Long before that, Luka had, after several attempts, made a bow to his satisfaction. It was formed of three or four strips of tough wood firmly bound together with waxed twine, they having procured the string and the wax at a farmhouse on the way. There was one advantage in taking this unfrequented route. The road between Irkutsk and Tomsk was, as Godfrey had learned on his outward journey, frequented by bands of brigands who had no hesitation in killing as well as plundering wayfarers. Here they were only likely to fall in with convicts who had escaped from Irkutsk or from convoys along the road, and were for the most part perfectly harmless, seeking only to spend a summer holiday in freedom, and knowing that when winter came on they would have to surrender themselves.

Of such men Godfrey had no fear, his gun and his companion's bow and arrows rendered them too formidable to be meddled with, and until they came down upon the main road there was no chance of their meeting police officers or Cossacks. No villages were passed on the journey, and Godfrey, therefore, had no longer any hesitation in shooting the squirrels that frisked about among the trees. He found them, as Luka had said, excellent eating, although it required three or four of them to furnish anything like a meal. He soon, however, gave over shooting, for he found that Luka was at least as certain with his bow as he was with the gun, with the advantage that the blunt arrow did not spoil the skins. These, as Luka told him, were valuable, and they would be able to exchange them for food, the Siberian squirrel furnishing a highly-prized fur.

Each day Luka brought down at least a dozen of these little creatures, and these, with their dried fish and cakes made of flour, afforded them excellent food on their way. After four days' walking across a lofty plateau they descended into a cultivated valley, and before them rose the cupolas of Kirensk, while along the valley flowed the Lena, as yet but a small river, although it would become a mighty flood before it reached the sea, nearly four thousand miles away. It would have to be crossed at Kirensk, and they sat down and held a long council as to how they had best get through the town. They agreed that it must be done at night, for in the daytime they certainly would have to produce passports.

"There will not be much chance of meeting a Cossack or a policeman at one or two o'clock in the morning, Luka, and if there were any about we ought to be able to get past them in the dark."

"If one stops us I can settle him," Luka said, tapping his knife.

"No, no, Luka, we won't have any bloodshed if we can help it, though I do not mean to be taken. If a fellow should stop us and ask any questions, and try to arrest us, I will knock him down, and then we will make a bolt for it. There is no moon now, and it will be dark as pitch, so that if we kick out his lantern he would be unable to follow us. If he does, you let fly one of your blunted arrows at him. That will hit him quite hard enough, though it won't do him any serious damage. Of course, if there are several of them we must fight in earnest, but it is very unlikely we shall meet with even two men together at that time of night."

Accordingly they went in among some trees and lay down, and did not move until they heard the church bells of the distant town strike twelve. Then they resumed their journey, keeping with difficulty along the road. Once in the valley it became broader and better kept. At last they approached the bridge. Godfrey had had some fear that there might be a sentry posted here, and was pleased to find it entirely deserted.

"We will take off our shoes here, Luka, tie them with a piece of string, and hang them round our necks. We shall go noiselessly through the town then, while if we go clattering along in those heavy shoes, every policeman there may be in the streets will be on the look-out to see who we are."

They passed, however, through the town without meeting either policeman or soldier. The streets were absolutely deserted, and the whole population seemed to be asleep. Once through the town they put on their shoes again, followed the road for a short distance, and then lay down under some trees to wait for daylight. Now that they were in the country they had no fear of being asked for passports, and it was not until the sun was well up that they continued their journey. Four miles farther they came upon a village, and went boldly into a small shop and purchased flour, tea, and such articles as they required. Just as they came out the village policeman came along.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"I don't ask you where you come from," Godfrey replied. "We are quiet men and hunters. We pay for what we get, and harm no one who does not interfere with us. See, we have skins for sale if there is anyone in the village who will buy them."

"The man at the spirit-shop at the end of the village will buy them," the policeman said; "he gives a rouble a dozen for them."

"Thank you," and with a Russian salutation they walked on.

"Of course he suspects what we are," Godfrey said to his companion; "but there was no fear of his being too inquisitive. The authorities do not really care to arrest the wanderers during the summer months, as they know they will get them all when winter comes on; besides, in these villages all the people sympathize with us, and as we are armed, and not likely to be taken without a fight, it is not probable that one man would care to venture his life in such a matter."

On arrival at the spirit-shop they went in.

"The policeman tells us you buy skins at a rouble for a dozen. We have ten dozen."

"Are they good and uninjured?" the man asked.

"They are. There is not a hole in any of them."

The man looked them through carefully.

"I will buy them," he said. "Do you want money, or will you take some of it in vodka?"

"We want money. We do not drink in summer when we are hunting."

The man handed over ten rouble notes, and they passed out. A minute later the policeman strolled in.

"Wanderers?" he said with a wink. The vodka seller shrugged his shoulders.

"I did not ask them," he said. "They came to me with a good recommendation, for they told me that you had sent them here. So after that it was not for me to question them."

"I told them you bought skins," the policeman said. "They seemed well-spoken fellows. The one with the bow was a Tartar or an Ostjak, I should say; he may have been a Yakute, but I don't think so. However, it matters little to me. If there was anything wrong they ought to have questioned them at Kirensk; they have got soldiers there. Why should I interfere with civil people, especially when one has a gun and the other arrows?"

"That was just my opinion," the other said. "Well, here is a glass of vodka, and I will take one with you. They are good skins, all shot with a blunt arrow."

Godfrey and his companion now took matters easily. There was no motive for hurrying, and they devoted themselves seriously to the chase.

"We must have skins for the winter," Luka said. "I can dress and sew them. The squirrels are plentiful here, and if we set snares we may catch some foxes. We shall want some to make a complete suit with caps for each of us, and skins to form bags for sleeping in; but these last we can buy on the way. The hunters in summer bring vast quantities of skins down to the rivers to be taken up to Krasnoiarsk by steamer, and you can get elk skins for a rouble or two, which will do for sleeping bags, but they are too thick for clothing unless they are very well prepared. At any rate we will get as many squirrel skins as we can, both for clothes, and to exchange for commoner skins and high boots."

It was three weeks after they had left Kirensk before they struck the Angara, near Karanchinskoe. They had traversed a distance, as the crow flies, of some eight hundred miles since leaving Kara, but by the route they had travelled it was at least half as far again, and they had been little over ten weeks on the journey. Luka had assured Godfrey that they would have no difficulty in obtaining a boat.

"Everywhere there are fishing people on the rivers," he said. "There are Tunguses—they are all over Siberia. There are the Ostjaks on all the rivers. There are my own people, but they are more to the south, near Minusinsk, and from there to Kasan, and seldom come far north. In summer everyone fishes or hunts. I could make you a boat with two or three skins of bullocks or horses or elk, it only needs these and a framework of wood; but we can buy one for three or four roubles a good one. We want one strong and large and light, for the river is terribly swift. There are places where it runs nearly as fast as a horse can gallop."

"Certainly we will get a good-sized one, Luka. If the river runs so swiftly we shall have no paddling to do, and therefore it will not matter at all about her being fast; besides, we shall want to carry a good load. We will not land oftener than we can help, and can sleep on board, and it will be much more comfortable to have a boat that one can move about in without being afraid of capsizing her. Whatever it costs, let us get a good boat."

"We will get one," Luka said confidently. "We shall find Ostjaks' huts all along the banks, and at any of these, if they have not a boat that will suit us, they will make us one in two or three days."

Avoiding the town, and passing through the villages at night, they kept along down the river bank for four days. The river was as wide as the Thames at Greenwich, with a very rapid current. They saw in some of the quiet reaches fishing-boats at work, some with nets, others with lines, and at night saw them spearing salmon and sturgeon by torch-light. Across the river they made out several of the yourts or summer tents of the Ostjaks, but it was not until the fourth day that they came upon a group of seven or eight of these tents on the river bank. The men were all away fishing, but the women came out to look at the strangers. As Luka spoke their dialect he had no difficulty in opening the conversation with them. He told them that he and his companion wanted to go down the river to Yeneseisk, and wished to buy a boat, a good one.

The women said that some of the men would be in that evening, and that the matter could be arranged.

"They will be glad to sell us a boat," Luka said to Godfrey. "They are very poor the Ostjaks; they have nothing but their tents, their boats, and their clothes. They live on the fish they catch, but fish are so plentiful they can scarce get anything for them, so they are very glad when they can sell anything for money."

The Ostjak men arrived just before it became dark. They wore high flat-topped fur caps, a dress something like a long loose blouse, and trousers of fine leather tucked into boots that came up to the knee. Most of them had bows and arrows in addition to their fishing gear. Godfrey felt no uneasiness among these men as he would have done among the Buriats in the east, for they were now at a distance from any convict settlements, and these people would know nothing about the rewards offered to the natives in the neighbourhood of the mines for the arrest of prisoners. A present of some tobacco, of which Godfrey had laid in a large stock, put the Ostjaks into an excellent temper. Fish were broiling over the fire when they returned, and the two travellers joined them at their meal. After this was over and pipes lighted the subject of the boat was discussed. The Ostjaks were perfectly ready to trade. They said they would sell any of their six boats for three roubles, and that if they did not think any of these large enough they would build them a larger one in three days for six roubles.

Godfrey had exchanged twenty roubles for kopecks at the first village they had passed after reaching the river, as he knew that notes would be of no use among the native tribes, and without bargaining he accepted the offer they made. After passing the night stretched by the fire they went down with the men in the morning to inspect the boats. They were larger than he had expected to find them, as the fishing population often shift their quarters by the river and travel in boats, taking their family, tent, and implements with them.

"What do you think, Luka?"

"They are large enough," Luka said, "but they are not in very good condition. I should say that farthest one would do very well; but let us have a look at the state of the skins."

The boat was hauled ashore and carefully examined. Three or four of the skins were found to be old and rotten; the rest had evidently been renewed from time to time.

"We will take this if you will put in four good skins," Luka said to the owner.

"It will be six roubles if we put in fresh skins," the Ostjak said. "We will put in good skins and grease all the boat, and then it will be the same as new. The other skins were all new last year."

"No," Luka said. "You said you would build a whole boat larger than this for six roubles."

The men talked together. "We will do it for five roubles," they said at last, and Luka at once agreed to the terms.

There was no time lost. The Ostjaks ordered the women to set about it at once, and leaving the matter in their hands went off to their fishing. Godfrey asked them to take him with them, leaving Luka to see to the repairs of the boat. The fishing implements were of the roughest kind. The hooks were formed of fish bones, bound together by fine gut; the lines were twisted strips of skin, strong gut attaching the hook to these lines; the bait was small pieces of fat, varied by strips of fish with the skin on them. Clumsy as the appliances were, jack, tench, and other fish were caught in considerable numbers, and among them two or three good-sized salmon. The nets were of coarse mesh, made of hemp, which grows wild in many parts of Siberia. They were some ten feet in depth and some twenty yards long. The upper ends were supported by floats made of bladders, and the whole anchored across the stream by ropes at the extremities, fastened to heavy stones. In these nets a considerable quantity of fish were taken. The fishing was over early, for there had been a good supply taken on the previous day, and as at this time of year they would not keep, it was useless obtaining more.

When they reached shore the common sorts of fish were thrown to the dogs; a dozen of the best picked out, and with these two of the men started at once for the nearest village, where they would be sold for a few kopecks; the rest were handed over to the women, while the men proceeded to throw themselves down by the fire and smoke. Godfrey went to see how the women were getting on with the boat. They had already made a great deal of progress. The skins, which had been chosen by Luka from a pile in the hut, were already prepared by having fat rubbed into them. The hair was left on them, as that would come inside. The bad skins had been taken off, the others cut to fit, and now only required sewing into their places. As a matter of course Godfrey and Luka took their meals with the Ostjaks and greatly enjoyed the change of diet. They gladdened the hearts of their hosts by producing a packet of tea, of which a handful was poured into a pot of water boiling over the fire. The liquor was drunk with delight by the Ostjak men and women, but Godfrey could not touch it, for some of the fish had already been boiled in the water, which the Ostjaks had not thought it necessary to change.

At night he went out again with them in the boats for a short time to see them spear salmon. A man holding a large torch made of strips of resinous wood stood in the bow of the boat, and on either side of him stood an Ostjak holding a long barbed spear. In a short time there were swirls on the surface of the river. These increased till the water round the boat seemed to boil. The Ostjaks were soon at work, and in half an hour twenty fine salmon were lying in the bottom of the boat, and then having caught as much as there was any chance of selling the natives they returned to their yourts. The next morning the work on the boat was resumed, and as all the women assisted it was finished in a very short time. Then melted fat was poured into the seams, and the whole boat vigorously rubbed with the same. By twelve o'clock it was finished. Then there was a little fresh bargaining for two salmon spears, a supply of torches, half a dozen common fox skins, and three large hides for stretching over the boat at night. Some of the lines and fish-hooks were also bought, and a few fish for present consumption, then Godfrey and Luka took their places in the boat, and bidding farewell to the Ostjaks paddled out into stream.

The boat was some twenty feet long and six feet wide in the centre. It was almost flat-bottomed, and drew but two or three inches of water. A flat stone had been placed on a layer of clay in the bottom, and they had taken with them a bundle of firewood. Godfrey was in the highest spirits. It was true that the real dangers of the journey had not yet begun, but so far everything had gone very much better than he had anticipated. He had not thought there would be any chance of recapture, for he knew that unless they came into the towns the Russians took no trouble about the escaped convicts. All the convicts with whom he had spoken had agreed that there was little trouble in sustaining life in the forests during summer, for that even if they could not obtain food from the peasants they had only to carry off a sheep at night from the folds.

"That is why the peasants are so ready to give," one said. "I don't say that they are not sorry for us, but the real reason is they know that if they did not give we should take, and instead of being harmless wanderers, as they call us, we should be driven to become bandits."

Still Godfrey had anticipated much greater difficulties than they had met with; in fact up to the present time it had been simply a delightful tramp through the woods. The next part of the journey would, he expected, be no less pleasant. They had a large and comfortable boat, well adapted for the navigation of the river. There would be no difficulty as to food, for fish could be obtained in any quantities, and grain was, he had heard from some of the Tartar prisoners who knew that portion of the Yenesei, abundant and extraordinarily cheap.

He seated himself in the stern of the boat with a paddle. There was no occasion to steer, for it mattered in no way whether the boat drove down the river bow or stern first; but at present it was an amusement to keep her straight with an occasional stroke with the paddle. Luka sat on the floorboards at the bottom of the boat, and set himself to work to manufacture from the squirrels' skins two fur caps of the same pattern as those worn by the Ostjaks. Godfrey had asked him to do so in order that they might be taken for members of that tribe by anyone looking at them from the villages on the banks. As to the dress it did not signify, as many of the more settled Ostjaks had adopted the Russian costume. Godfrey intended to fish as they drifted along, but they had at present at least as much fish on board as they could consume while it was good. Luka, as he worked, sang a lugubrious native ditty, while with his knife he trimmed the skins into shape. Having done this he proceeded to sew them together with great skill.

"Why, you are quite a tailor, Luka," Godfrey remarked.

"Every one sews with us," Luka replied. "The women do most, but in winter the boys help, and sometimes the men, to make rugs and robes of the skins of the beasts we have taken in the summer. What do you say, shall I leave these tails hanging down all round, except just in front? They often wear them so in winter."

"But it is not winter now, Luka."

"No, it is not winter; but you see the Ostjaks and most of the Russians wear their hair long, quite down to the neck. Our hair is growing, but at present it will only just lie down flat. If I leave on these black tails round the caps, at a little distance it will look like hair. Then, if you like, I can make two summer caps to put on when we land to buy anything."

"Very well, Luka, I think the idea is a good one. The people do wear their hair long, and our close crops might excite attention. This is better than gold-digging at Kara, isn't it?"

Luka nodded. "No good for man always to work," he said. "Good to lie quiet sometimes."

"I don't know that I care about lying quiet generally, Luka, but it is pleasant to do so in a boat. I am keeping a look-out for wild-fowl, it would make a pleasant change to fish diet."

"Not so far south as this. The Yenesei swarms with them in winter, but in summer they go north. Just before the frost begins you can shoot as many as you like."

"That will be something to look forward to. When does the weather begin to get cold and dry?"

"Where I lived the nights began to get cold at the end of September, but we shall be far down the Yenesei by that time, and it will begin early in the month."

"We shall be a long way down," Godfrey said, "if we keep on at this pace. We must be going past the banks eight or nine versts an hour."

"That is nothing; it will be more than twice that some times. The Angara between the lake and Irkutsk runs fifteen versts. When I was taken east we saw barges, each towed up-stream by twenty horses, and it took them sometimes four days, sometimes six, to make forty-five versts."

As they went along they passed several fishing-boats, but as they were keeping in the middle of the stream, while the boats lay in the slacker water near the shore, there was no conversation. Twice the Ostjaks shouted to know where they were going, but Luka only replied by pointing down the stream. The journey was singularly uneventful. At night they lit a torch for a short time, and generally speared sufficient fish for the next day, but if not, they cut a strip or two from the back of one they had caught, baited three or four hooks and dropped them overboard, and never failed in a short time to fill up their larder. Sometimes they grilled the fish over the fire, sometimes fried them, sometimes cut them up in pieces that would go into the kettle, and boiled them. Occasionally, when evening approached, they paddled to the shore near a village, and Luka, whose Tartar face was in keeping with his dress, went boldly in and purchased tobacco, tea, and flour, and a large block of salt, occasionally bringing off a joint of meat, for which the price was only four kopecks, or about a penny a pound; five kopecks being worth about three halfpence according to the rate of exchange. A hundred kopecks go to the rouble; the silver rouble being worth from two and tenpence to three shillings and twopence, the paper rouble about two shillings.

At first Godfrey had steered half the night and Luka the other half, but after the second night they gave this up as a waste of labour, as the boat generally drifted along near the middle of the river, and even had it floated in-shore no harm would have been done. The fox skins made them a soft bed, and they spread a couple of the large skins over the boat and were perfectly warm and comfortable. Godfrey thought that on an average they did a hundred and twenty miles a day. On the eighth day the river, which had been widening gradually, flowed into another and greater stream, the Yenesei. Hitherto they had been travelling almost due west, but the Yenesei ran north. As they floated down they had had much conversation as to their plans. It was now nearly the end of August, and it would not be long before winter was upon them. Another month and the Yenesei would be frozen, and they would be obliged to winter. The question was where should they do so?

SPEARING FISH BY TORCH-LIGHT.

Now they were on the Yenesei Luka was on his native river, though his home was fully a thousand miles higher up. Godfrey had at first proposed that he should disembark here and make his way up the banks home, but the offer filled Luka with indignation.

"What are you going to do without me?" he asked. "You can talk a little Tartar, quite enough to get on among my people, but how could you get on with the Ostjaks? Besides, even if I were to leave you, and I would rather die than do that, I could not go to my home, for in my native village I should be at once arrested and sent back to the mines. I might live among other Tartars, but what good would that be? They would be strangers to me. Why should I leave you, who have been more than a brother to me, to go among strangers? No, wherever you go I shall go with you, and when you get to your own land I shall be your servant. You can beat me if you like, but I will not leave you. Did you not, for my sake, strike down the man in the prison? Did you not take me with you, and have you not brought me hither? What could I have done alone? If you are tired of me shoot me, but as long as I live I will not leave you."

Godfrey hastened to assure Luka that he had only spoken for his good, that he was well aware that without him he should have little chance of getting through the winter, and that nothing therefore was farther from his thoughts than to separate himself from him if he was willing to remain. It was some time before Luka was pacified, but when he at last saw that Godfrey had no intention whatever of leaving him behind if he were willing to go with him, he recovered his spirits and entered into the discussion as to where they had better winter. He had never been below the town of Yeneseisk, but he knew that the Ostjaks were to be found fully a thousand miles below that town, especially on the left bank of the river, but below that, and all along the right bank, the Tunguses and Yuraks were the principal tribes. It was finally agreed that they should keep on for at least eight hundred miles beyond Yeneseisk, and then haul up their boat and camp at some Ostjak village, and there remain through the winter.

"We will get at Yeneseisk whatever you think the Ostjak will prize most—knives and beads for the women, and some cheap trinkets and looking-glasses. Some small hatchets, too, would probably be valued."

"Yes," Luka said, "Ostjaks have told me that their kindred far down the river were more like the people to the extreme north by the sea. They are pagans there, and not like us to the south. They have reindeer which draw their sledges. They are very poor and know nothing. From them we can get furs, but we can buy goat-skins and sheep-skins at Yeneseisk."

"We shall have to depend upon them for food," Godfrey said.

"Why, we can get food for ourselves," Luka said somewhat indignantly. "When the cold begins, before the river freezes, we shall get great quantities of fish. They will freeze hard, and last till spring. Then, too, the river will be covered with birds. We shall shoot as many as we can of these, and freeze them too. Flour we must take with us, but flour is very cheap at Yeneseisk. Corn will not grow there, but they bring it down in great boats from the upper river."

"But how do they get the boats back, Luka?"

"They do not get them back; they break them up for firewood. Firewood is dear at Yeneseisk, and they get much more for the barges for fires than it cost to build them in the forests higher up."

"Then how do they do for fires among the Ostjaks?"

"I have heard they do not have wood fires; they kill seals. There are numbers of them farther down the river, and from their fat they make oil for lamps and burn these. We shall be in no hurry as we go down. We will float near the banks, and may kill some seals. What are you thinking of?" for Godfrey was looking rather serious.

"I was thinking, Luka, that these things we are thinking of buying, the things to trade with the Ostjaks, you know, and the flour, and tea, and goat-skins, and so on, will take a good deal of money. We don't spend much now, but when we get into Russia we shall want money. We can't beg our way right across the country."

"No;" Luka said, "but we shall not be idle all the winter."

"How do you mean we shall not be idle, Luka?"

"We must hunt; that is what the Ostjaks and Tunguses do. We must get skins of beaver, sable, ermine, and black foxes, and we must sell them at Turukhansk. There are Russian traders there. They do not live there in the winter, but come down in the spring to buy the skins that have been taken in the winter."

"That sounds more cheerful," Godfrey said. "You had better get another flask of powder, and some more bullets and shot for me, Luka, and some better arrow-heads for yourself."

"Yes, we shall want them more than anything. We can do without flour, but we cannot do without weapons."

"Well, you must do the buying, Luka. They will take you for an Ostjak, from some village up the river, who has come in to lay in his stock of provisions for the winter. It is of no use my trying to pass here as a native, though in Russia I might be taken as a Russian."

CHAPTER XII.

WINTER.

A few hours after entering the Yenesei they saw on the right bank of the river, which was now of great width, the domes of the town. They ran in to the shore a mile above it.

"I shall not land, Luka," Godfrey said. "I don't want to be questioned. I shall put off, and drop our anchor a quarter of a mile out and fish. You must make two or three journeys if necessary."

"The things will not be heavy, Godfrey, the flour is the only thing that will weigh much. I will get someone to help me down with that."

They had already gone over and over again the list of purchases to be made.

"I shall drop down a little nearer the town, Luka, when I think it is about time for you to be coming back, so you won't have so far to carry the things. Don't be more than three hours whether you have got anything or not, or I shall begin to feel anxious about you."

Luka nodded, and went off. Godfrey paddled the boat out a short distance, let down the stone, and began to fish. He was under no real uneasiness as to the young Tartar, there was nothing about him to distinguish him from other natives, and as these would be about this time arriving in considerable numbers at Yeneseisk to sell the skins of the animals they had taken in the chase during the summer, and to lay in stores for the winter, it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would even question him. Such indeed was the case. There were numbers of natives in the stores of the Russian traders, and he made his purchases without any question whatever being asked. He bought rather more hatchets, knives, and trinkets than they had agreed upon, and two sacks of flour, although he deemed the latter to be a luxury that they could very well dispense with altogether. Godfrey was just thinking of taking up his anchor and going down towards the town when he saw him returning, accompanied by two natives carrying the sacks. He pulled up his anchor and paddled to shore. "Have you got everything, Luka?" he asked.

"Everything—powder, shot, and balls; tea, salt; ten knives, and eight axes; beads, four goat-skins, looking-glasses, tobacco, and flour;" and one by one he handed the articles as he named them into the boat.

"How much flour is there, Luka?"

"Two hundred pounds. I have got more trinkets than we said. They were very cheap. They look like gold and silver, and only cost ten kopecks apiece. I have also brought two bottles of vodka."

"That is bad, Luka."

"The two only cost a rouble," Luka said calmly; "they may be very useful to us; and I bought more tea and tobacco than we said."

The men who had carried the flour had received a few kopecks for their trouble, and had gone off as soon as they had laid down their burdens. Directly the things were handed into the boat, Luka stepped in and they pushed off into the stream.

"I have bought plenty of arrow-heads, and two steel spear heads and shafts."

"I wondered what those short poles were."

"They are of tough wood and the right length, ten feet long. They are good for seal-hunting and for bears."

"Well, I think you have done capitally, Luka. You have made the money go a long way. I suppose you have spent the hundred roubles you took with you?"

"I have four left. I think I have done very well. We have everything we shall want through the winter."

"Well, we are fairly off for the north now," Godfrey said, in high spirits that everything was settled, and that for eight months at least there would not be the slightest risk of meeting with a Russian policeman or soldier. "Hurrah for the north, Luka, and for shooting and adventures!"

Luka smiled. It was rarely he laughed, but he was always ready to smile when Godfrey addressed him.

"The air feels brisk and cold to-day. We shall soon have winter upon us."

"Yes; look there!" Luka said, pointing into the air ahead of them.

"What is it? It looks like a long black streak."

"Geese," Luka said. "It is a flight of wild geese from the north."

As it approached Godfrey saw that the Tartar was right. A solitary bird led the way, two followed him closely, then came rank after rank widening out till it was a broad band of fully fifty abreast. Line after line they followed in almost military array, and extending in length fully a quarter of a mile.

"Why, there must be thirty or forty thousand of them there," he exclaimed in amazement.

"You will see bigger flocks than that," Luka said. "Why, all the river, from Minusinsk down to Turukhansk, more than 2000 miles, is well-nigh covered with birds. We shall have no lack of meat presently."

During the day many flights similar to those first seen passed overhead, some larger, some containing only a score or two birds. The next day the numbers were still larger, whole battalions coming along almost incessantly. These were by no means confined to geese. There were gulls and swans, flocks of small birds of many kinds, flights of wild ducks—the latter, for the most part, flying much lower than the geese, which kept far overhead.

"We had better land to-night," Luka said. "They fly close after dark, and the flocks will settle on the banks. We will shoot them as they come overhead. You may not see them well, but they are so thick that you can hardly miss them."

Accordingly, when evening came on they landed, fastened the boat, took a couple of sheep-skins each to throw over their shoulders (for even in these two days the cold had sensibly increased), and lay down to await the coming of the birds. All day long the air had been full of their cries, but it had grown quieter now, though occasionally they heard a sharp cry of the leader of a flock, followed by a responsive note from the birds following him. From time to time Godfrey could hear the whirring sound of a multitude of wings as the flocks passed overhead. These became louder as the time went on, and he knew that they were flying lower. He had loaded his gun with heavy shot, and once or twice was disposed to fire, but Luka each time stopped him. "They are much too high yet. They will come close down presently." The stars were shining brightly, and Godfrey could make out the outlines of the geese as they passed overhead. Presently there was a sharp call a few hundred yards higher up the bank.

"This lot are coming low," Luka whispered. "They are probably going to settle to feed. Get ready now."

Godfrey lay with his gun pointed upwards; a minute later he heard the rustling of wings, which rose to a sound like a mighty wind, and then some forty yards overhead a dark cloud of birds swept along across the sky. Godfrey fired one barrel, waited a moment and then fired again. With a loud cry of surprise and alarm the flock divided in two, and almost instantly there were several heavy thuds on the ground close by.

"Hurrah! we have got some of them," Godfrey said, and leaping up they ran to collect the fallen birds. There were five of them. "That is grand," he exclaimed in delight.

"Will you shoot some more?" Luka asked.

"No, we have as many as we can eat, Luka, for the next three days at least. It would be a waste of powder and shot to kill more, and worse still, it would be a waste of life. It is right to kill what we require as food, but to my mind there is nothing more wicked than taking life merely for amusement. I consider that we should well deserve any misfortune that might happen to us if we were to kill any one of God's creatures wantonly. One of our best poets has written:

"'He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.'

"It makes me furious sometimes, Luka, when I read books of what is called sport, and find men boasting of killing numerous creatures merely for the pleasure of killing them. I feel that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to flog such brutes."

Luka did not much understand this outburst of indignation, but as usual he grunted an assent, and carrying the birds they returned to the boat.

"It is freezing to-night," the Tartar said as they stepped in. "I will lay the geese in the bow beyond the cover. They will be frozen by the morning."

Godfrey was glad of the wrapping of warm furs that night, and even when he shook them off and looked out at sunrise, it was still so chilly that, after he had leaned over the side of the boat as usual, and sluiced his head with water, he was glad to take a paddle and work hard for a bit to keep himself warm.

"Get the fire alight, Luka, and the kettle on," he said, "and cut up one of those geese. How are you going to get the feathers off? I suppose you will have to pluck them and singe them."

"It would take much too long that. We can spare the feathers this time."

So saying, with his knife he made a slight incision down the breast-bone, and then proceeded to tear off the skin, bit by bit, feathers and all.

"That is a quick way," Godfrey said, "though it doesn't improve the bird's appearance; but that is a trifle. Never mind the bread, we shall have to do without that before long, and I feel as hungry as a hunter."

In a very few minutes the fire was blazing, and portions of the goose frizzling over it, and in twenty minutes the meal was ready. Godfrey thought he had never eaten anything nicer; and the meat being much less rich than that of tame geese, he did very well without bread. For the next three days they made no pause, floating down night and day, the stream varying in speed from five to ten miles an hour. At points where the stream was most rapid, they paddled in towards the bank to avoid the waves raised by the river in its course. The light boat always floated easily over these, but she needed to be kept with her head to them; and Godfrey was afraid that a moment's carelessness might bring her broadside on to them, and therefore preferred to glide along at a somewhat slower rate near the shore.

The river was now a mile and a half wide. To the left the country was flat, but on the right they could see hills rising far above each other. One or two small trading stations were seen on the right bank, but upon the left they passed only a few clusters of Ostjak yourts. On the right great pine forests came down in places to within a short distance of the river, but these were rarely seen on the left. On the fifth day after leaving Yeneseisk they saw a small trading station on the right bank. This Godfrey, who had got the geography of the river by heart, judged to be Peslovska, because it was one of the few trading stations which was not situated at a point where a tributary stream ran into the Yenesei.

"We are far enough down now, Luka," he said. "We are not more than two hundred miles from Turukhansk. We will land at the next Ostjak huts we come to, and see if they are disposed to be friendly with us."

"They will be friendly," Luka said confidently. "Why not? They are peaceable people, and they know that did they touch strangers they would be punished. There are Russian soldiers at Turukhansk. The Ostjaks are very poor. You have things to give them, and you want nothing of them."

Twenty miles further they saw a group of seven huts on the left bank ahead of them, and paddling in landed close to them. Three or four canoes, much smaller than their own lay there, and as they climbed the lofty bank some of the Ostjaks came out from their huts.

"What do you want?" one of them asked abruptly.

"I am travelling with this gentleman, who has come from a far distant country to hunt and to shoot game here in winter. We would like to live beside your village and to hunt with you. You see he has a gun. He has many things as presents, and it will be well for the village where he settles. Here is some tobacco for all," and Luka handed a small roll of tobacco to each of the men. "We have also some presents for the women," and he produced two or three looking-glasses, and some rows of large blue and red beads. The women, who were listening in the huts, at once came out.

"It is good," an old man, who seemed to be the leader of the Ostjaks, said. "Why should not the stranger live here with us and hunt with us if he chooses? He will be welcome. Let us help the strangers."

The whole of the Ostjaks at once set to work. Godfrey chose a piece of level ground twenty or thirty yards lower down than the huts. He and Luka, aided by some of the men, carried the various articles out of the boat. While they were doing this, the women stuck some poles in the ground round the circle Godfrey had traced, and lashed them together in the middle with some strips of hide. The three large skins were placed against this on the northern side. Then the women paused.

"You had better buy some more large skins if they have got them, Luka. Say that you will give a knife for hides enough to finish the huts with."

The knives were large ones with rough handles and strong blades, and when Luka took one out from a bundle and said to the chief, "We will give this knife for enough skins to finish the hut," he gave an order to his wife, and she and two of the other women at once brought some elk hides from a pile lying by the side of his tent. A few stitches here and there with the needle made of a sharp fish-bone, with a thread of twisted gut, fastened the corners of the hides together, and in half an hour the tent was complete. The goat-skins were spread on the ground. The fox and other skins were made into two piles, one on each side of the tent, and all the goods stored inside.

"This is splendid," Godfrey said; "here we are as snug as if we were born Ostjaks. I had no idea they would have made us so comfortable. We will give them a cup of tea all round, Luka, as a reward for their labours. We don't care for sugar, but the two pounds you bought at Yeneseisk will come in useful now. They will think a lot more of it if it is sweet. See if they have got a big kettle. That little thing of ours will only hold a couple of quarts."

Upon inquiry the chief produced a cauldron, which he exhibited with great pride. It had evidently been used for melting down blubber. Luka carried it down to the water's edge, and then scrubbed it with sand until it was tolerably clean; then he rubbed it with wisps of coarse grass, filled it with water, and stood it on a fire that the Ostjaks had made from drift-wood picked up from the shore. In half an hour the water boiled. He put in two or three handfuls of tea and half a pound of sugar, let it boil for another minute or two, and then took the pot off the fire. Then he invited the Ostjaks to dip in their cups. In each of the huts they had a few tin mugs, for the expense and risk of carriage of crockery rendered the prices prohibitive, and even the tin mugs were prized as among their most precious possessions. Luka and Godfrey also dipped in their cups as an act of civility, but the latter made a wry face when it approached his lips, for the odour of the blubber was very strong, and he took an opportunity, when none of the Ostjaks were looking, to pour the contents of the tin upon the ground beside him; but to the Ostjaks the smell and flavour of blubber was no drawback, and men and women sat round the fire drinking the sweet liquor with great enjoyment, and evidently highly contented at the coming of this stranger among them.

While they were partaking of it Godfrey heard a sound behind, and looking round saw a boy driving in several reindeer. He was delighted at the sight, not only because it promised hunting expeditions, but because they might aid to carry them across the frozen steppes, to the Obi, before the frost broke up. Talking with the Ostjaks Luka found that, as the temperature had been below freezing-point all day, they intended to commence fishing in earnest the next morning. The position of the huts had been specially selected for that purpose. The river made a sharp bend just above them, and the point threw the current across to the opposite bank, forming almost a back-water at the spot where the huts stood. It seemed strange to Godfrey, as he lay down that night, to be without the gentle motion of the boat to which he had been so long accustomed, and he lay awake for some time, not forgetting before he went to sleep to thank God for the wonderful success that had so far attended him, and to pray for a continuance of His protection.

As soon as it was light the boats all put off, and anchoring a short distance out were soon engaged in fishing. Godfrey put down four lines, each with six of the hooks Mikail had purchased for him before starting from Kara. These were baited with strips of fish, and he and Luka were soon busy at work hauling in the fish. They were mostly jack or tench, and by the evening they had caught nearly a hundred. When they rowed to shore they found that they had been far more successful than any of the Ostjaks, this being due to the superiority of their hooks over the fish-bone contrivances of the natives. Following the example of the Ostjaks they laid the fish in lines in front of their tent to freeze during the night.

After boiling their kettle, frying a couple of fish, and taking supper, they lighted two torches and again went out, returning before midnight with twenty-five salmon averaging fifteen pounds each. By the morning the fish were all frozen as hard as pieces of wood, and were then laid in a pile. For four days this work continued with equal success, and by the end of that time they had a pile of fish six feet square and three feet high, making, Godfrey calculated, nearly a ton of fish. They had observed that some of the Ostjaks had each morning brought in several wild geese and swans, and Luka learnt from them that there was a large marsh a mile away in which large flights of geese settled every night. Accompanied by two of the Ostjaks they started late in the evening for the spot. When they came near the marsh they could hear a low chattering noise as the birds fed on the aquatic grasses. Sometimes they heard cries in the air, answered by calls from the feeding birds, and followed speedily by a great rustling of wings as fresh flocks alighted.

Godfrey and Luka had brought with them some fox-skins and sat wrapped up in them, but in spite of that they felt the cold as they waited hour after hour. Godfrey dozed off several times, and at last slept for three or four hours. He was awakened by a touch from Luka, and a low warning to keep silence. The morning was breaking. He found that the Ostjaks had built a sort of shelter of bushes, which had the effect of breaking the force of the north wind and of hiding them from the water-fowl. Raising his head cautiously he saw before him a sheet of shallow water; this was absolutely covered with geese, a few swans being seen here and there. Luka had warned him not to fire until the Ostjaks had shot all their arrows, as the sound of his gun would at once scare the whole flock. The edge of the water was about forty yards away. The Ostjaks and Luka had both made holes through the bushes in front of them so as to be able to shoot without exposing their heads. Moving gently Godfrey found a spot where he could see through the boughs. The natives were just ready to shoot. There were three swans close to the edge of the water, and the bows twanged almost together.

Although he knew how marvellous was the shooting of the Ostjaks, he was nevertheless surprised at seeing that each of the birds was struck in the head, and was thus killed instantly without the slightest noise being made.

Again and again they shot, and each arrow brought down its bird. Luka's third arrow was less successful; it wounded a bird on the neck, and with loud cries of pain and alarm it flew flapping across the pool. In an instant the whole mass of birds rose on the wing, circling round and round with loud cries. The natives, lying on their backs, shot arrow after arrow into the air, in each case transfixing a goose. Each had twelve arrows, and when they were exhausted Luka said, "Now, Godfrey, you can fire."

Godfrey waited until a number of birds flew in a mass over him, and then discharged both barrels. Five geese fell, and then the whole vast flock flew away to the north, leaving the lagoon entirely deserted save by the floating bodies of their dead companions.

"Arrow better than gun," Luka said as he rose. "Gun kill, but frighten all away. Arrow keep on killing."

"That is true enough, Luka; there is no doubt the bow is the best for this sort of work; but I shall manage better another time."

The birds were picked up. Twelve had fallen to each of the Ostjaks. Luka had eleven, and Godfrey five. It was a heavy burden to carry back to the huts. Godfrey and Luka's shares of the birds were laid by the pile of fish, with the exception of one which Luka proceeded to skin and hang up, while Godfrey saw to the fire and put on the kettle.

When they had finished breakfast Godfrey said, "We will take three or four hours' sleep now, Luka, and then I am going down to have a look at that marsh." They accordingly started at mid-day. Godfrey made a detour round the lagoon, and a hundred yards beyond it, on the opposite side, found a clump of bushes that he thought would suit his purpose. With Luka's assistance he cleared a spot in the middle large enough for them to lie down on, and then returned to camp. They took their next meal early, and then, taking some furs to make themselves comfortable, again started round the lagoon. It was just sunset when they got there, and spreading two or three fox-skins on the ground, and throwing two over their shoulders, they waited.

It was scarcely dusk when the first flock of geese passed close over their heads, on their way to the lagoon. Luka discharged two arrows, and then Godfrey fired his two barrels into them. Several fell, but the flock scattered with wild screams; but, after circling round and round for some time, settled in the lagoon. A quarter of an hour passed, and then another flock came along. All night the flocks continued to arrive at short intervals, and from each Godfrey brought down several. Luka's arrows were soon exhausted, but Godfrey continued firing until morning began to break. Then they got up to see the result of the night's shooting. Luka, although seldom excited, gave a shout of pleasure. The ground around them was thickly strewn with geese. Many were only wounded; but Luka, with a short, heavy stick, soon put them out of their pain, although not without several sharp chases. Then they collected and counted the birds. There were eighty-four in all.

"Another night's shooting, Luka, and our larder will be full."

Each taking up six geese, which was as much as they could carry, they returned to the tents, and then set out again, accompanied by all the boys and girls of the village; and this time the whole of the geese were carried to the hut.

"It is an awful pity," Godfrey said, as he looked at the great pile, "that we haven't got anything we could use for holding the feathers. Well, we will have them picked anyhow. We can make a thick layer of them under the skins for the present. When it gets downright cold we can nestle in among them somehow."

Accordingly the children were set to work to pluck the birds, which were then left out to freeze in the same way as the fish. That night and the next day they rested, and then had another night's shooting. The amount of success was as great as that which had attended the first.

"We have plenty now to last us well on into the spring," Godfrey said as he looked at the great pile. "What is to be done next, Luka?"

"Pour water over them and the fish and let them freeze."

"Do they keep better that way, Luka?"

"Yes; not get so dry."

The Ostjaks had been astounded at the success of their visitors, both in fishing and shooting. Godfrey now had a conversation with their chief, and offered to shoot a supply of geese for the natives, if they would furnish him and his companion with a complete outfit of furs for the winter. This the chief at once agreed to, as they had a large supply of foxes' skins in camp, and these, with the exception of the rarer sorts, were practically worthless for the purpose of exchange.

Godfrey made the chief another offer: to give him a hatchet, two knives, and six fish-hooks, if he would supply them with as much seal's flesh as they might require during the winter, and with blubber for lamps. The Ostjaks had already killed a good many seals; but the pursuit of them required time and patience, and Godfrey wanted to ensure a supply for the winter, although Luka told him they would have plenty of opportunities of getting seals then. Accordingly, for the next ten days the shooting was continued at night, Godfrey and Luka sleeping during the day, and leaving it to the young Ostjaks to collect and bring in the birds.

The cold daily increased, and Godfrey began to feel much the want of warmer clothing. However, on the eighth day the Ostjaks brought in two suits. They were the joint work of the women of the village. As the Ostjaks were greatly pleased at the quantity of food coming in daily, which ensured them a sufficiency of meat throughout the winter, in addition to their own stock of fish, the work was well done. For each a closely-fitting shirt had been made of the squirrel skins they had brought down with them, with the fur inside. The trousers were of red fox-skin, with the hair outside. The upper garment was a long capote of the same fur, reaching down to the ankles, and furnished with a hood covering the head and face, with the exception of an opening from the eyes down to the mouth. In addition to these, was given to each as a present a pair of Ostjak boots. These were large and loose. They were made of goat-skins, rendered perfectly supple by grease and rubbing, and with the hair inside. They came up to the thighs, and had a thick sole made of layers of elk-hide. There was also for each a pair of socks of squirrel's skin, with the hair inside, and a pair of fingerless gloves of double skin, the fur being both inside and out, except in the palm, which was of single skin, with the fur inside.

"Well, if it is cold enough to require all that," Godfrey said, "it will be cold indeed; but it will be awful walking about with it. Surely one can never want all those furs!"

But in time Godfrey found that they were none too many, for at Turukhansk the thermometer in winter sometimes sinks to 60 degrees below zero. For a time, however, he found no occasion to use the capote, the fur shirt trousers and boots being amply sufficient, while the fur cap with the hanging tails kept his neck and ears perfectly warm. Already the ice was thick on the still reach of the river beside which the huts stood, although, beyond the shelter of the point, the Yenesei still swept along. The lagoon had been frozen over for some days, in spite of the water being kept almost perpetually in motion by the flocks of water-fowl, and the ground was as hard as iron. The Ostjaks were now for some days employed in patching up their huts and preparing them to withstand the cold of winter.

An immense pile of firewood had been collected on the shore, for boughs of trees and drift-wood, brought down by the river, often came into the backwater, and these were always drawn ashore, however busied the men might be at the time in fishing. All through the summer every scrap of wood that came within reach had been landed, and the result was a great pile that would, they calculated, with the blubber they had stored, be sufficient to last them through the winter.

"What will they do if fuel should run short?" Godfrey asked Luka.

"They will cross the frozen river with their sledges to the forests. They would either take their huts down and establish themselves there, or would cut wood, fill their sledges, and bring it over. I have been talking to them. On the other side there are many Russian villages, for the post-road is on that side. In summer the carriages are drawn by horses; in winter they have reindeer. These people are very poor; the skins that they make their clothes with are all poor, the animals were torn by the dogs or injured—that is why they could not sell them. Those red fox-skins would have been worth two roubles each if they had been good; but the merchants will give nothing for those that are injured. They say it does not pay for the carriage. So they were glad to make them up for us."

"What do they do with the reindeer?"

"They milk them in summer, and in winter they let them to the owners of the post-stations. Of course, when they move they use them themselves."

"What we want, Luka," Godfrey said, after sitting quiet for some time, "is more money. If we had that, we might hire sledges and reindeer as soon as the snow gets on the ground, and travel west; but of course there is no tempting these poor people to make such a journey without money to pay them well."

"They will go hunting presently," Luka said. "You might get some good furs and sell them."

"Yes; but I don't see why I should. No doubt many of the Russian peasants in the villages have guns; and if they don't get skins, why should I?"

"A great many skins come down every year," the Tartar said. "Black fox is worth money, fifteen, twenty roubles; ermine is worth money; lots of them in the woods."

"Well, we must hope for the best. If we can but get enough for them to take us across to the Obi, we ought to be able to coast round in a canoe to Archangel. But I don't think we could do it from this river in one season. The ice does not break up till June, and begins to form again in October. We can only rely upon three open months. I doubt whether we could get in that time from the Yenesei. However, it is of no use our bothering ourselves about that now."

Another fortnight and the frost was so severe that the ice extended almost across the river, and a heavy fall of snow covered everything. As soon as it was deep enough Godfrey and Luka followed the example of the Ostjaks and raised a high wall of it encircling the tent to keep off the bitter north wind. Then the weather changed again. The wind set in from the south, and drenching rains fell. At the end of two or three days the ice on the river had disappeared, but it was not long before winter set in more bitterly than before. The ground became covered with the snow to a depth of upwards of three feet, and the river froze right across. The wall round the tent was rebuilt, Godfrey fashioning wooden shovels from some planks he found among the drift-wood. The Ostjaks took to their snow-shoes, and Godfrey fashioned for himself and Luka two pairs of runners, such as he had seen in use near St. Petersburg.

These were about five feet long, by as many inches wide, and slightly turned up at each end. A strap was nailed across, under which the foot went. The ends were turned up by damping the wood and holding it over the fire, a string being fastened tightly from end to end, so as to keep the wood bent. When they were completed they practised with them steadily, and found that as soon as the surface of the snow hardened they could get along upon them at a good pace on level ground, completely distancing the Ostjaks on their broader snow-shoes. The Ostjaks evidently admired them greatly, but were too much wedded to their own customs to adopt them.

Godfrey was so warmly clad that he felt the cold but little. His eyes, however, suffered from the glare of the snow, and he at once adopted spectacles, which were made for him by the Ostjaks. They were the shape of goggles, and made of skin with the hair on, narrow slits being cut in them, these slits being partly covered with the hair, and so shielding the eyes from the glare of the snow. They were fastened on by leathern straps, tied at the back of the head. The Ostjaks themselves seldom wore them, but they were used by Samoyedes, a kindred tribe, dwelling generally farther north, though many of them at times came down even as far as Yeneseisk.

Early in November the Ostjaks prepared for a hunting expedition. The men, since they were confined to their huts by the snow, had been busy in manufacturing traps of various kinds and getting the sledges into order. On a large sledge, which was to be drawn by three reindeer, was placed the skins necessary for forming a tent. On these were piled a store of provisions, which were chopped out from the frozen masses by hatchets. On the smaller sledges were placed the traps and a quantity of the coarser kinds of frozen fish as food for the dogs. It had been settled that Godfrey and Luka should accompany them. They had contributed liberally from their store of geese and fish, and added to the load on the reindeer sledge their kettle, frying-pan, and a parcel of tea and tobacco. When all was ready the three reindeer were harnessed to the large sledge, one to each of the three small sledges, and soon after daybreak on the 5th of November they started, the Ostjaks being anxious to be off, for the weather again showed signs of breaking, and it might be another month before the river was permanently frozen for the winter. Six Ostjaks, including the chief, formed with Godfrey and Luka the hunting party; the others remained behind to look after the rest of the reindeer, as it was necessary to keep a space clear from snow, to enable them to get at the grass. They would, too, continue the fishing, keeping holes broken in the ice and catching fish by torch-light. The men walked with the sledges, which only went at a walking pace.

Across the river the route was easy, the surface of the snow being crisp and hard, but it was hard work mounting the opposite bank, which was exceedingly steep. The reindeer pulled well, and at difficult points the men aided them. A short distance from the bank they crossed the post-road, and in another half-hour were in the forest.

Godfrey had already been told that they would travel for several days before they began to hunt, as the villagers with their guns scared the wild animals from the forests in their neighbourhoods. There was no difficulty in travelling through the forest, for the pine-trees stood generally at some distance apart, and there was but little growth of underwood. All day they kept steadily on. When evening came they cut some young poles, erected their tent, and lit a fire in the centre. By this time Godfrey had become accustomed to the smoke, which escaped from the top of the tent by a hole.

A couple of geese were cut up and broiled over the flame, and some cakes baked in the frying-pan, their pipes were lighted, and they lay down in a circle with their feet to the fire. For three more days the journey was continued. Then, as several tracks had been seen in the snow, they halted and prepared for the hunt. The method was simple. The men scattered in several directions, and when they struck upon a recent track followed it up. Each man took with him a dog, a certain amount of provisions, a box of matches from Godfrey's store, and a large skin to wrap himself in at night. Sometimes, as Godfrey found, the track had to be followed a long distance before they came up to the animal, which always travelled in zigzag courses hunting about for white mice and other prey. Sometimes it was found to have taken to a hole, and then a trap was set to catch it when it came out. The animals were principally ermine; but one or two sable, which are considerably larger, with much more valuable skins, and some martens were taken. All belong to the weasel family; the upper part of the ermine being brown in summer, but, like most animals in or near the arctic zone, changing into a pure white in winter, with the exception of the tail, which remains black as in summer. The ermine is but little larger than the English ferret, while the sable and marten are the size of large polecats. When the Ostjaks came up with them they either knocked them on the head with a club or shot them through the head. They were then carefully skinned, the bodies being thrown to the dogs for food.

It had been agreed that the animals caught should be divided; but Godfrey felt that he was doing but little, for he was unable to shoot them, as this would have damaged their skins. However, he aided in tracking them down, and in setting traps when he traced them to a hole; and once or twice he came up with and killed one with a club. Occasionally he shot a squirrel—the little animals coming out from their nests in holes in the trees at the sound of footsteps, their curiosity costing them dear. After remaining four days at this spot the tent was pulled down and packed up, and they advanced another two days' journey into the forest.

CHAPTER XIII.

HUNTING.

At the end of a fortnight one of the Ostjaks started with the large sledge for the huts, taking with him all the skins that had been collected. These had mounted up to a considerable number, the Ostjaks considering their luck to have been extraordinary, and putting it down in a great degree to their white companion, for whom they began to have an almost superstitious respect, since the way he had supplied their village with food for the winter seemed to them almost miraculous. The reindeer with the light sledge would accomplish the return journey in two days with ease, although the distance had taken them five days on their way out. It was to return with a fresh supply of provisions, especially for the dogs. The night after the sledge had left, the dogs barked fiercely for some time. They slept in the tent. Some of the Ostjaks made pillows of them, others allowed them to lie upon them, and they helped to keep the tent warm; the din when they began barking was prodigious.

"What is it all about?" Godfrey shouted in Luka's ear.

"I think it must be a bear," Luka shouted back.

"Why don't they let the dogs out?"

"They would drive the bears away, and it is too dark to see to shoot them. In the morning they will follow their track."

The dogs presently ceased barking and with low growls lay down again. As soon as it was light the Ostjaks turned out and found great footmarks round the tent. Before starting from the huts Godfrey had exchanged the heads of their fishing-spears for the iron spear-heads they had purchased. Loading his gun with ball, Godfrey with Luka and four of the Ostjaks started in pursuit, taking six of the dogs, and a sledge, with them. On his long runners he would soon have left the Ostjaks behind; but Luka translated their warning that they must all keep together, for as there were two bears it would be dangerous to attack them in lesser numbers.

In about an hour they arrived at a dense thicket, and it was evident that this was the lair of the bears until they took up their permanent winter quarters in a hollow tree. The dogs were urged to attack them, but could not be persuaded to enter far, confining themselves to barking fiercely. "How are we going to get at them?" Godfrey asked.

The Ostjaks consulted together, and then they collected some dry pine needles and twigs, and two of them went to the windward side of the thicket and made a fire, upon which, as soon as it was fairly alight, they threw some dead leaves mixed with snow.

"If they were to light the bushes themselves, it would drive them out quicker than that smoke," Godfrey said.

"Not good, not good," Luka said earnestly. "Once catch fire, big flame run through forest, burn miles and miles."

"I did not think of that," Godfrey said. "That would be a foolish trick."

However, the smoke had the desired effect, and in a minute or two, two bears burst out on the other side, growling angrily. The dogs rushed at them, barking loudly but taking care to keep at a safe distance from their paws. The bears both raised themselves on their haunches. The Ostjak bows twanged and Godfrey fired. One of the bears rolled over, the other charged at his assailants. Godfrey fired his second barrel, then dropping his gun and grasping his spear, stood ready to meet the charge. But the bear did not reach him, for as it rose on its hind-legs the Ostjaks and Luka again shot their arrows, and the bear rolled over dead. The two animals were placed on the sledge, the reindeer harnessed, and, the Ostjaks taking ropes to aid it with its heavy burden, they returned to the tent.

They had scarcely reached it when one of the other hunters returned with news that they had come upon the track of an elk. The bears were at once dragged into the tent, the entrance securely fastened to prevent a passing wolf or ounce from tearing them; then, taking with them this time all the dogs and the three sledges, they started, and in half an hour came to where the chief and his remaining followers were awaiting them.

"They came along here yesterday afternoon," the chief said to Luka. "There is one big stag, and one young one, and three females."

After three hours' walking they came to a spot where the snow was much trampled, and there were marks of animals having lain down.

"That is where they slept," the chief said. "They are travelling south, but they will probably stop to feed before they have gone far; we may catch them then." He ordered one of the men to stop with the sledges, and the rest proceeded onwards.

GODFREY BRINGS DOWN AN ELK.

Not a word was spoken now, and as they went they took the greatest pains not to brush against any branch or twig.

The Ostjaks were now walking their fastest, and Godfrey had to exert himself to keep up with them. Their footfall was so light as to be scarce audible. After two hours' travelling they saw an opening among the trees, and here some young pines were growing thickly. The chief pointed significantly towards them, and Godfrey understood that the animals would probably be feeding there. They now went slowly, and the chief whispered orders that they were to make a circle round the opening and close round on the other side as noiselessly as possible. He himself would enter the thicket from the side on which he now was. The crackling of the pine twigs would drive them out on the other side. Very quietly they worked round and took up their stations, each standing behind a fir-tree, and then waited.

They could hear the stamping of heavy hoofs and the occasional breaking of twigs. Presently there was a louder and more continuous sound of breaking bushes, and then with a sudden rush a great elk, followed by four others, burst out of the thicket. As they came along the Ostjaks stepped out from their hiding-places and let fly their deadly arrows. The leading elk came close to the tree behind which Godfrey was standing, and as it passed he fired both barrels, hitting it just behind the shoulder. The elk ran a few paces and then fell. Three out of the other four had been brought down by the Ostjak arrows; the young male escaped. The satisfaction of the Ostjaks was great; for here, in addition to the value of the skins, was food for themselves and the dogs for some time to come.

A man was at once sent back for the sledges. While waiting for these the rest set out on various tracks of ermine they had passed on the way, and three of these and a marten were killed before the sledges came up. The big elk was placed on one sledge, one of the females on each of the others. The fourth was skinned, cut up, and divided among the three sledges. Lightly as the sledges ran over the snow the men were all obliged to harness themselves to ropes to assist the deer, and it was late in the evening before they arrived at the hut. The fire was lighted at once. Godfrey undertook the cooking, while the rest skinned the bears and elk, cut them up, and hung up the carcasses on boughs beyond the reach of the dogs. These had a grand feast off the offal while the men were regaling themselves with fresh elk steaks.

For two months the hunting was continued with much success, then the Ostjaks said they would return home. Godfrey, however, was anxious to continue hunting; he had a small tent that had been made for him and Luka, and the Ostjak leader offered to leave one of the sledges with six dogs that had been trained to draught work. As soon as the Ostjaks had started on their return journey the tent, a store of provisions and furs, were packed in the sledge, and a fresh start made, as they had been in their present position for over a week. As they went along two of the poles were arranged so that they made a deep groove in the snow, by which they could find their way back to the starting-point. Two days' journey took them into a hilly country. They established themselves in a sheltered valley, and made that the centre from which they hunted.

They were now twelve days' journey from the Yenesei and well beyond the range of ordinary hunting parties. They had soon reason to congratulate themselves on entering the more mountainous country, for here the game was much more abundant than it had been before. The dogs had by this time become attached to them, for Godfrey was fond of animals, and had petted them in a manner to which they were quite unaccustomed from their Ostjak masters. One of them especially, a young dog, had taken regularly to accompany Godfrey when hunting, and he found the animal of the greatest utility, as it was able to follow the back track with undeviating certainty. This was of importance, for there was but a short twilight each twenty-four hours, the sun being below the horizon except for an hour or two at noon, and they were obliged to carry torches while following the tracks of the smaller animals.

Ermines were found in considerable numbers, and in the first week four fine sables were killed, as well as two martens and a bear; the latter was specially prized. They had brought a fortnight's provisions for themselves and the dogs, but they were anxious to eke these stores out as long as possible, as they could no longer depend upon getting fresh supplies from home. The bodies of the ermines were but a mouthful for one of the dogs, while the sables and martens gave them a mouthful all round. The bear, however, contained a large quantity of excellent food, and setting aside the hams for their own consumption they hung up the rest of the meat on a tree to serve out gradually among the dogs. They soon found, however, that they need be under no anxiety as to food, as foxes abounded, principally red, though two of the valuable black foxes fell to Godfrey's gun. They found many paths in the woods completely trodden down by animals. Here they used the Ostjak method of catching them: putting up a screen of branches across the track. Looking at these objects with suspicion, the animals invariably refused to try either to jump over or crawl through them, but went round at one end or the other. Here accordingly traps were fixed and many animals were taken.

Intense as the cold was Godfrey felt it even less than he had anticipated. The wide-spreading woods broke the force of the winds, and while they could sometimes see the tops of the trees swaying beneath its force they scarcely felt a breath below. Luka knew nothing of the Esquimaux fashion of making snow-huts, and said he had never heard of it among the Ostjaks or Samoyedes. At each of the halts, however, Godfrey piled the snow high over the low tent of reindeer-skin which he had got the women to make for him according to his own plan. It resembled a tent d'abri, or shelter tent, seven feet long and as much wide, was permanently closed at one end, and had flaps crossing each other at the entrance. Instead of depending entirely upon the two uprights and the ridge-pole between them, Godfrey when erecting it put eight or ten poles on each side, stretching from the ridge out to the side of the tent, so as to support the skin under the snow they piled over it.

The bottom was covered with a thick mat of furs, the sides were lined with them, and others were hung across the entrance, so that the cold was effectually kept out. A large fire was kept burning in front of the tent, and from this, from time to time, red embers were taken out and placed in a cooking-pot inside. At night two or three lamps, fed by oil melted down from the fat of the animals they killed, were kept alight, and in this way lying snugly in their sleeping-bags they felt perfectly warm and comfortable, although the temperature outside was from forty to fifty degrees below zero. The dogs slept outside, with the exception of the one of which Godfrey had made a special pet, it being allowed to share the tent with them. A high bank of snow was erected on each side of the entrance to the tent. This served further to break the force of the wind and to retain and reflect back the heat of the fire. The dogs therefore, being provided with a good supply of meat from the proceeds of the chase, did very well.

One afternoon the sky was very thick and overcast, and Luka said he thought that they were going to have snow.

"In that case, Luka," Godfrey said, "we will set to work to make things comfortable. If there is a heavy fall we might be almost buried here. Ordinarily it is sheltered, but if there is a wind, and I can see that it is blowing now, it might drift very deep in this hollow, and we might find ourselves completely snowed up. I think the tent is strong enough to stand any pressure, but it does not contain much air. We will cut down some strong poles and lay them side by side across the snow walls in front of the tent. The smoke will find its way out through them, and if a deep snow comes on it will save the dogs from being snowed up; besides, it will give us a lot of additional air, which we may want. Two or three hours will do it. The time won't be thrown away anyhow, for the branches we cut off and the poles themselves will do for firewood."

The snow-flakes began to fall just as they finished the work—the result being a sort of flat-roofed shelter with snow walls ten feet long and six feet high, in front of the tent. A large quantity of firewood was piled up at the entrance to the shelter.

"That is a capital idea, Luka," Godfrey said as they retired into the tent. "We can sit with the entrance of the tent open now if we like and get the benefit of the fire outside, for the air having to pass close by it on its way to us gets comparatively warm."

When they went out to build up the fire for the last time before lying down, snow was falling steadily, and was already deep in front of the entrance to the shelter. The dogs had been well fed and lay thickly clustered round the fire, evidently greatly contented with the unusual luxury of a roof over them. Godfrey crawled into the tent again, closed the flaps, hung up a skin before them, and getting into his sleeping-bag lay there comfortably smoking his pipe and talking to Luka.

"We are as snug here as if we were in a palace, Luka; but I should not like to be caught out in the woods to-night. Have you ever heard of any of the Ostjaks or Samoyedes being frozen to death?"

"Couldn't be frozen if they had a hatchet and matches with them," he replied. "Can always chop down branches and make a hut and a fire in the middle to keep it warm. Then snow comes and covers it up and keeps out the wind. Out on the plains a man might get frozen if stupid, but he ought never to be if he knew what to do. He should look for a hollow where the snow had drifted deep, then make a hole in the side of the drift and crawl in. He ought to be quite warm there if furs are good. But they do not often get lost; they never go very far from huts when snow in the sky. Directly it comes on they would make for home. Can always get along in snow-shoes."

"The Isvostchiks are often frozen in St. Petersburg in their sledges at night," Godfrey said.

"They can't build huts in a town," Luka remarked; "they can't find snow deep enough to get into; town not good in winter."

"Are there many wolves here, Luka? Do they often attack people?"

"No, there is plenty of game in the woods. In Russia the game now, so I hear, is scarce, so the wolves must take to eating men; but here there is plenty of game, and so they do not often attack people. I have heard of hunters going out and never coming back again. Then people say wolves eat them, but not often so. May be killed by elk, or hurt by a falling tree, or climb hills and fall down. I do not think it is often the wolves. Wolves great cowards."

"I am glad to hear it, Luka: I have heard them howl sometimes at night and wondered whether they would come this way."

"Not come here," Luka said decidedly, "we keep plenty of big fire. All beasts afraid of fire. Then we have got dogs and guns. Much easier for wolves to attack elk; but even that they seldom do unless it is wounded or has injured itself."

"Well, I think I will go off to sleep; my pipe is out and the hot tea has made me sleepy."

After sleeping for some hours, Godfrey awoke with a strange feeling of oppression. Outside he could hear the dogs whimpering.

"Wake up, Luka," he said, "it is very close in here. I fancy the snow must have drifted very deep and covered us up completely. Let us get up and see about it."

It was quite dark outside, except that the embers of the fire threw a dull red light on the snow. The shelter seemed but half its former dimensions. The snow had drifted in at its entrance and lay in a bank piled up to the roof.

"Bring your spear, Luka, and mine, and shove them up between these poles. We must make a few holes up through the snow if we can to let a little air in."

The spears were pushed up and then worked a little to and fro to try to enlarge the hole. They were eight feet long, but Godfrey did not feel at all sure that they penetrated through the cover of snow. However, when they had made a dozen of these holes there was a distinct change in the air.

"They have gone nearly through, if not quite, and anyhow they are near enough to the surface for the air to find its way out. Now we had better set to work at once to dig a passage out. That is one advantage of this shelter, there is a place to throw the snow back into."

Going down on their hands and knees they soon scraped the snow away until they reached the entrance to the shelter. Here the snow weighted by the pressure above was much denser and harder, and they could cut out blocks with their hatchets.

"Now," Godfrey said, "we must make a tunnel sloping upwards. It must be as steep as it can so that we are able to climb up, making steps to give us foothold. I will begin, for we only just want it wide enough for one. I will hand the blocks down to you as I cut them, and you pile them regularly along the sides here. As we fill the shelter up you must drive the dogs back into the tent. We shall want every inch of room for the snow before we get out."

For hours they worked steadily, taking it by turns to cut and to pile. The last four feet were much more difficult than the first, the snow, being lighter and less packed, falling in upon them as they dug. Once Luka was completely buried, and Godfrey had to haul him back by the legs. The atmosphere inside, however, improved as they got upwards, being able to penetrate between the particles of the light snow. It was six hours before they both struggled out, followed by the dogs in an impetuous rush. It took them another couple of hours to clear away and beat down the snow sufficiently to make an easy entrance to the shelter. A fire was lighted outside and a meal cooked, for the lamps were quite sufficient to keep the tent sufficiently warm, and they would have been well-nigh stifled with smoke had they attempted to light the fire in the shelter. The snow was still falling and drifting, and the sky showed no signs of change.

"The entrance will fill up again by to-morrow," Luka said, "and we shall have more trouble than ever to get out."

"We must provide against that, Luka; we must build a sort of roof over the entrance here, and then we shall only have to start from this point again. Let us set to work and chop down some poles at once."

After three hours' more work a cover was built over the entrance, and roofed with pine branches so as to prevent the snow from drifting in.

"Now, Luka, there is one more job, and unfortunately a long one, but we must do that. We must get the snow that we have packed in the shelter below out of the way, for if by any chance this passage fell through, we should have nowhere to pile the snow; besides, we may have another passage as deep as the present one to dig to-morrow, for the snow is drifting down in clouds. It has deepened a couple of feet since we began to make the roof over the entrance."

Luka, who was always ready to work, set to cheerfully, but the short twilight had faded into deep darkness before the work was completed.

"If we had had a couple of good shovels with us, Luka, we should have made short work of this," Godfrey said as they retired below into their tent. "We could do as much work in an hour as one can in five with these tools. It is heart-breaking to shovel out snow with a hatchet. I am as tired as a dog. This is harder work than the gold-mines at Kara by a long way."

"Yes," Luka said, "but there is no man with a gun."

"No, that makes a difference, Luka, this is free work and the other isn't; not that one can call it exactly free when we have no choice but to do it."

For another four days the snow continued to fall; but as the wind had dropped, and the snow no longer drifted, their work each morning was comparatively easy.

"I wish it would stop," Godfrey said, "for we begin to want food for the dogs; our stock of dried fish has been exhausted since we were shut up. There is half a deer hanging to a branch of that tree close to the tent, but it is eight or ten feet below the snow, and as we can't calculate the exact position now it would be a big job to try to get at it." There was, however, no change in the aspect of the weather on the following morning, and Luka announced that beyond the tea and a handful or two of flour there was nothing whatever for breakfast, while the dogs had fasted on the previous day.

"Well, Luka, there is nothing to do but to try and get at that venison. I have been thinking that it will be easiest to try from below; it is much quicker work chopping out the solid snow than it is trying to make a hole in that loose stuff at the surface. The tree was just about in a line with the front of the tent, wasn't it? and we hung the deer on a branch that stretched out nearly as far as the tent. I should say we hung it about half-way along that branch and not above twelve feet from the tent."

Luka agreed as to the position.

"Very well, then, as we know exactly the direction, and as the distance is but twelve feet, it ought not to take us very long to chop out a passage just big enough and high enough for one to crawl through. When we get near the place where we think it is, we must make the tunnel a good bit higher, for the bottom of the meat was quite five feet from the ground so that it should be well out of reach of the dogs. Now, will you go first or shall I?"

"I will begin," Luka said. "We must make the passage wide enough to push the snow past us as we get it down."

"Certainly we must, Luka. Make it pretty wide at the bottom, and make the top arched so as to stand the pressure from above."

It was easy enough work at first, but became more difficult every foot they advanced, as the one behind had to crawl backward each time with the snow that the one at work passed back to him. At last the tunnel was driven twelve feet long, and the last four feet it had been given an upward direction, by which means less snow had to be removed than would have been the case had the bottom remained level with the ground and the height been increased.

"We are a good twelve feet in now, Luka, and certainly high enough. Which way do you think we had better try?"

Luka replied by calling one of the dogs and taking it with him to the end of the tunnel. The animal at once began to snuff about eagerly, and then to scratch violently to the right.

"That will do," Luka said, pushing it back past him and taking its place. He had driven but a foot in the direction in which the dog was scratching when the hatchet struck something hard. It required some care to dig round the meat and make a hole large enough for Luka to stand up beside it and cut the cord by which it hung. The dogs yelped with joy when he dragged it back to the other end of the passage. The fire was made now in the passage under the roof they had made at the end of the first day's work, for outside the snow fell so fast that it damped the fire greatly, and as the smoke made its way out through the entrance it was no inconvenience to them below. A good-sized piece of raw meat was chopped off and given to each of the dogs. The ramrod was thrust through another large piece and held by Luka over the fire, and then Godfrey carried the rest of the joint outside and placed it in the fork of a tree.

"It smells good, Luka," he said as he returned to the fire; "I wish it would attract a bear."

Luka shook his head. "Bears are asleep, Godfrey; they are hunted in summer, and sometimes they may be found in the early part of the winter, but never when the snow is deep; they would die of hunger. There might be wolves, but we don't want them. Wolf skins fetch very little, and their flesh is only good for the dogs; we don't want wolves, but we must be on our guard. In such weather as this food is very scarce. They might come and attack us. Yesterday I heard howls once or twice. I think when we have done breakfast it will be better to take that meat down below."

"Why, they wouldn't smell it as much as this cooked meat, Luka."

"No, I was not thinking of that, but if they come we may want it."

"You mean they might besiege us, Luka?"

"Yes, shut us up here. Wolves very patient; wait a long time when they scent food."

"Well, we will have the dogs sleep up here for the future. They will act as sentries, and there is none too much air down there. That reminds me, I will cut a long pole or two, fasten them together, and try and drive them down through the snow to the roof of the shelter below."

Luka shook his head. "You might drive it down five or six feet, but you would never get it down to the roof, and if you did you could never pull it up again."

"I don't know, Luka. I once saw them driving down some bars in tough clay when they were making a railway cutting at home. I think we might do it in the same way."

Godfrey after breakfast cut a pole, chopping it off just below where two or three small branches had shot from it, leaving a bulge. This bulge he shaped and smoothed very carefully with his knife, so that it was in the form of a peg-top.

"There," he said. "You see it is thicker here than it is anywhere else, so that the hole it makes will be a little larger than the pole itself, and instead of the snow holding the pole all the way down it will touch it only on this shoulder."

This succeeded admirably. It was six feet long. They had cleared away the loose snow to a depth of eighteen inches, and both holding it were able to force the pole down as much more; then they hammered it with a billet of wood until only a foot showed; then they spliced another to it, and working it up and down jumped it in until they could again use the mallet, and at last struck on something solid, which could only be one of the beams forming the roof of the hut. Godfrey went below, and soon discovered the spot where the pole came down, and with his knife managed to clear away the snow round it. Then he went up and assisted Luka to withdraw the pole, which left a hole of about three inches in diameter.

"That is a capital chimney," he said. "Now we will throw a few fir branches over it, to prevent the dogs treading here and shutting it up. I think the air looks rather lighter, Luka, and that the storm is nearly over. There is a howl again. I am afraid that we are going to have trouble with the wolves. Is there anything we can do?"

Luka shook his head. "We might get up into trees," he said. "We should be safe there, but then we should lose the dogs."

"That would never do, Luka; we should have to haul the sledge back a hundred and fifty miles. No, I'll tell you what we will do: we will cut down some young trees and block up our tunnel with beams, leaving three or four inches between each to fire through or use our spears."

"That is a very good plan," Luka said. "We should be quite safe then."

It took them some hours' work to carry out the idea. The middle of the tunnel was closed by a row of pointed stakes, some four inches in diameter, driven deep into the snow and reaching up to the roof of the shelter. An opening of a foot wide was left in the middle, another stake being placed beside it in readiness to fill it up if required. The operation was completed by the light of the fire, as it was pitch dark by the time it was done. Then another meal was cooked and eaten, and the brands carried below, where, at the bottom of the descent, the fire was now kindled. The dogs had for some time been growling angrily in the upper passage, and the fire was no sooner alight below than they broke into a chorus of fierce barking.

"We had better bring them down here, Luka, and fill up the opening. I think the wolves must be gathering in numbers."

Going up again they sent the dogs down, firmly lashed two cross-bars to the others, and to these lashed the pole they had left in readiness, thus completing the grating across the tunnel. As they worked the smoke from the fire below curled up round them. A few months before Godfrey would have found it almost insupportable, but by this time he had, like the natives, become so accustomed to it that it affected him very little. Still he said to Luka: "You had better break off the hot ends of the sticks so as to have a red fire only for the present, the smoke makes my eyes water so that I can scarcely see. Now the sooner those fellows come to get their first lesson the better."

Kneeling by the grating, with his gun in his hand and his spear beside him, Godfrey gazed out, and could presently distinguish the outline of a number of moving figures.

"I can see their eyes at the entrance," he said. "Shall I give them a shot, or will you send an arrow into them?"

"You fire," Luka replied. "Bow makes no noise, gun will frighten them; besides, I have only twenty arrows and they would get broken. Better keep them till there is need."

Godfrey levelled his gun, which was charged with buck-shot, and fired both barrels. Terrific yells and howls followed, and the opening was clear in a moment, though Godfrey could see two or three dark figures on the snow. There was a sound of whimpering and snarling, and then of a fierce fight outside.

THE SLAUGHTERED WOLVES.

"They are killing and eating the wounded," Luka said; "when they have done that they will come again. Let them get close up next time."

In a few minutes the entrance to the tunnel was darkened again, and then cleared. The dead wolves had been pulled away. Another quarter of an hour and the animals reappeared. As all was silent they gradually approached. Godfrey could hear their panting, and presently heard a noise against the bars. A moment later there was a rush and an outburst of snarling growls, then he and Luka drove their spears again and again between the bars, yells of pain following each stroke. The animals in front were unable to retreat, and the others behind crowded in upon them, maddened with the smell of blood, and all trying to get first at their prey. They quarrelled and fought among themselves, while their cries and growls were answered by the furious barking of the dogs in the shelter below.

In two or three minutes Godfrey, who had reloaded his gun, fired both barrels into the mass, and at the flash and sound the wolves again fled. This time they did not venture to re-enter the passage. Occasionally one showed itself, and was instantly shot by Godfrey or Luka, who took turns on watch throughout the night. As soon as the dim light broke they removed the bar and issued out with the dogs. A dozen wolves lay dead outside the bars, seven were scattered round the entrance. Godfrey shot two more who were lurking under the trees, while Luka sent an arrow through another.

"There are plenty of them about still," Godfrey said. "Let us get three or four of the dead ones upon a branch out of their reach as food for the dogs, drag the rest away from the entrance to the tunnel, and bring the others up from below. That will give them, with the three we have shot now, enough for a big meal. Then I should think they would move off."

This was accordingly done, and they went below and cooked breakfast, while the dogs feasted on a dead wolf. Then they lay down for three hours' sleep. When they went up again the dead wolves had disappeared, only a few bones and the blood-marked snow showing where they had lain. Godfrey fired a couple of shots to scare away any that might be lingering in the neighbourhood, and then replacing the bars they went out hunting, and from that time heard no farther of the wolves.

They continued their hunting, shifting their camp occasionally until it was time to rejoin the Ostjaks, and then travelled east. They struck the river some thirty miles below the camp, crossed at once and travelled up the other side until they arrived at the huts. They were heartily welcomed by the natives, and remained there for three days to rest the dogs. They were very glad of getting a supply of fish again. These the Ostjaks had in abundance, as they kept their frozen piles for food when the keenness of the wind rendered the cold so bitter that they were forced to remain in their huts. At other times they fished by torch-light at holes that they kept broken in the ice, spearing the fish, which were attracted by the light. The Ostjaks were surprised at the large number of skins, some of them of the most valuable kind, that Godfrey had brought back, and were impatient for a fresh start. They were this time absent for only six weeks, returning at the beginning of May. The hunt was marked by no adventure. They did fairly well, but were not fortunate in securing any skins of the black fox and but few of the sable.

Upon their return the furs that had been taken during the two hunts with the Ostjaks were fairly divided, and Godfrey added his and Luka's shares to those they had themselves obtained. There were over fifty in all, including three black foxes, six sables, and ten martens, the rest being of inferior value. Then a list was made of the necessaries that Luka was to purchase at Turukhansk. These included ten pounds of brick tea, some copper nails if he could obtain them, a store of ammunition, some more fish-hooks, the largest kettle he could buy, a frying-pan, a few pounds of sugar, ten pounds of salt, some stout sheeting, thirty yards of duck canvas, three blocks, a coil or two of rope, needles and twine, a saw, a couple of chisels, and some other tools.

"You must make the best bargain you can for the skins, Luka; I have no idea how much they are worth."

The Ostjaks were, however, able to tell them the prices the traders pay for the skins of each animal, provided that they were fine specimens and in good condition. The black foxes were worth from fifty to a hundred roubles, the sables from thirty to fifty, the martens some ten roubles less; the other skins were worth from fifteen to thirty roubles.

Luka took the sledge and a reindeer and started alone, having gone over the list of things required again and again until Godfrey was convinced that he was perfect. He took his sleeping-bag but no tent. He calculated that he should be away five days, as it would take him two to drive to Turukhansk, and a day there to make his purchases.

On the fifth evening he returned, with everything he had been ordered to get, and a few other things that he thought would be useful. He had obtained in all six hundred and fifty roubles as the result of their six months' hunting, and of these had expended a hundred and seventy roubles.

"We are well set up for money now, Luka," Godfrey said, as he added the notes to those he before possessed. "I have still four hundred roubles out of what I received from the Buriat, so we have now nearly nine hundred, which will be enough to pay our way to England from any point we may land at."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BREAK-UP OF WINTER.

Spring was rapidly approaching now. Occasionally for a day or two southerly winds set in and rain fell in torrents, then again the Arctic currents prevailed, and everything was frozen as hard as before. Flocks of geese passed over, flying north, but returned again when the cold set in afresh. Small birds, too, in great numbers made their appearance, crowding on patches of ground that the sun and rain had cleared of snow, fluttering round the tents in flocks, picking up scraps of food that had been thrown out, and keeping the dogs in a state of perpetual excitement. The Ostjaks said that the break-up of the ice might come any day, or it might be delayed for another month; it depended less upon the weather here than on that higher up. It is not the sun or the rain that breaks up the ice, but the rise of the river from the snow melting a thousand miles higher up, and all over the country drained by the rivers running into the Yenesei.

The women were now making a canoe under Godfrey's instructions. He had often gone out in canoes on the Severn and on the sea when staying at watering-places there. The craft that had done them such good service before would not do for their present undertaking. They required a boat which should be fairly fast, sea-worthy, and yet light, for it might be necessary to carry it considerable distances. It was necessary that its dimensions should exceed those of an English canoe, for it must carry a considerable amount of food, although of course he meant to depend chiefly on the fishing-lines and gun. It was made five-and-twenty feet long, and three feet wide. The central compartment was thirteen feet long. This was covered in at the sides and ends, leaving an opening for them to sit and paddle, fifteen inches wide, and five feet long. Underneath the covered parts provisions, furs, cooking utensils, &c., could be stowed away on both sides, leaving room for them to lie down at full length in the centre.

The two end compartments were entirely covered in, but had openings over which a cover was lashed, and could, if necessary, be used for holding stores; but Godfrey did not intend to put anything here except temporarily, as it was important that the canoe should be as buoyant and light as possible. The frame of the boat was built of the tough and elastic wood of which the Ostjaks made their bows. It was very light, the ribs being bound to the longitudinal pieces by fine gut. It was built, as nearly as Godfrey could lay them out, on the lines of an English cruising canoe. The deck strips were similarly lashed, and when the framework was completed Godfrey tested its strength by dropping it three feet to the ground, rolling it over and over, and trying it in a variety of ways.

When fully satisfied with it the work of putting on the cover commenced. This was made of very soft and well-tanned reindeer hide, stretched as tightly as possible, and then rubbed with seal oil. The keel of the boat had been made very strong, as the rigidity of the whole craft depended upon this. It had been made flat, and the skins had been taken over it. When it was finished a false keel six inches in depth in the centre, tapering away to nothing at the ends, was fixed underneath. This keel was also made of tough wood, a little more than a quarter of an inch thick, but widening suddenly to over an inch where it touched the boat, in order that it might be securely fixed with screws to the keel inside.

The boat was provided with a light mast, which could be stepped or unstepped at pleasure, and there were two stays of twisted leather, one fastening to each side of the boat. An iron ring with a cord travelled up and down the mast, the halliard running through a small block, as Luka had been able to obtain a sheave at Turukhansk. The sail was a lug made of sheeting, oiled, and the boat carried beside a triangular sail of very much smaller dimensions and stouter cloth for heavy weather. She also carried a small mizzen mast and sail. In rough weather the cockpit could be completely covered with a light apron with openings where the rowers sat, with a sort of collar, which could be lashed tightly round their waists. The edges of this apron could be lashed down over the gunwale round the cockpit. When completed the canoe itself, with its mast and sails, weighed but sixty pounds, and could be carried with ease by one person on his shoulder.

The Ostjaks greatly admired the craft, which was entirely different from anything they had ever seen. The false keel puzzled them greatly, and Godfrey's explanations, even when aided by Luka, failed altogether in making them understand that it would have the effect of enabling the craft to sail near the wind without drifting to leeward. The additional draught of water was no inconvenience whatever in a craft designed for the sea, and it added materially to the strength of the canoe. On the 15th of May it was freezing hard. The natives going down to the water's edge in the morning reported a sudden rise of three feet in the river. It continued to rise all day, and by nightfall was fifteen feet above its former level.

In the evening the north wind dropped suddenly, and an hour later it sprang up from the south, and by midnight a torrent of rain was falling. Godfrey could hear sounds like the reports of cannon above the pattering of the rain on the skins, and knew that it must be the ice breaking. In the morning when he looked out the whole mass of ice seemed to be moving. Black cracks showed everywhere across the white surface. The river had during the night risen another twenty feet. By mid-day the scene was a wild one indeed. No longer was the surface smooth. Hurrying along at the rate of fifteen miles an hour the great masses of ice were dashed against each other by the force of the current.

Two miles lower down the river narrowed suddenly, and here a block was formed. Some of the pieces of ice were thrust down, others climbed over them, thrusting themselves one on the top of the other till a ridge thirty or forty feet high was formed from bank to bank. At times this gave way, and then the whole was whirled down the stream, while another ridge at once commenced to form. Godfrey walked down to the point and stood for hours looking at the scene. The great blocks of ice, six or eight feet thick, seemed almost to be endowed with vitality as they climbed one above the other, until thrust off the crest of the ridge by the pressure of those behind them. The din was prodigious, a crackling, rustling, roaring sound, with sharp explosions and deep muffled booming. The whole air seemed to quiver with sound, and the loudest shout would have been inaudible a yard or two away. Below the ridge the river, so long as the barrier stood, was comparatively clear, but from time to time great masses of ice that had been sunk by the pressure and swept along under the ridge came to the surface with a surge that lifted one end high out of the water, reminding Godfrey of the spring of some enormous fish; then the ice would come down with a mighty splash, and hasten away reeling and rocking on the rapid current. Entranced by this mighty conflict of the forces of nature, Godfrey stood there until seven or eight o'clock in the evening.

It would be light for three hours yet, for the sun now only sank for a short time below the horizon. The rain was still falling heavily when he returned to his hut. The river had risen another thirty feet since the evening before, and the height of the bank had decreased from a hundred feet to about thirty. For two more days it rained incessantly. The river had now risen to its high-water mark, ten feet below the bank. Godfrey asked the Ostjaks if there was no fear of its overflowing, but they told him that there was no cause for uneasiness, for that at its present point it overflowed at many places both above and below them, and extended over a vast tract of country, and that at every additional foot it would spread so widely that it would speedily begin to fall again. The ridge had now ceased to form, although the river was still packed with floating masses.

"In another two days," the Ostjaks' chief said, "the ice will be all gone except a few blocks. Much of the ice above is carried out by the floods and left to melt on the land as the water lowers, but even without that the river at its present rate would soon carry it all down."

This Godfrey could well imagine, for at the rate of fifteen miles an hour over three hundred and sixty miles of the river would have been emptying daily. At the end of another three days but few blocks of ice were visible, and Godfrey now began to make preparations for his start. First the canoe was to be tried. She was taken down and placed in the water, and the sides under the half-decks were filled in with frozen geese and fish from the pile, which was still but little affected by the thaw.

When she was thus brought down to nearly the weight she would have to carry, Godfrey and Luka took their places in her, dipped their paddles in the stream, shot out, and paddled about for some time in the still water behind the shelter of the point. Godfrey found to his satisfaction that she paddled easily, quite answering to his expectations. Then Luka, who had already practised the manœuvre on shore, stepped the masts, fastened the stays, and hoisted the sails. There was a light breeze from the south, and the boat ran rapidly along before it till it was again abreast of the village, then she was put about and made short tacks in the dead-water. Godfrey found that she stood stiffly up to the canvas, and, as far as he could see, made little or no leeway. Then he returned to the village. The Ostjaks, who seldom made use of sails, and then only when dead before the wind, were perfectly astounded alike at the rapidity with which the boat glided through the water and at the ease with which she came about, and were astonished beyond measure at seeing her make a zigzag progress in the teeth of the wind.

Early the next morning the rest of the preparations were completed. The tea, tobacco, cooking utensils, and other necessaries were stowed away under the deck astern of Godfrey, together with twenty pounds of fat. This had been carefully set aside for the purpose when animals were killed and cut up. It had been melted down in the chief's large pot and poured into a tin drinking-mug, in which four strands of unravelled cord had been placed to act as wicks. The tin was dipped in ice water, and in a few minutes the fat solidified, then the tin was dipped again, this time in hot water, and the short fat candle with its four wicks then came easily out, and the process was repeated. These candles weighed just about a pound each. Godfrey collected fat enough to make fifty, but being afraid of overburdening the canoe he decided that twenty must suffice, believing that he would be able to pick up drift-wood as they coasted along.

A store of pine-wood torches was lashed on the deck on each side of the mast forward of Luka, the fishing spears, hatchets, and other articles for trade stowed away, the furs and their winter garments laid thickly at the bottom of the boat. They took with them Jack, Godfrey's favourite dog, and then, bestowing all the rest of their possessions on the Ostjaks, they took a hearty farewell of them, stepped on board, and started. They had at the last moment decided to take their old boat also with them. This was fastened by a tow-rope behind the canoe. It was filled with frozen provisions, having been first lined with rough furs, others were laid closely over them. In this way Godfrey calculated that they would remain frozen for a long time. The rest of the store of flour and a stock of firewood were added.

As to the extra weight of towing the canoe it was immaterial, as until they reached the mouth of the river there would be no occasion for paddling, and beyond that the stock of provisions could be transferred to their own canoe to take the place of those used up on the way, and the craft could then be cast adrift. As there was a light breeze, however, the sail was hoisted, rather because it gave them steerage way than for any increase to their speed. As soon as the canoe shot out into the rougher water in the full force of the stream, Godfrey was still more delighted with the boat, the empty compartments fore and aft rendering her exceedingly buoyant. She had been built with somewhat higher sides than the canoes Godfrey had seen at home, and rose a good deal towards the ends; and she floated as lightly as a cork on the surface of the water. That afternoon they passed Turukhansk. Below this the river widened out. In the evening they lowered the sail, as they did not wish to run the risk of striking either the shore or a piece of ice that might have got delayed on its journey. All night they hurried on, lying snugly in the bottom of the boat with the apron closed overhead.

In the morning they found they were not far from the left bank, and that the river now was more than four miles wide. The sail was again hoisted and breakfast made, after which they got out their lines and hooks, baited, and dropped them into the water. During the course of the day they caught several fish, and picked up a considerable quantity of floating wood, which they stowed in the large canoe.

"I think, Luka," Godfrey said, "that instead of letting our old boat go we may as well keep it for a time. As long as there is wind, it makes no great difference to our speed, though, of course, it would be heavy if we were paddling. If we had bad weather we could land and turn it bottom upwards, and there would be a hut ready made for us. This canoe is all right for sleeping in when the water is smooth, but with its deep keel we could not sleep in it ashore."

Luka was, as usual, quite of Godfrey's opinion. After this they made the old boat their kitchen, for there was but little room in the canoe for cooking purposes; and it was, moreover, a relief to get into the roomy craft where they could move about as they pleased. As drift-wood was abundant they made their fires entirely of this, keeping their candles for the time when they might have to leave their store-boat behind them. On the third day the river widened out greatly. They could no longer see the right bank, and Godfrey concluded that they were now in the Gulf of Yenesei.

"The weather is going to change," Luka said the next morning; "the wind will soon be coming from the north; going to blow hard."

"In that case, Luka, the sooner we are ashore the better. The current now is nothing like so swift as it was. I don't think we are going past the land at more than three miles an hour, but that would be quite enough if the wind comes from the north to knock up a nasty sea in no time. Let us get our paddles out; there is not a breath of wind."

In half an hour they reached the shore, but had to coast along for some time before they found a place free of rocks.

"This will do, Luka, we are not a minute too soon; those puffs just now were so strong that we made no way against them. Now, then, jump out and get the canoe high and dry."

They had retained their long boots, and stepped out into water up to their knees. Then they lifted the canoe and carried it ashore.

"It is heavier than it was when we put it in," Luka said.

"I should think so. What with the furs and provisions, candles, and one thing and another, there must be a hundred and fifty pounds weight in her. There, put her down here, Luka, and let us get the other up. We must take the things out first. Quick, man, the wind is getting up fast. Isn't it cold; we shall want our fur jackets on directly." The firewood and provisions were carried up some distance above the water's edge, and then the boat was lifted and placed beside them. A thick sleet had now set in, and the wind was blowing with tremendous gusts.

"Now, then, look about, Luka, and see if you can find a sheltered nook. I will pile stones into the well of the canoe so as to anchor her safely. If she were to be rolled over and over her skin would soon be cut to pieces."

Before he had finished this Luka returned. "Good place here," he said. "Good shelter."

"We'll finish this job first, Luka. This is much more important than our getting wet."

As soon as it was done they went to the large canoe, and lifting it carried it away to the place Luka had found—a ridge of rock running back at a right angle from the shore, with a perpendicular face some twelve feet high. At one point there was a deep cleft in it, some eight feet wide at the mouth and narrowing gradually in.

"Capital, Luka; we shall be as snug as possible here. Now, turn her over and take her in."

The cleft was so deep that the stern of the boat was, when she was laid down bow foremost, fully fifteen feet inside the entrance.

"Now it may blow as much as it likes," Godfrey said, "it won't hurt us here. Now do you go and get some of the firewood. I will fetch some skins from the canoe, and the sails."

After getting out some provisions, the cooking utensils, and a couple of the candles, Godfrey returned to the boat. Then he made another journey for some more skins and the two sails. By this time the wind was blowing so fiercely that he could scarcely stagger along with his load. The sea was covered with white heads, and the waves were breaking noisily against the rocks. Luka had already brought up plenty of firewood, and had thrown a large skin over the furs containing the frozen fish, and piled stones on it to prevent its being blown away.

"Now, where will you put the fire?" he asked. "If you put it inside it would burn the boat, if you put it outside it would be no good to us."

"I quite see that, Luka. We must make ourselves comfortable, for this storm may last for days for anything I know. We must prop this end of the boat up so that we can sit upright under it with something to spare. We must pile up some stones a couple of feet high under each gunwale." In a quarter of an hour this was done. The sail was then laid over the boat, the ends being kept down by stones.

"That is snug," Godfrey said. "Now we will put the mizzen over forward so as to keep the wind out right along." There were four feet of head room at the entrance to the boat tent, and in front of this the fire was soon lit, one of the pine torches being cut up to start it with. The skins were laid upon the ground, and taking off their wet coats they put on fur jackets. "Now we can see about breakfast, Luka."

Luka had run down and filled the kettle, while Godfrey was fastening down the sail. This was placed on the fire, and as soon as it began to burn clear some of the fish they had caught the day before were laid on the glowing embers, together with two legs of a goose.

"The thing we are going to have most trouble about, Luka, is fresh water," Godfrey said as they ate their breakfast. Luka looked surprised. "When we once get beyond the stream of the Yenesei," he went on, "the water will be salt."

"Salt!" Luka repeated.

"Yes, too salt to make tea with. We shall be all right for a time, no doubt. What with the melting snow and the rains we have had, there are sure to be lots of little streams running into the sea; but when the land dries we shall be in a bad way."

Luka looked serious; this was altogether beyond his experience.

"Of course if we can get plenty of fresh fish we shall get on fairly, as we sha'n't require much to drink. We will look about the rivers when I can get at the map. I know there is a small one called the Gida running in just between the mouths of the Yenesei and Obi; and there is the Kara on farther, and then the Petchora. As far as I can remember that is all that were marked, but of course there may be lots of little streams that were not put down. There is one thing, if we find that we generally get wind, and can keep the big boat with us, we could make her carry water as well as fuel. She would hold any quantity, for half a dozen barrels would not sink her above an inch. We should certainly get out of the difficulty that way. It gave me quite a fright at first. I felt so sure that I had thought of everything, and there, I never for a moment thought about the sea being salt. How it is blowing outside! It is lucky indeed you have found such a snug corner, Luka, for if we had been out in the open we could only have piled stones in the boat to prevent it blowing away, and lain at full length underneath her, which would be all well enough for one night, but would be a frightful nuisance if it had to go on for three or four days."

So sheltered were they, indeed, that they scarce felt the wind that was howling above them, and were as comfortable beneath their boat as they had been in their hut by the river side.

"When it is as rough as this in the gulf, Luka, it will be tremendous out at sea."

Luka had never seen waves higher than those in some of the rapids of the upper river, and he was astonished at the white-headed waves and at the showers of spray they sent up as they struck the rocks.

"Are the waves ever much bigger than this?" he asked.

"Bigger! I should think so. Out in the open sea one of the waves would make a hundred of these."

"Then they must break the vessels to pieces, Godfrey?"

"No, they are built very stout and strong, and very big. They get broken to pieces if the sea drives them against rocks, and sometimes in very great storms get so beaten by the waves that the planks open and the water runs in and they sink."

"I should not like to go to sea if the waves were like that," Luka said thoughtfully. "This is terrible. Why, if we had not come ashore in time the boat would have sunk."

"She would have made a good fight for it, Luka. With the apron tied in round us we could stand a very heavy sea. So long as we keep her head to the waves the water might wash over us, but it could not get in; and even if it did fill the space where we sleep, the compartments at the ends are quite buoyant enough to keep her up."

"What would you do if you were out in what you call a great sea, Godfrey?"

"I should lash the mast and the sail and our paddles and the firewood together, fasten our mooring rope to them and throw them overboard, that would keep us head to sea—because these things would all float in the water, and the wind would not get hold of them. They call a contrivance like that a floating anchor. Then we would both lie down in the bottom, button the flaps over the holes in the cover, and lie there as snugly as possible. You see our weight would be down quite low in the boat then, and that would keep her steady. Oh, we should get on capitally if there were plenty of room for us to drift."

"How far have we to go now?"

"I can't exactly tell you. I wish I knew. From the long jagged cape, which is the northern point of land on the western side of the Gulf of Yenesei and forms the separation between it and the mouth of the Gulf of Obi, to Waigatz Straits, between the mainland and Waigatz Island, which lies south of the island called Nova Zembla, is about two hundred and fifty miles in a straight line, but I should think it is quite three times that if we have to follow all the ins and outs of the shore. From there to Archangel, if we go in to Archangel, is about three hundred and fifty miles more, cutting across everything. If we had a current with us, like the stream of the Yenesei, we should make very short work of it; but unfortunately there is nothing of that sort. Paddling steadily we might go three miles an hour—say a hundred miles in three days. If we had wind that would help us, of course we should go a great deal faster, because we should paddle and sail too."

"But if we don't go to the place you call Archangel, where should we go?"

"We should keep far north of it, Luka, and sailing in a straight line nearly due west, should strike the northern coast of Norway somewhere or other. I should say, from what I saw of it on the map, it would be five hundred miles from Waigatz. But that would be madness for us to attempt. We might get caught in terrible storms; we might get into fogs, and as we have no compass there we should lie, not knowing which way to go. No, we must stick to the land till we get to the mouth of the White Sea. With a favourable wind we should get across that in a day, and then go on coasting again till we get beyond the Russian frontier; then at the first village we come to we land, find out all about the distances, and arrange to get taken in reindeer sledges to some regular settlement."

"What sort of people are they there?" Luka asked.

"They are the same sort of people as the Samoyedes. I don't know that they are just the same. Anyhow, they speak the same sort of language. Well, you know the Northern Ostjaks we stayed with speak nearly the same as the Samoyedes. You could hardly get on with them at first, because their talk was so different to that of the Southern Ostjaks; but you got to speak it quite easily at last. So I have no doubt you will be able to make any natives you may meet, whether they are Samoyedes or anything else, understand you without difficulty.

"What is it, Jack? What are you whining about?" he asked the dog, who, having made a hearty meal, had been lying down between them while they were talking, but who now sat up, snuffing and whining uneasily.

"It may be either a fox or a bear," Luka said, making his way farther back into the hut, and returning with his bow and arrows, Godfrey's gun, and the two spears.

"I hope it is a bear," Godfrey said as he removed the charges of shot, and rammed down bullets in their place. "We don't want any more skins, unless it happens to be a black fox, which would be worth having, but a supply of bear meat would come in very handy."

The dog's whine presently changed into an angry growl.

"Bear sure enough. I expect he knows of this place, and has come here for shelter. He had much better have left it alone. It is lucky for us that the fire has burnt low; it would have scared him if it had been blazing. Lie down, Jack."

Lying perfectly still they presently heard a sharp snuffing noise, and a minute or two later a bear came round a corner of the rock. Astonished at the sight of the white object, the animal sat up on its haunches.

"Now!" Luka exclaimed, and discharged his arrow at the same moment that Godfrey had pulled his trigger. The arrow struck the bear in the throat, and such was the force with which it was sent that the head showed at the back of the neck. Godfrey's bullet struck it in the chest, and the bear at once rolled over. Thinking it was killed, he crawled from under the boat and ran forward, but the animal suddenly rose to its feet; running up alongside, he placed the muzzle close to its ear and pulled the other trigger.

LUKA FACES THE BEAR.

"It is dead now, Luka," he shouted as he bent over it. At the same moment he heard a cry of warning, and was simultaneously struck a heavy blow which stretched him on the ground beside the bear. It flashed through his mind that his assailant was the female bear. He had heard from the Ostjaks that the best plan, if attacked by an enraged bear, was to sham death, and he therefore lay without moving a muscle as he was struck down. He heard the twang of Luka's bow, and Jack's sharp barking close to his ear. Then with a deep angry growl the bear left him and rushed towards the tent. Godfrey at once sprang to his feet. He had not brought his spear with him as he crawled out, but he sprang to the fire and dragged out a brand. Luka had discharged another arrow, and Jack was harassing the bear by snapping at its hind-legs. In terror for the safety of the canoe rather than that of Luka, who could, he knew, well defend himself, Godfrey leapt forward and struck the bear across the nose with the brand. With a roar of fury it turned upon him, but as it did so it exposed its side to Luka, who discharged another arrow behind its shoulder. It rolled over and over, but again gained its feet. The pause, however, had given Luka time to emerge from under the boat with his spear in his hand, and running up he thrust it right through the body, and the bear fell over dead. Then he ran to Godfrey.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I am hurt a bit, Luka, for I felt a sharp pain as the beast knocked me over, but I do not think it can be much. It was very lucky that we put our fur jackets on again; if it hadn't been for that, I expect he would have regularly laid open my shoulder."

He took off his coat. The bear's claws had penetrated through the skin, and had scored three gashes on his shoulder. But these, Luka said, were of no great depth, and beyond making his arm stiff for paddling for a day or two would matter little.

They at once set about skinning the two bears, put the four hams carefully aside, cut off most of the meat, gave Jack another hearty meal, and then retired again to their shelter.

"My heart was in my mouth when I saw him rushing at the tent; if he had struck the boat, or thrown his weight upon it, it would have been a terrible business."

"I was afraid too," Luka said. "I was just going to shoot again when you struck him on the nose, and so gave me a chance of hitting him in a vital spot. If it hadn't been for your blow I should hardly have stopped him; he was so close that even if I wounded him mortally he would have come down on the boat."

"Well, it is fortunate it has ended so, Luka; it will be a lesson to me when I shoot a bear next to look out for its mate, and also not to leave my spear behind me, or to advance towards a bear I think dead until I have loaded my gun again."

For two days longer they had to remain in their shelter; but the third morning when they awoke the wind had died away, and the sun was shining brightly. As there was still some sea on, Godfrey determined to stay another day and explore the coast a little. Leaving Luka to look after the boats and goods in case any more bears might be in the neighbourhood, he started with Jack. He was amazed at the quantity of birds that he met with—thrushes, wagtails, warblers, chifchaffs, fieldfares, and red-poles rose at every step. The air quivered with the song of innumerable larks, which mingled with those of the willow-warblers; snipe in considerable numbers sprang up and darted off with a sharp cry from almost under his feet; plovers circled round and round; ducks of various kinds passed between the shore, and, as Godfrey supposed, inland swamps or lakes; martins in great numbers darted hither and thither hawking for insects. Occasionally birds, which he supposed to be grouse, rose with a loud whirr.

Short as was the time since the snow had cleared off the ground, spring had come in with marvellous rapidity. The grass was already well-nigh knee-deep, and flowers of various kinds were in full bloom. Where the ground was comparatively bare of grass, it was studded with the yellow blossoms of wild heart's-ease, and amongst some stunted alder-trees Godfrey found a dwarf rose already in bud, and wild onions and wild rhubarb in flower. Then he came upon a broad expanse of a shrub that looked to him like a rhododendron, with a flower with a strong aromatic scent. Several times he heard the call of a cuckoo. On a patch of sand there were some wild anemones in blossom. Godfrey pulled a bulb of wild onion, cut off a slice and tasted it. It was similar in flavour to the cultivated plant, but very sharp and acrid. However he set to work, and pulled up several dozen bulbs. They were small, not exceeding the size of a radish, but they would be very valuable, as one of them chopped fine would be sufficient to give a savour to a whole goose.

Turning to the right and coming down upon the shore he saw that the edge of the water was fringed with seagulls of various kinds picking up tiny fish as the waves broke in sandy coves, or scuttling into the water and making sudden dips and dives into it. Farther out flocks of black ducks were feeding, while two or three pairs of swans passed overhead going north. Presently he saw three or four native huts ahead; some reindeer were grazing near them, and three boats were hauled upon the shore. These were doubtless Samoyedes. As soon as he caught sight of them he turned. He had heard that the Samoyedes, although more friendly than the Tunguses with strangers, were much less to be depended upon than the Ostjaks, and as he had no faith in being able to explain what he was doing there with his comparatively limited command of the Ostjak language, he thought it better to return at once to Luka. He found when he reached the tent that the Tartar was beginning to feel anxious, for he had been four hours absent. As they had abundance of food, and had no occasion to trade with the natives at present, they decided not to pay a visit to them.

As soon as dinner had been cooked, they set to work to get everything in readiness for a start. The stores were taken out of the canoe, and she was carried down to within a few feet of the water. The tent was dismantled, and the boat also carried down. Then they devoted themselves for the rest of the afternoon to collecting more drift-wood, for the water was again falling, and the highest level it had reached was strewn with debris. As there was now no practical distinction between night and day they lay down and slept for four or five hours, then put the large canoe into the water, and placed the firewood in her, with the stock of flour, frozen meat, and the bears' flesh; then with the kettle and frying-pan they baled eight or ten buckets of water into her, for Godfrey did not know how soon the river would become brackish. They spread the bear-skin over all, then having carefully repacked the canoe, they put her also into the water, stepped the mast, took their places in her, hoisted the sail, and with the boat in tow started north again.

The wind was from the south, and with the assistance of the current they went along rapidly; but, nevertheless, the paddles were got to work, as, now that they were fairly on their way again, every mile gained was of importance. They kept about a mile from shore so as to take advantage of the current. In twenty minutes the native encampment was passed. They saw no one moving about there, and supposed that they must all be asleep, for the sun was low down on the horizon. Godfrey's watch was still going, but as he had had no opportunity of comparing it with any other timepiece for just a year, he could only consider it to be an approximate guide. Once a month or so he had made a point of setting it. This he did by sticking up a pole and measuring the shadow it cast, knowing that this would be at its shortest at twelve o'clock. By this means he calculated that he was never more than half an hour wrong.

The shore continued very flat, and once or twice they saw sand-banks stretching out a considerable distance. Sometimes both paddled, sometimes Godfrey steered only and Luka laid in his paddle. Three times in the course of the day the big canoe was pulled up, and Luka went on board and cooked a meal, the flat slab on which they lit their fire having been raised three or four inches above the bottom to keep it out of the water. Hitherto Godfrey had done all the steering when the boat was under sail, but he now instructed Luka. Little teaching was, indeed, needed, as the steering was done with the paddle, and Luka was accustomed to keeping the boat straight when paddling. He was, however, nervous with the sail, which was boomed straight out with a light spar Godfrey had cut for the purpose. However as the wind was dead aft there was no fear of this jibing so long as the boat's course was kept true; this was rendered all the more easy by the steady drag of the boat astern.

Twelve hours after starting Godfrey told Luka to lie down and sleep, as he intended that so long as they had favourable winds they should continue their voyage without stopping. There was no occasion for going ashore. The bears' flesh would last them as long as it kept good, and they had plenty of water on board for at least a fortnight. In a few minutes Luka was sound asleep. Jack lay on the deck in front of him, sometimes sleeping, sometimes waking up, and giving a sharp bark in reply to the cry of a sea-gull passing overhead, or a flock of black ducks skimming along close to the surface of the water within fifty yards of the boat.

CHAPTER XV.

COASTING.

The current was now losing its power, and Godfrey, dipping his hand into the water and then putting it to his lips, found that it was distinctly brackish, and congratulated himself upon having laid in a stock of water when he did. After Luka had slept for six hours, Godfrey roused him.

"Now, Luka, you must take my place and steer; move very carefully else we shall capsize her. That is it. Now, if there is any change you lean forward and touch me; I shall wake in a moment. If the sail should shift over to the other side all you have got to do is to shift this sheet to its fastening on that side. With this light wind jibing does not matter at all, but if the wind freshens wake me at once."

For a quarter of an hour Godfrey watched to see that Luka steered steadily, then he worked himself down in the cockpit and closed his eyes. It did not seem to him that he had been asleep long when Luka touched him.

"I would not have woke you," Luka said; "but the land seems going right away from us."

Godfrey sat up. "So it is, Luka! I should not be surprised if that is the extreme northern point. Of course it may be only a deep bay, but at any rate we must see." He looked at his watch, "Why, I have been asleep nearly seven hours. Now, Luka, you had better haul the boat alongside, and see about cooking. We forgot to try those onions yesterday. Cut one up small and put it in the pan with the meat. By the by, you had better tie a piece of cord to those four bears' hams, and let them tow overboard for two or three hours. The water must be quite salt now, and when you take them out we will rub a little fresh salt into them. They ought to keep well then."

As soon as Luka had got into the boat—Jack jumping in with him, as he always made a point of superintending the cooking operations—Godfrey took his place in the stern, jibed the sail, which had before been on the port quarter, over to starboard, brought her head somewhat to the north of west, and hauled in the sheet. Lying over till the water nearly touched her gunwale, the light little craft would have gone speedily along had it not been for the drag of the boat astern. This, however, towed lightly, for she was loaded with but a very small proportion of the weight she would carry. Godfrey judged, by the objects on the shore, that they could not be going along less than three miles an hour. In six hours the land trended away due south, and he knew that they had now reached the first of the two deep bays they would have to pass before reaching the northern extremity of the Cape. He kept on his course, and an hour later, with the exception of the low coast nearly astern, no land was to be seen. Luka, who was paddling steadily, looked round. He had such implicit confidence in his companion that he was quite sure the boat was keeping the right course, but he had a vague sense of uneasiness at seeing nothing but sea around him.

"How do you know which way to go?" he asked.

"I know that by keeping on the same way we were going past the last land, we shall strike the coast again on the other side of this bay. I think it is twenty or thirty miles across. I can tell the way by the wind in the first place, and in the second place by the position of the sun. You see it is over my right shoulder at present; there is the mark of my shadow on the side. I have got to keep it about there, making some allowance for the change in the position of the sun."

Luka understood this. "But suppose the wind was to change?" he said.

"I should know it by the position of the sun. You see at present it comes nearly due south, and is blowing almost straight towards the sun; but if it were very cloudy, or at night when I could not see the sun, I should not be able to tell. Then after holding on till I felt sure that we were well past the mouth of this bay, I should put her about on the other tack, and should be sure to come upon the land sooner or later. Anyhow, even in the darkest night we should know if the wind had gone round to the north, as it would be so much colder. Besides, there is never a great shift of wind like that without knowing it; the one wind is sure to drop, and there would be something like a dead calm before the other set in. Anyhow, with a bright sun and a steady wind like this we cannot go wrong, and you will see land ahead in seven or eight hours."

It was less than six hours when Godfrey saw the low land ahead, and they were presently coasting along it again with the wind free, for they were now running but little to the west of north. Thirty miles farther there was another break in the coast.

"That was a first-rate map I made the tracing from," Godfrey said; "the coast-line is most accurately marked. Now we have another run of about the same distance as the last, then there is about fifty miles almost due north, then we shall be round this other Cape."

They made the passage safely across, although it took them longer than the first, for the wind dropped lighter, and they had both to use their paddles.

"We have just done it in time, Luka, and that is all. If we had been half an hour later there would be nothing for it but to anchor. Look at that white cloud on the water; that is a fog; we are only just in time. I am heading for that cove. Paddle hard, Luka, or it will be on us now before we get there."

They had just entered the cove, which was forty or fifty feet wide, and ran as many yards into the land, when the fog rolled over them.

"It is like a wet blanket," Godfrey said; "it is thirty or forty degrees colder than it was a minute back. Paddle very slowly and carefully now, Luka, and dip your paddle deeply in. I want to go as far up this creek as I can; but I don't want to run ashore."

Very gently they paddled on until Godfrey felt the ground at a depth of about three feet. "That will do nicely," he said. "Now I will drop the anchor over."

The anchor was one of Ostjak manufacture. It consisted of a long, flat, narrow stone weighing about six pounds; to each of the flat sides were lashed two pieces of fir, about an inch and a half in diameter. They projected a few inches below the stone, and were cut off just below a branch of about an inch in diameter and eight or ten inches long. These branches, when growing, bent downwards and slanted at an angle closely resembling that of the fluke of an anchor with the upright. The whole, therefore, was an excellent imitation of an anchor with four flukes, two on each side, the stone serving as a weight. This was thrown out of the bow of the canoe, and a couple of fathoms of line let out. Then Godfrey hauled up the larger boat and fastened it alongside. They could just make out the outline of the shore about fifteen feet on either side of them.

"We must take to our fur jackets again, Luka; my teeth are chattering, and after working as hard as we have been doing for the last three or four hours it won't do to get a chill. I am as hungry as a hunter; we had breakfast at five o'clock by my watch, and it is three now."

Luka soon lit the fire in the boat. The provisions in the canoe had been finished two days before, as they had been obliged to throw overboard what they had not eaten owing to its having become unfit for use. The food, however, wrapped up in furs in the boat was still solidly frozen. They cut a couple of fish out of the mass and placed them in the frying-pan; stuck a wooden skewer through some pieces of bear's meat and held them in the flame, and hung the bear's hams, as they did each time they cooked, in the smoke of the fire.

"We must try to get some more fish next time we set sail, Luka. I am sure we passed through several shoals of fish by the swirling of the water."

It was thirty-six hours before the fog cleared off, swept away by a south-westerly wind. As they had nothing to do but to eat and sleep during this time, they got up their anchor and hoisted their sail the moment the fog cleared off, and in eighteen hours reached the sharp point of the Cape. Rounding this, Godfrey said:

"Now, Luka, we are at the mouth of the Gulf of Obi. It is nearly two hundred miles, according to this map, to the opposite side, and we daren't try to make that; besides, the wind has been getting more to the west and would be right in our teeth, for you see by this tracing the opposite point of land is a good bit to the south of west. There is nothing for it but for us to keep along this shore for something like a hundred and fifty miles. We can lay our course well with this wind. The gulf won't be more than eighty miles wide there, and we can strike across and coast down the opposite bank. It seems a long way round, but we shall do it as quickly as we should beating right across in the teeth of this wind. I doubt if we could do that at all with this craft behind us."

Fortunately the wind was not high, or they could not have ventured out, as a heavy swell would have set in from the other side of the gulf. They kept their course within half a mile of the shore.

"What are those black things on that low point?" Godfrey asked. "I can hear them barking. They must be tremendously big dogs, if they are dogs."

"They are seals," Luka said; "they go right up the rivers in summer, and the Samoyedes and Yuruks kill great numbers on the coast. They eat the flesh and sell the teeth for ivory."

"Well, we don't want them at present," Godfrey said; "but if we fall short of food we will see whether we can kill some. At present the great thing is to get on."

Night and day the canoe kept on her way. Except when Godfrey was asleep Luka did not steer, for he did not like the management of the sail, especially now that the boat at times heeled over a great deal with the beam wind. He himself took his sleep by fits and starts two or three hours at a time, and except when cooking, paddled away assiduously. Twice Godfrey was lucky enough to bring down some ducks when a flock swept past the boat within shot. They had, too, a supply of fresh fish, for Godfrey now always had two lines out towing astern, with some white geese feathers fastened to the hooks as bait. Ordinarily they caught nothing, but they passed through several large shoals of fish, and at these times they pulled them out as fast as they could haul in and let go the lines, sometimes bringing in three or four at a time, as there were six hooks on each line. These fish were herrings, and they formed a welcome change. Luka had never seen one before, for although they penetrate for some distance up the great rivers, they never ascend to the upper waters. Jack, too, benefited greatly, for of late he had been kept on somewhat short rations, as they had now been reduced to the four half-cured bear's hams and a comparatively small stock of frozen food.

On the fifth day after rounding the cape the wind, which had been gradually getting lighter, dropped altogether, and for the next two days both of them worked steadily with their paddles.

"We must have made a good two hundred miles," Godfrey said; "and we could safely venture to strike across in such quiet weather as this, but there is a river marked on the chart as coming in somewhere here, and I want to find it if I can. There is water enough for another week, but it begins to taste horribly of skin, and besides that it has a considerable mixture of ashes. I am sure we must be very close to it; indeed, according to my calculation of two hundred miles, we ought to have passed it already. Anyhow, we will keep on until we get there."

Godfrey was not far out, for late in the day they saw an opening of some fifty yards wide in the bank. They at once made for it, and entering it, paddled along as near the bank as they could go to avoid the current. Godfrey tasted the water from time to time, and after paddling for two hours pronounced it perfectly sweet.

"We will land here, Luka. I am sure we both want to stretch our limbs a bit and have a rest. Look about for a good place to land; the banks are too steep to be able to get the big canoe up, but we can carry the other—it is light enough now."

They presently found a place where a portion of the bank had fallen in and left a gap. Here they landed, moored the large canoe to the shore and carried the other up the bank. An exclamation of pleasure broke from Godfrey at the wide expanse of bright green dotted with flowers. Jack was exuberant in his delight, circling round and round like a wild thing, barking loudly and occasionally throwing himself down to roll. The two paddles were driven firmly into the ground, the sail unlaced from the yard, which was lashed to the paddles as a ridge-pole, over which the sail was thrown. The furs were taken out of the boat and spread in the tent.

"We will have a cup of tea, Luka, and then turn in for twelve hours' sleep. I am sure we deserve it."

After a long rest they woke thoroughly refreshed; then, while Luka was lighting a fire, Godfrey went down to the river, stripped, and had a short swim, the water being too cold to permit his stopping more than two or three minutes in it. When they had had breakfast he said:

"Now, Luka, do you go down to the boat, take the firewood out, and then sluice the boat thoroughly with water and get it perfectly clean. By the time you have done that I shall be back, and we will then lift her out of the water and turn her bottom upwards to dry thoroughly. Then we will melt down some of that bear fat we saved and give her a thorough rubbing with it. But we will leave that job until to-morrow; it will take four-and-twenty hours for her to dry. I am going out with my gun to see what I can shoot. The whole place seems full of birds, though they are mostly small ones; still I might come across something better. You had better keep Jack with you."

Godfrey's expedition was not a very successful one. He brought back four grouse and a dozen small birds, which he had killed with a single shot, firing into the thick of a flock that flew by overhead. The grouse were roasted for dinner, and Godfrey found to his satisfaction that Luka had baked a pile of cakes, this being the first time they had tasted bread for a fortnight, as it demanded more time and attention than they could spare to it in the boat. Luka told him that several flights of black duck had passed up the river while he had been at work at the boat, and volunteered to grease the boat next day if Godfrey would try to get a shot at them.

"It will be of no use my trying to shoot them on the river," Godfrey said, "as I should have no means of picking them up; and I can tell you I found the water too cold this morning to care about stripping and swimming out for them. I will have another try on the plain. I saw four or five deer to-day, but only the first passed within shot, and as I had not a bullet in the gun he got off without my firing at him. I will try to-morrow if I can't stalk one."

Accordingly the next day Godfrey set out. After an hour's walking he saw three deer. He worked round very cautiously so as to get a clump of bushes between him and them, and then crawled up to it and looked through. They were a hundred and fifty yards away, and he had no confidence in his gun at that distance. He stood for some time thinking, and then remembered he had read that on the American plains the deer were often decoyed into coming close up to the hunter by working upon their curiosity. He drew his ramrod out from his gun, put the cap he wore—which was the fur one with tails—on to the end of it, pushed this through the bushes, and began to wave it to and fro. The deer caught sight of it immediately, and stood staring at it for a minute or two, ready to bound away should the strange object seem to threaten danger. As nothing came of it, they began to move towards it slowly and with hesitation, until they gathered in a group at a distance of not more than fifty yards.

Godfrey, while waving the cap with one hand, was holding his gun in readiness with the other. Feeling sure that he could not miss the mark now, he gently lowered the cap and raised his gun to his shoulder. Slight as was the movement it startled the deer; but as they turned to fly he fired both barrels at the shoulder of the one nearest to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing it fall, while its companions dashed away over the plain. He ran up to the fallen animal and found that it was already dead, both bullets having struck it in the region of the heart. He proceeded to cut off the head and the lower part of the legs, opened and cleaned it, and was then able to lift it on to his shoulder. As he neared the tent Jack came tearing along to meet him with loud barks of welcome.

"Yes, I have got food for you for some time, Jack, though it does not seem to me that you do much to earn it."

Luka was at work greasing the boat. Godfrey called him up on to the bank.

"We must try and do something to preserve the meat, Luka."

"Shall we rub it with salt, Godfrey?"

"We can spare some salt, but not much. It would never do to be left without that. We can do well enough without bread, but we can't do without salt."

"Smoke it well," Luka said.

"We might try that, but I am afraid those hams are beginning to go."

"Not smoke enough, Godfrey."

"No, I suppose not."

"They must have plenty, lots of smoke."

"Well, there is plenty of wood to make smoke with."

"We must keep it close," Luka said. "We ought to smoke it for two days."

"We can keep it close enough by cutting some poles and making a circular tent with the sail. It will spoil its whiteness, but that is of no great consequence. You had better leave the boat for the present, Luka, and come with me and cut poles and boughs for the fire."

Taking hatchets they started out and presently cut eight poles ten feet long.

"Now which is the best wood for smoking it with?"

"Pine makes the best smoke next to oak."

"There are plenty of stunted pines about, and I should think some of this aromatic shrub with it would be good. I will make up two big bundles of that, and we will take them and the poles back first; then we will cut some pine boughs."

As all these were obtained within a few hundred yards of the camp, they had soon materials for their fire. The poles were then stuck in a circle and lashed together at the top, the sail taken down and wrapped round it. It was not large enough, but by adding the storm-sail and the hide of the deer the covering was made complete. Then a number of sticks were tied from pole to pole across it. The deer-flesh was then cut up into strips of about a foot long, three or four inches wide, and half an inch thick; and these were hung over the sticks until the whole of the deer was so disposed of. The three remaining bear's hams were also hung up, and a fire of the pine-wood was then with some difficulty lighted and some of the sweet-smelling shrub laid on it. Godfrey, who had undertaken this part of the business while Luka went back to the boat, crawled out from the tent almost blinded.

"By Jove!" he said as he closed the aperture, "if it is as bad as that now that it is only just lighted, the meat ought to be smoked as dry as a chip by to-morrow."

Godfrey had nothing to do now but to watch the smoke rising from the opening at the top of the tent, opening the entrance a little whenever it slackened, drawing the sticks together with the iron ramrod, and throwing on a fresh armful of the fuel. Having finished greasing the boat, Luka did the same to the canoe. They spent the next twenty-four hours in alternately sleeping, collecting drift-wood on the river-bank, and attending to the fire, which had to be watched carefully, and some dry splinters added from time to time to get the green wood to keep alight. Every hour or two a piece of meat was taken out and examined, and in thirty hours from the time of lighting the fire Luka pronounced that it was done. The strips had shrivelled to half their former thickness and were almost black in colour.

"They will give us plenty of work for our teeth, Luka," Godfrey said. "They look almost like shoe-leather, but perhaps they will be better than they look. I once tasted some smoked reindeer tongues—at least they called them reindeer tongues, but I do not suppose they were—and they were first-rate. Now there is nothing more to do; let us get ready for another start."

The sail was taken off and the poles chopped into five-feet lengths.

"We will lay them in the bottom of the boat, Luka, four longways and four crossways. As there are sixteen of them, that will make the top line five or six inches above the floor. Then we will lay our firewood on them. In that way it won't get wet with the water, and, what is quite as important, it won't dirty the water."

This was done. The flour and deer's flesh were stowed on similar platforms fore and aft of the firewood and covered with skins. Some twelve buckets of water were then baled in. What remained of the frozen provisions was inspected; but it was agreed that as it had already melted a good deal, it would not be eatable much longer, and as they had food enough to last for some time, it was of no use keeping it. It was therefore broken up, Jack was allowed to eat as much as he wanted, and the rest was left. When everything was packed the canoe was carried down and placed in the water, and they took their places; Jack jumped on board, and a fresh start was made.

As soon as they emerged from the small river, they struck out straight from the land. The wind was light and from the north, and both took their paddles. Their four days' rest had done them good, and the canoe, under the influence of sail and oar, went fast through the water.

"Twenty-four hours ought to take us across," Godfrey said. "The gulf looks from eighty to ninety miles across at the point where the river runs into it. We must head rather to the south, for there is sure to be a current out in the middle, as the Obi is a big river."

It was, however, thirty hours before they reached the opposite shore—Godfrey accounting for the difference on the supposition that the stream must have been a good deal stronger than they expected, and must have drifted them down a long way. They found, indeed, that even inshore they were passing the land at a rate of nearly two miles an hour.

"That is all the better, Luka, for with this north wind our sail will be no good to us. We may as well get it down at once and stow it. The shores are muddy, I see; so we shall not hurt the canoe if we should drift up against it. That is a comfort, for we can both go to sleep. I am sure, after thirty hours' paddling with only two or three long easies, we deserve a rest. First of all we must have a meal. One does not know whether to call it dinner or supper when there is no night and we sleep just when we are tired."

They had caught eight or ten fish as they came across, passing through a great shoal of herrings. In half an hour the kettle was boiling over the fire, the fish were hissing and crackling in the frying-pan over it, and a strip of deer's flesh, with the ramrod run through it, was frizzling. It was pronounced excellent. There was a slight aromatic bitterness that gave a zest and flavour to it, and the flesh inside was by no means so tough as Godfrey had expected to find it. When all three of the voyagers had satisfied their hunger, the brands were as usual extinguished, the embers thrown overboard; then returning to the canoe, they lay down, and were in a very few minutes fast asleep. They slept for six hours, and when they woke the land was no longer in sight.

"It is lucky there is no fog," Godfrey said, "and that we have the sun to act as a compass. We can't be many miles out. We won't make straight for shore, Luka; we will head about north-west, so as to edge in gradually. There must be a good deal of current here, and it will be helping us along."

In an hour the low line of coast was visible, and they then headed still more to the north.

"There must be a good three-mile-an-hour current here," Godfrey observed presently. "We are going along first-rate past the shore. It took us over five days to come up. At this rate we shall go down in two."

They paddled steadily for twelve hours, stopping once only to cook a meal. Then they went close inshore again, had supper, and slept. When they woke they found they were still within a mile of the shore, and the current was now taking them along no more than a mile an hour.

"The gulf must be wide here, Luka. I don't think we should gain anything by going out four or five miles farther, so we will keep about as we are. We ought to be at the point by the end of to-day's work. We were two hundred miles up. I expect we drifted down five-and-twenty miles in crossing, and we must have passed the land at a good five miles an hour yesterday; so that we ought not to be more than thirty or forty miles from the point, for this peninsula does not go as far north as the other by twenty or thirty miles."

After eight hours' paddling they found themselves at the mouth of a deep bay.

"That is all right," Godfrey said, examining his tracing. "That land on the farther side of the bay is the northern point of the gulf. We will paddle across there and anchor by the shore for to-night. To-morrow we shall have a long paddle, for it is seventy or eighty miles nearly due west to a sheltered bay that lies just this side of Cape Golovina. Once round that, we have nearly four hundred miles to go nearly due south into Kara Bay. This long tongue of land we are working round is called the Yamal Peninsula. Once fairly down into Kara Bay, we shall leave Siberia behind us, and the land will be Russia."

They struck across the bay, and landed under shelter of the cape. The land was higher here than any they had before met; and after their sleep Godfrey took his gun, accompanied by Jack, and ascended the hill.

"It is rum," he said to himself, as he gazed over the wide expanse of sea to the north, "that this should be one sheet of ice in the winter. I do not like the look of those clouds away to the north. I think we are going to have either a fog or a gale. We won't make a move till we see. This coast seems rocky, and it won't do to make along it unless we have settled weather."

He returned and told Luka, and then wandered away again, as he had seen that birds were very plentiful, and he returned in three hours to the boat with a dozen grouse, six ptarmigan, and a capercailzie. Godfrey was now a good shot, and the birds, never having been disturbed by the approach of man, were so tame that he had no difficulty whatever in making a bag. As he went down to the boat he congratulated himself that they had not made a start, for the sky was now overcast, and the wind was already blowing strongly.

"We will have some bread to-day, Luka. These birds deserve something to eat with them, and our flour is holding out well. We have not eaten above twenty pounds since we started. I wish we had some yeast or something to make it rise. By the by I have an idea. Don't mix that till I come back, Luka."

Here, as when he landed on the Yenesei, he had seen numbers of rough nests on the ground, the birds being so tame that they often did not fly off even when he passed quite close to them. He returned to a spot where he had seen these nests quite thick, and had no difficulty in collecting a large number of little eggs of a great variety of colour.

"I expect about two out of every three are bad," he said. "We shall have to break them singly to find out the good ones. Fancy making a cake of sparrows' eggs!"

Upon breaking them he found that not more than one in five was good. Still there were quite enough for the purpose. The frying-pan was used as a basin, and in this he made a sort of batter of eggs and flour. By the time he had done this four of the grouse were nearly roasted. He poured the batter into the empty kettle, melted some deer's fat in the pan, and then poured in the batter again. Then he washed out and filled the kettle, and placed it upon the fire.

"Now, by the time the water is boiling, Luka, the batter and the grouse will be cooked. That is what we call a Yorkshire pudding at home; it will go splendidly with the birds."

The pudding turned out really good, and they enjoyed the meal immensely, Jack having the bones of the four birds for his share, together with the solitary fish they had caught the day before. By the time they had finished they were glad to get up their tent, which they pitched with the entrance close to the fire, for even in the sheltered spot where they were fierce gusts of cold wind swept down upon them. The canvas of the tent was fastened down by heavy stones placed upon it, the furs brought in, and everything made snug. For three days the storm raged.

"It is a nuisance losing so much time," Godfrey said. "It was somewhere about the middle of June when we started, and there are only three months of open weather here. Every day is of importance. I sha'n't so much mind when we get to the mouth of the Petchora, for I heard from one of the Russians in the prison that canoes often go as far as that from Archangel to trade, so I shall feel when I get there that we are getting into civilized regions. It is about four hundred miles from Kara Bay, so that we have a good eight hundred miles to travel before we get there. We can certainly paddle forty miles a day by sticking to it steadily; but allowing for another stoppage of four days, and we can't allow less than that, that will be a fortnight. How long have we been now, Luka? There is nothing to count time from."

Luka shook his head.

"Well, it is somewhere above three weeks," Godfrey went on; "so that by the time we get to the mouth of the Petchora, it will be the last week in July. That will give us a couple of months; but I fancy we can't count much on the weather in September. Still, if the canoes go from Archangel to Petchora and back, we ought to be able to do it from Petchora, for the distance from there to Archangel is a good deal less than from the mouth of the Yenesei to the Petchora. There is one thing, if the weather gets very bad on the way, or we get laid up by bad weather for a long time on the way to Petchora, we can go up the river, I hear, to a place called Ust Zlyma, and from there go overland to Archangel. It is about two hundred or two hundred and fifty miles across, and we could walk that in ten days. I am quite sure that we should not be suspected of being anything but what we look; and at Archangel there is sure to be a British consul, and he would put us up to the best plan of getting out of the country. However, there will be plenty of time to see about that as we get on."

The wind fell on the morning of the fourth day, but it would be some hours before the sea would have gone down sufficiently for them to make a start. Godfrey again went out shooting, this time accompanied by Luka.

Godfrey was as fortunate as he had been before, shooting three capercailzie and nineteen grouse; while Luka brought down with his arrows four capercailzie, which he found sitting on stunted trees. On their way back to the boat they collected a great quantity of eggs, and came upon a rabbit warren.

"Do not shoot," Luka said, as Godfrey cocked his gun, "it will frighten them all into their holes. If you will go on with the dog, I will lie down here and will bring you as many rabbits as I can carry."

Two hours later he came down to the tent with two dozen rabbits he had shot. After cooking two of them, and giving one to Jack as his share, they packed up all their belongings and again took to the canoe. They used their paddles until round the cape, and then heading westward hoisted their sail, for what wind there was was still from the north, and the help it afforded was sufficient greatly to reduce the labour of paddling. They kept steadily on, one or other taking occasional snatches of sleep. But with this exception, and that of the time spent by Luka in cooking, they continued to paddle until, forty hours after starting, they reached Cape Golovina, passing between it and Beloc Island. They did not make the halt they had intended under shelter of the cape, for the weather was fine, and Godfrey wanted to take advantage of the north wind as long as it lasted. Once round the cape they headed nearly due south, and the wind freshening a little, drove them along merrily, and they were able to cease paddling, and to take a fair proportion of sleep alternately.

Luka was now getting more accustomed to the management of the sail, and no longer feared an occasional jibe, and night and day—if it could be called night when the sun never set—they continued their voyage along the coast of the Yamal Peninsula. At the end of the fourth day the wind freshened so much that the large sail was taken down and the leg-of-mutton sail substituted for it; but as the wind continued to rise, and the sea to get up fast, Godfrey began to look out for some spot into which to run for shelter. The coast was very indented and broken, and in two hours they passed the mouth of a deep bay into which the boat was at once directed, and was presently moored under the shelter of its northern bank.

"She is a splendid sea-boat," Godfrey said. "If it wasn't for the boat in tow I should not mind what weather I was out in her."

Their stay was of short duration, for in a few hours the wind sank again. "I don't think it is done yet," Godfrey said when they were beyond the shelter of the bay. "I fancy it will blow up again presently; still we may as well push on. I think it is rather more from the east than it was."

For the next twenty-four hours, however, there was no very marked change in the force of the wind, but it had now veered round to the north-east.

"We are getting well down now," Godfrey said. "We have been sailing for five days, and we have certainly been running a good three miles an hour from the time we rounded the cape. So we are three hundred and fifty miles down. I should say we must be entering Kara Bay."

"Very bad weather coming," Luka said looking back.

Godfrey turned round. A heavy black cloud was sweeping up with a misty line below it.

"By Jove, you are right; that is a big squall and no mistake. There is no bay to run to here, Luka, and we could not get there in time if there was. We must do as I talked about. Quick, lower the sail down, there is not a moment to lose. No, wait until I bring her up head to the wind. Now, then, down with it. Now unstep the mast, lash that and the boom, the other sail, and its spar together; that is the way." And with their joint efforts the work was accomplished in a couple of minutes. "Now, then, fasten this rope to your end, Luka; I will tie the other end to mine. That is right. It is long enough to make a good big angle. Now fasten the head-rope to the middle; be sure it is put in the middle, Luka. That is right. Now, launch it overboard."

The work was done as quickly as it is described, and in three minutes from the time the mast was lowered the canoe was riding to the floating anchor.

"Now then, Luka, on with the apron."

"Shall we sit up?"

"No; we will lie down, cover up the holes, and lash them carefully when we are in. It is going to be a drencher, and it is of no use our getting wet through to begin with. We could not do anything with the paddles."

They had scarcely made themselves snug when, with a roar, a deluge of rain fell on the deck and cover, and a moment later even this sound was partly deadened by the howl of the wind. Although their heads were close together, Godfrey felt that it would be utterly useless to make any remark. He felt under no uneasiness, for, with their weight well down and anchored head to sea, he felt sure that the light canoe would ride over anything like a cork bottle. The motion of the boat rapidly increased, but she herself rode lightly over the waves. As these increased the jerking of the boat behind at her rope became more and more violent, and the canoe quivered from end to end with the shocks.

"This will never do," Godfrey said to himself. "The boat will pull the stern out of her. It will be an awful loss to cut her adrift, but it can't be helped."

He unlashed the fastenings of the cover of the circular hole above him, reached his hand forward and got hold of Luka's paddle, and passed it with his own out through the hole. Then he sat up himself. Confident as he felt in the canoe, he was almost frightened at the wild aspect of the sea. The wind was literally howling, driving the rain before it with a force that stung Godfrey's neck as it struck it. He got out a strip of deer-skin lashing, of which there was a supply always close at hand under the deck, lashed the paddles together, and then, leaning aft, lashed them at the centre firmly to the tow-rope. Then with some difficulty he got out his knife and cut the rope close to its fastening; the paddles flew overboard, and the boat drifted rapidly astern, the drag of the paddles being, as Godfrey observed with satisfaction, sufficient to keep her head to wind. Then he wriggled himself down underneath the apron again and lashed down the cover of the hole.

CHAPTER XVI

A SAMOYEDE ENCAMPMENT.

The action of the canoe was altogether changed as soon as it was released from the strain of the boat behind. There was no more tugging and jarring, but she rose and fell on the waves almost imperceptibly.

"Well, Jack, old fellow, what do you think of it?" Godfrey said to the dog as it nestled up close to him. "Here we are now, out in a regular storm. It is lucky we have plenty of sea-room, Jack. I reckon it is seventy or eighty miles across to the other side of the gulf, and I don't suppose she can drag those spars through the water much more than a mile an hour. So we have plenty of time before us. We must both put away as much time in sleep as we can. We have lost almost all our provisions, old boy, and our water, which was of still more consequence. It is very lucky I always made a rule of having the kettle filled and put on board here after each meal and of keeping a dozen pounds of meat here. I thought we might be obliged to cast the boat adrift suddenly. Well, if we have luck, we may find it again. We shall both drift in the same line, and there is no reason why she shouldn't live through it. The stock of firewood has gone down, and she has not got above a couple of hundred pounds' weight in her altogether. I am afraid she will take enough salt water on board to spoil our supply of fresh, but I think we are drifting pretty straight for the Kara River. I calculated that it lay dead to leeward of us when the wind went to the north-west."

It was a considerable time before Godfrey went off to sleep owing to the rapid changes of the angle at which he was lying. Sometimes his head was two or three feet higher than his feet, and directly afterwards the position was exactly reversed. The rolling was but slight, and this he scarcely felt, being too tightly packed in along with the furs and the dog to move much. But at last the noise of the water and the roar of the wind lulled him to sleep. He woke once, and then went off again, and his watch told him that he had been altogether asleep twelve hours. When he next woke, he felt at once that the motion was slighter than it had been and that the wind had greatly abated.

"Are you asleep, Luka?" he shouted.

"I am not asleep now," Luka replied drowsily.

"The storm is pretty nearly over; I will get the cover off and look round, and then we will see if we can't boil some water and have some tea. We have never used any of those candles yet; this will be a good opportunity to try them."

Unlashing and removing the cover, Godfrey sat up and looked round. The gale had broken. Black clouds were hurrying past overhead, but there were patches of blue sky. The sea was still very heavy, but it was rarely that the canoe dipped her nose under a wave, so lightly did she rise and fall over them.

"In a few hours we shall have our sail up again, Luka," he said as the Tartar thrust his head up through his opening. It was but for a moment. He instantly dived under again and replaced the cover, appalled at the sea, which was infinitely rougher than anything he had ever before witnessed.

"It looks pretty bad, doesn't it?" Godfrey said, laughing, as he, too, resumed his position of shelter.

"It is terrible," Luka said.

"I expect it has been worse. At any rate, as you can see we have got through it without taking a drop of water on board, thanks to the floating anchor. Now I will pass the kettle forward to you. Be very careful with it, for it is all the water we have."

"All the water! Why, what has become of the boat?" Luka exclaimed.

"I had to cut her adrift half an hour after the squall struck us. Did not you hear me look out when I took your paddle?"

"I felt you take the paddle, but there was too much noise to hear anything, and I was too frightened to listen. I thought that surely we should go to the bottom. Why did you cut her loose?"

"Because she was tugging so hard. She would have pulled us to pieces, and it was better to let her go than to risk that. She will have drifted the same way we have done, only she will have gone three times as fast, for she was a good deal higher out of water, and the paddles which I fastened on to her head-rope won't have anything like the hold on the water that our spars have. We will keep in the same direction when we get our sails up, and if she has lived through it we shall very likely find her ashore somewhere along the coast. Now be sure you lash that kettle securely to the deck-beam, Luka. Put it as near one side as you can get it, then there will be room for you to lie alongside and watch it. But stop! Before you fasten it pour out half a mugful of water for Jack. He doesn't like tea, and there will be nothing but tea for him after we have once made it."

The candle was lighted and fixed under the kettle, but the four wicks gave out such an odour that Godfrey was glad to sit up again and remain outside, until a nudge from Luka told him that the tea was ready. They ate with it some slices of raw bear's ham. Luka offered to cook it, but Godfrey had had the candle put out the moment he got under the cover and would not hear of its being lighted again.

"It is not at all bad raw," he said. "They eat raw ham in Germany, and that last smoking it got was almost as good as cooking it. I expect the sea will have gone down in a few hours, and then we can have a regular meal; but if you were to light that smelly thing again now it would make me ill. Now, Jack, I will light my pipe and look out again, and you shall come out too for a breath of fresh air. I will hold you tight and see that you don't go over."

In twelve hours the sea had almost gone down. The floating anchor was hauled up and unlashed, the masts were stepped, the large sail hoisted, and, free from the dead weight that had hitherto checked her speed, the little craft sped along gaily before the gentle wind, Godfrey keeping her as near as possible dead before it, on the chance that they might catch sight of the boat.

"If we drifted a mile an hour and she drifted three," he said, "she would have gained four-and-twenty miles while we were asleep, and perhaps since then she has been gaining a mile an hour; so she is from thirty-five to forty miles ahead of us, and must be quite half-way across the gulf. Anyhow, we need not begin to look out yet; we are going about four knots an hour, I should think, and I don't suppose she is going more than one. In about ten hours we must begin to look about for her."

Before the end of that time the sea had gone quite down, and the wind had fallen so light that Godfrey thought they were scarce making three knots an hour. "I hope it won't fall altogether," he said, "for as we have no paddles it would be awkward for us."

"Two of the bottom boards will do for paddles."

"Yes, I know that, Luka, I am steering with one of them; but they would do very little good, for they are so thin that they would break off directly we put any strength on to them."

Godfrey occasionally stood up and looked round, but could see no signs of the boat, and indeed could hardly have done so unless he had passed within a couple of miles at most of her.

"The wind may have changed a little," he said, "though I don't think it has done so. Anyhow, I will head a little more to the south, so as to be sure that we shall strike the shore to the east both of the Kara River and the point she is likely to drift to."

Four hours later they made out land ahead of them, some six miles away as they guessed, and holding on reached it in two hours and a half's time. They stepped out as soon as they got into shallow water, carried the canoe ashore, drank a mug of cold tea and ate some raw meat, and then lay down for a long sleep. When they woke they collected some drift-wood and lighting a fire, cooked some meat.

"What are you going to do, Godfrey?" Luka asked. "Are you going to set out at once to look for the boat?"

"No, we had better wait for a few hours. She may not have drifted to the shore yet, though I do not think she can be far off; still it is as well to give her plenty of time. At any rate we can shoot some birds, so the time won't be lost."

Having made a fair bag and been absent from the canoe for five hours they returned, and after cutting up a capercailzie and grilling it over the fire, they got the boat into the water and started.

They had sailed about eight miles to the west when Luka exclaimed, "There is something there by the shore close to that point. It may be the boat; it may be a rock."

It was another quarter of an hour before Godfrey was able to assure himself that it was really the boat. "Thank God for that, Luka!" he exclaimed. "We have reason to thank Him for a great many things. I do so every hour, and I hope you do so too. But finding the boat again safe seems to me the greatest blessing we have had yet; I don't know what we should have done without it."

Another quarter of an hour brought them to the point. The boat lay just afloat, bumping on the sand as each little wave lifted and left her. They sprang out of the canoe into shallow water and threw out the anchor, and then waded to the boat. She had about four inches of water in her, but was entirely uninjured.

"Hurrah!" Godfrey shouted, "she is as good as ever. Now, Luka, get everything out of her as soon as you can, then we can turn her over and empty her, put the things in again, and be off at once. We have got no time to lose, for you must remember there is not much more than a quart of cold tea left in the kettle. I am sure the Kara River can't be very far off, but I can't say whether it is three miles or thirty."

In half an hour they were again afloat and working their paddles to assist the sail. Two hours later Luka said, "Huts on that point ahead of us."

"So there are," Godfrey said. "Six or eight of them and a lot of cattle."

"Reindeer!" Luka corrected. "Samoyede village."

"Why, there must be hundreds of them," Godfrey said in surprise.

"Yes, the Ostjaks told me in our old camp that many of the Samoyedes had five hundred, and some of them a thousand reindeer. They keep them just as we do cattle. Their wealth is counted by their reindeer. They make their clothes of its skin; its milk and flesh are their chief food. It draws their sledges, and when they want money they can sell some of them."

"Did you ask how much they can be sold for?"

"Yes, the Ostjaks said that they were worth here two or three roubles each."

"Then if there are many of these encampments along the shore, Luka, we need not trouble about food; and if anything happens to our boat we can make a couple of sledges, buy four reindeer, and start by land."

"Then we should have to wait until winter," Luka said.

"Yes, that would be a nuisance; but it would not be so very long to wait. I had no idea reindeer were so cheap. If I had I think instead of spending the winter hunting I would have bought some reindeer and started to drive. Still it would have been a terrible journey, and perhaps we have done better as it is. Well, shall we land? What do you think?"

"We don't want anything," Luka said. "The Samoyedes are generally friendly. They are not like the Tunguses and Yuraks. But you see there are but two of us, and we have hatchets and knives and other things they value. If we wanted anything I should say let us land, but as we don't it would be better to go on."

"You are right, Luka. I don't suppose there would be any risk of being robbed; still it is just as well not to run even the smallest chance of trouble when everything is going on so well."

On passing the point on which the encampment was situated they saw a wide opening. "The Kara!" Godfrey exclaimed joyously. "We will cross to the other side, and coast up on that shore till the water becomes fresh."

It required four hours' sailing and paddling before they got beyond the influence of the sea, then they landed, shot and hunted for a couple of days, took in a fresh supply of water, and started again.

"We have passed the line of the Ural Mountains now," Godfrey said. "The Kara rises in that range. We may almost consider ourselves in Russia."

One morning Luka woke Godfrey soon after he had lain down for his turn of sleep.

"Fog coming," he said.

Godfrey sat up and looked round. "That it is, Luka. We must head for shore directly." He seized his paddle, but the fog cloud had drifted rapidly down upon them, and before they were half-way to shore drifts of white cloud floated past them on the water, and five minutes later they were surrounded by a dense white wall, so thick that even the canoe towing behind was invisible. They ceased paddling.

"There is nothing to do but to wait," Godfrey said. "Get your fur coat on; it is bitterly cold. There is one comfort, what wind there is is towards the shore, and we shall drift that way."

"I can't feel any wind at all," Luka said.

"No, it is very slight; but there must have been some to bring this fog down from the north. We were not more than half a mile from the shore when it closed in upon us. If we only drift fifty yards an hour we shall be there in time. Let us have a cup of tea and then we will rig up the cover and turn in. We have a lot of sleep to make up for. There is one comfort, there is no chance of our being run down."

Godfrey saw by his watch when he woke that he had been asleep for four hours, and he sat up and looked round. The fog was as thick as before. The movement woke Luka, and he too sat up.

"Listen, Luka!" Godfrey exclaimed as he was about to speak. "I heard a bird chirp." The sound was repeated. "It is over there," Godfrey said. "Hurrah! we shall soon be ashore," and they seized their paddles.

After rowing for a minute or two they stopped and again listened. "There it is again," Godfrey said; "right ahead. Paddle gently, Luka; we sha'n't see the shore until we are on it, and we must not risk running head on to a rock." Presently something dark appeared just in front of the canoe.

"Hold water!" Godfrey exclaimed, and as they stopped her way the boat drifted quietly against a rock. They brought her broadside to it and stepped out.

"That is a comfort. The fog can last for a week now. Let us get the canoe ashore. We can moor the boat; the water is as smooth as glass, and there is no risk whatever of her damaging herself. Bring an armful of firewood ashore," he went on as they laid the canoe down gently on a flat rock. "I will look about for a place for the tent."

"Do not go far or you will lose yourself."

"I will take care of that. I won't go beyond speaking distance."

Godfrey soon found a patch of sand large enough for the tent, and this was soon erected and a fire lit. Jack as usual indulged in a wild scamper, but returned to Godfrey's whistle. "Don't go too far, Jack, or you will be losing your way too."

The fog did not clear off for another forty-eight hours, but when at the end of that time they looked out of their tent the sky was clear and the birds were singing gaily. The ground rose almost perpendicularly behind them to a height of from twenty to thirty feet. It was rocky, with some deep indentations.

"We will do some shooting, Luka; but as there may be some natives near we will hide the canoe. It is no use running any risks. We will stow the tent and get everything packed before we start, and then we shall be able to set out when we return."

The canoe was packed and carried some fifty yards along the shore, and then laid behind a great boulder that had fallen at the mouth of a cleft in the rock.

"Shall we pull up the boat?" Luka asked.

"No, I don't think that is worth while. There is nothing there worth stealing. The natives have got plenty of fish of their own, no doubt, and drift-wood too. Now let us be off."

The birds were scarcer than usual, and they wandered a long distance before they had made up anything like their usual bag.

"We have been eight hours out," Godfrey said, looking at his watch. "We may as well have a meal before we start back. It will take us two or three hours to get to the boat again. There will be no loss of time. It takes no longer cooking here than it would there, and we may as well carry the birds inside as out."

They were engaged in eating their meal when Jack suddenly gave an angry growl, and looking up they saw a party of a dozen Samoyedes with bows and arrows at a distance of fifty yards behind them. They sprang to their feet.

"Shall I shoot?" Luka asked.

"No, no, Luka, their intentions may be friendly. Besides, though we might kill three or four of them they would riddle us with arrows. We had best meet them as friends."

When the Samoyedes came up Luka gave them the ordinary salutation of friendship.

"Where come from?" the man who seemed to be the leader of the natives asked suspiciously.

"A long way from the east," Luka said, pointing in that direction.

"Who are you?"

"Ostjak," Luka said, knowing that the Samoyedes would have heard of that tribe, but would know nothing of his own.

"Who this?" the native asked, pointing to Godfrey.

"A friend of Ostjaks," Luka said, "come to hunt and shoot. I come with him."

"This Samoyede country," the native said; "not want Ostjaks here."

"We do no harm," Luka said. "We go west, far along, not want Samoyede country. Buy milk of Samoyedes. Good friends."

The Samoyedes talked together, and then the leader said "Come!" Without any appearance of hesitation Godfrey and Luka set off with the natives. Their language, though differing from that of the northern Ostjaks, was sufficiently alike for them to be able to understand each other.

"Do you think they mean to be friendly?" Godfrey asked in Russian.

"I don't know," Luka replied. "Perhaps not made up their minds yet."

"They are going down to the coast, that is a comfort, Luka; they are going to the west of our boats. I suppose they have an encampment there. I expect they heard my gun and have been following us at a distance until they saw us sit down."

"Must have seen them," Luka said.

"Only one may have been following us, and may have sent the others back to fetch up the rest from their tents. Well, it does not matter now they have got us. If they ask where we came from, as I expect they will, you had better tell them, Luka, we came in a boat. They will guess it without our telling, and will very likely look for it. It is better to make no concealment."

Two hours' walking brought them to a little valley, in the middle of which ran a small stream. They followed it down for half a mile, and then at a sudden turn they saw the sea in front of them, a cluster of ten Samoyede yourts and a herd of reindeer feeding on the slope behind them. A number of women and children and five or six old men came out to look at them as they approached.

"Sit down and let us talk," the leader said as they reached the village, and set the example by seating himself by a large fire. Godfrey and Luka at once did the same.

"The Ostjak and his friend have come very far," he said.

"A long distance," Luka replied. "We have travelled many days and are going to the Petchora."

"Have you reindeer? Did you walk all the way?"

"No, we have no reindeer; we came in a boat. You will find it along the shore."

"How far?"

"About an hour's walk I should say."

The Samoyede gave an order, and two of the men at once left the circle, got into a canoe, and paddled away.

"The strangers will stay here for a day or two. We have plenty of milk and fish."

Luka nodded. "We are in no hurry to go on. We have plenty of time to reach the Petchora before the winter sets in."

The Samoyede spoke to one of the women, and she set to work to clear out one of the tents. The chief got up and walked away, and the conference was evidently over. Three hours later they saw the canoe reappear at the mouth of the river with the boat towing behind it. The Samoyedes gathered on the shore to examine it, evidently surprised at its form and size, which differed entirely from their own, which were little craft capable of holding two at most. They tasted the water at the bottom of the boat and found it to be fresh. The stove for cooking spoke for itself, and as there was firewood, meat, flour, and some rough furs, there seemed all that was necessary for a journey. When they returned the chief asked Luka:

"Is that Ostjak canoe?"

"Yes; but it is built much larger than our canoes generally are, as it was for long journey."

Presently the women brought a large bowl of reindeer milk and some fried fish. As they were eating, four of the men who were standing behind suddenly threw themselves upon Godfrey and Luka, while the others closed in, and in a minute they were securely bound hand and foot. Godfrey made no struggle, for he felt that it would be useless and might result in his being shot or stabbed. The hatchets and knives were taken from their belts, and they were then carried to the tent and thrown down. Jack had fought fiercely, biting several of the natives, until he was struck with a spear in the shoulder by the chief, when he limped off uttering piercing yells.

"What do you think they mean to do with us, Luka?" Godfrey asked. "Will they hand us over to the Russians, do you think? Cowardly blackguards. I wish now we had fought at first."

"No, won't hand us to Russians; too far off. They don't think of that; they have taken us for the sake of our hatchets and knives and of your gun. Perhaps they will keep us to work for them. Perhaps they will cut our throats."

"It is not a pleasant look-out either way. Still, if they keep us, we are safe to get away before long; we must hope for the best. I wonder they haven't taken my ammunition and the other things."

"Not know about pockets," Luka said. "They would have taken them if they had."

Two or three hours later the Samoyedes came in and carefully examined the captives' lashings. Their hands were tied behind them with reindeer thongs, which were so tightly bound that they almost cut into the skin, and their feet were equally firmly lashed. In a few minutes the sound of talk ceased and the camp became quiet.

"I suppose it is their bedtime," Godfrey said. "If the fools do not set a guard over us we shall soon be free."

"How is that?" Luka asked.

"We will gnaw through one of the thongs, of course, there can be no difficulty about that; we will give them an hour to get to sleep and then we will set to work. What is that? Ah, Jack, is it you?" as the dog crept in between them with low whines. "Poor old chap, you did your best. I can't pat you now. Roll yourself to the door and look out, Luka."

"There are three of them sitting by a fire, but it will be darker presently and they will not see us"—for although it could scarcely be called night the sun now dipped for an hour or two below the horizon at midnight.

"Well, see or not see, we will go, Luka. If we are to be killed it shall be making a fight for it, and not having our throats cut like sheep. Now, I think you are more accustomed to chewing tough food than I am, so I will roll over on my face, and do you set to work and bite through the thong."

Luka's sharp teeth cut through the twisted hide in five minutes. It was a quarter of an hour more before Godfrey's hands recovered their usual feeling. As soon as they were efficient he unfastened the thongs round his companion's wrists and those round their feet.

"Now then, Luka, put your head out and see if you can see my gun."

"Gun sure to be in chief's tent," Luka said. He looked out. "Can't see gun. My bow and arrows are lying on ground by chief's tent."

"Very well, then, you had better crawl round and fetch them first, that will be something to begin a fight with anyhow. Here, I will slit open the tent behind with my knife, then you can crawl along past the others till you get to the chief's tent without those fellows at the fires seeing you. I am more afraid of those beastly dogs giving the alarm than of the men."

Godfrey cut a slit with his pocket-knife in the reindeer-skin covering, and then Luka crawled out. He lay flat on his stomach and dragged himself along, looking, as Godfrey thought, in the twilight, just like the seals he had seen crawling over the rocks. He passed three of the yourts and then turned off. In four or five minutes he reappeared with his bow and quiver of arrows and two native spears. He crawled back as carefully as he had gone.

"Give me the knife, Godfrey."

Godfrey handed it to him. "You are not going to kill anyone, Luka? If they attack us, of course we shall shoot them down in self-defence, but I would not have anyone killed in cold blood on any account."

The Tartar shook his head. "I am not going to kill anyone. I looked into the tent; the gun is leaning by the side of the chief. Women and children are lying all round. Couldn't get in. I will cut a slit in skin and take gun."

"It will be first-rate if you can manage that, Luka. We can make a good fight of it if you can manage to get the gun."

Godfrey was able to watch Luka's proceedings now. He stopped behind the fourth tent, placed his ear against the skin and listened intently. Then he inserted the blade in the skin two feet above the ground and very quietly, with a sawing motion, cut downwards. Then he began at the top again and made a horizontal cut four or five inches long, and then cut again down to the ground, removing the flap of skin. He peered into the tent, then he inserted his arm, a moment later he withdrew it with the gun, and then returned to Godfrey. The latter's first step was to charge the gun, for he had fired two shots while Luka was cooking the meal before they were surprised.

"Now, Luka, which do you think we had better do, make for the canoes or go off on foot?"

"We want big canoe," Luka said. "Can't well do without it. We had better go to that."

"I think so too," Godfrey said. "If we can once get on board we can beat them off. Of course there is more risk of being discovered that way, but I think we had better chance it."

They kept along for some distance on the side of the hill, and then, when about a hundred yards from the huts, crawled down to the river, crept back along the bank until they reached the boat, which was hauled up with the native canoes on shore.

"How are we to get it down, Luka?" Godfrey whispered. "If we stand up to carry it down those fellows by the fire, who are not twenty yards away, must see us. If we try to push it down we are safe to make a noise."

"Wait a moment, give me knife again," Luka said; and having obtained it he went along the line of canoes, cutting and slicing the skins from end to end. Then he returned to Godfrey.

"They can't follow now," he said. "Once on board we are safe."

"I have been thinking, Luka, our best plan will be to lie down one on each side, and to hoist her up as well as we can, and move her forward inch by inch."

Luka nodded, and they separated to carry out their plan, when Jack decided the matter by leaping on board, and sending the paddles with a rattle to the bottom of the boat.

"Jump up, Luka, and in with her."

As they sprang up there was a shout from the three natives by the fire, which was answered by the fierce barking of two or three score of dogs. After a moment's hesitation two of the natives rushed back to their yourts for their bows, while the third, who happened to have his close at hand, fitted an arrow and discharged it hastily. As they were running the boat down it missed its mark, and before he could shoot again the boat was in the water, and they had sprang on board. The native ran down to the edge with his bow bent, but Luka's bow twanged and the man fell back with an arrow through his body. They seized the paddles and drove the boat twenty yards into the stream, when the whole of the Samoyedes rushed down to the bank and began to discharge their arrows.

GODFREY AND LUKA ESCAPING FROM THE SAMOYEDES.

"Lie flat down, Luka," Godfrey said, setting the example, "the stream will take us."

There was a great jabber of voices on the bank.

"The chief is telling them to take to their canoes," Luka said laughing. "You will hear some shouts directly. The water won't begin to come in through the slits till they put their weight in the canoes."

Godfrey lifted his head for a moment and saw five or six of the natives on the bank abreast of him, standing in readiness to shoot. Quickly as he withdrew it again two arrows struck the boat within a few inches of the point where he had looked over.

"Luka," he said, "we must get a little further out; I am afraid the stream might set us in towards the bank. I will put my cap upon a piece of firewood and hoist it up. They will shoot at it, and the moment they do we must both spring up and give two or three strong strokes to take her further out."

Lying flat on his back at the bottom of the boat, Godfrey raised his cap; almost instantaneously there were three or four sharp taps on the side of the boat, and one arrow passed through it but an inch above his chest. In a moment he sat upright with a paddle in his hand, and a couple of sharp strokes sent the boat out into the centre of the current. At this moment they heard a series of yells and splashes. "Lucky for them," Luka laughed, "I made the slits so big. If they had got out farther they would all have been drowned: these people are not able to swim."

"No, I should think not," Godfrey said. "They don't look as if water had ever touched them from the day they were born. We are safe now, in ten minutes we shall be clear of the river, and have only got to paddle back and fetch our canoe."

"We may have to fight yet," Luka said. "Sure to follow us. The meat and flour is all gone. I expect they gave it to their dogs. That is what made them sleep so sound. They will know that we shall have to land somewhere to get food, and think they will have us then. They will mend canoes very quick, and some of them will come after us."

"It will be worse for them if they do," Godfrey said. "With my gun and your bow we could keep a score of canoes at a distance. Still, as you say, we may have trouble in getting our canoe. However, we must have that if we have to fight the whole tribe for it."

Godfrey looked up from time to time. He could do so safely now, for they were fifty yards from the bank, and there was time for him to withdraw his head before an arrow could reach him. The natives, however, had ceased to follow the boat, having doubtless run back when they heard their companions' cries. Godfrey thought it as well not to take to the paddles until they were well out of the river, lest one might have run on and hidden himself in a clump of bushes. As soon as they were out of the river they took up the paddles, and rowed straight out for a distance of a couple of miles. "How long will they be in patching up their canoes, Luka?"

"They will do it in an hour," Luka said. "The women will sew the slits together, and the men melt fat and smear over."

"Very well. Then we had better turn now and make for the place where the canoe is hid. They won't expect us to land so soon, and most of the men will be waiting to follow with the canoes. If only four or five follow us along the bank we can manage them easily enough. Fortunately, the canoe is light enough for one of us to carry it down to the water. While you are doing that I can keep them off. This boat paddles a lot heavier than the other, Luka."

Luka grunted in assent.

"Do you think you will know the place where you hid the canoe?" Godfrey asked presently.

"Let us go close in to see," Luka said. "We went ashore in fog. I don't know how it looks from the sea. The coast is all alike here. We must keep very close."

"How far along do you think it is, Luka?"

"It can't be much more than an hour to paddle," Luka replied. "The Samoyedes were away three hours to fetch the boat, and they were in no hurry and had to tow her back with their canoe."

For half an hour they kept the boat parallel with the land, and then inclined towards the shore. Presently Luka said, "There are six men walking along on bank."

"Well, there won't be six left to walk back," Godfrey replied grimly, "if they interfere with us. Now, Luka, it is nearly an hour since we turned; we will go in within a hundred yards of the shore. Those bows of theirs are not like yours, they won't carry more than forty or fifty yards. Now, I will just give those gentlemen a hint that they had better keep away from the edge of the cliff;" and so saying he laid down his paddle, and took up his gun and fired. He aimed high, as he wished to frighten and not hurt. The natives instantly disappeared from the edge. "Now, Luka, do you keep on paddling; I will watch the top of the bank, and if one of them shows his head I will fire. They won't suspect we have any idea of landing, and will probably keep a bit back. All we want is time to land and climb the bank. Keep inshore now, so that next time I fire I may be able to send the bullet pretty close. This gun is not much use at more than fifty yards' distance."

Only once did Godfrey see a head above the bank, and the instant he did so he fired.

"That will show them we are keeping a sharp look-out; I don't think they will come near for some little time now. I daresay they are puzzling themselves, first, why we are coming this way, and secondly, why we are keeping so close."

"There is the place where we had tent," Luka exclaimed suddenly. "Do you see the ashes of the fire?"

"That is it, sure enough. Now, run ashore and dash up the bank."

As soon as the canoe touched the shore they leapt out and ran up the bank. Not twenty yards away were the Samoyedes. Godfrey uttered a shout and raised his gun to his shoulder, and the natives with a yell ran off at full speed.

"Now, Luka, do you go and get the canoe in the water. Be careful; if you find it heavy for you with the stores on board, take them out; there is no occasion for hurry. Those fellows won't venture within range of my gun again; they will keep at a distance, and send up word to the tents that we have landed. So take your time over it; if you were to make a slip and damage the canoe it would be fatal to us."

The natives stopped at a distance of a quarter of a mile, and then, as Godfrey expected, one of them started at a run back towards the village. In ten minutes Godfrey heard a shout from below, and looking round saw the canoe safely by the side of the boat. He ran down and took his place in her, and they paddled out towing the boat behind them.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SEA FIGHT

As soon as they had reached a distance of two or three hundred yards from the shore Godfrey ceased paddling. "Now we can talk matters over, Luka. There is no occasion for hurry now. If these fellows in the canoes are disposed to fight we can't prevent them. They will certainly be out of the river before we could get back there; and even if we did pass first they could easily overtake us, for those light craft of theirs would go two feet to our one unless we had wind for our sail. So we may as well take things easy, and decidedly the first thing to do is to wash and dress Jack's wound, and then to get some tea and something to eat. We have had nothing since we were caught yesterday between twelve and one o'clock.

"What a lucky thing it was we hid the canoe, Luka!" he went on, as the Tartar pulled the boat up alongside the canoe and began to prepare to light a fire. "The chances are we should not have been able to get her off as well as the boat, and even if we had they would have taken out all our stores. The meat we might replace, but the loss of the tea and tobacco, and above all of the matches, would have been terrible; besides, they would have got our spare hatchets and knives, the fish-hooks and lines, and all our furs. We don't want the furs for warmth now, but it would make a deal of difference to our comfort if we had to sleep on hard boards. I do not know how to feel thankful enough that we hid the canoe away."

"We could not have gone without our things," Luka said. "We would have fought them all and killed them rather than lose our tea and tobacco."

Godfrey laughed at his companion's earnestness.

"I think that would have been paying too dearly for them, Luka. Still we should have missed them badly."

Just as they had finished their meal they saw some black spots ahead of them close inshore. "I should not be surprised if they have been picking up those fellows who followed us, Luka. No doubt the man who ran back would tell them they could do nothing against our arms. But I don't think they will dare attack us in our boat even if they have got all the men there. There were only twelve at first, not counting the old men who were in their camp when we were brought there. You shot one of them, so there are only eleven, even if they have got on board those who followed us. I have always heard that they are plucky little fellows, but I do not think they would be fools enough to attack us on the water. I feel sure they can't have any intention of doing so. I expect their original idea was to hover about us night and day, and then, when we went ashore to get food, to steal the boat and hunt us down. Now they find we have got a second boat they will see that it is a longer job than they expected, for they will guess that our real valuables are on board the boat we hid, and that we may have enough provisions here to last for some time."

The canoes, as they approached them, sheered off to a distance of a quarter of a mile, and then gathered together evidently in consultation. Then they turned and paddled rapidly back again, soon leaving the canoe and boat far behind.

"I wonder what they are up to now?" Godfrey said; "some mischief I have no doubt."

"Perhaps more yourts on farther? They might send on a man with fast reindeer a long way ahead, so that they might attack us with forty or fifty canoes."

"So they might, Luka. That would be very awkward, and we should be afraid of landing anywhere. They may pass the news on from camp to camp for any number of miles. Yes, that is a very serious business. The only thing I see for it is to make right out beyond sight of land, and then push on as fast as we can. Fortunately they don't know anything about our sail, and as they left us so fast just now they will reckon that we cannot make much more than two miles an hour; while, when we get the wind, we can go six if we help with the paddles. We may as well keep on as we are at present, as if determined to keep near the land till, at any rate, we are some distance past the mouth of the river. There is not likely to be another of their camps for some distance along, for, of course, they would always be near a river, as they must have water for themselves and their reindeer."

Paddling quietly, they continued on their course until they had passed the mouth of the river. When they had gone half a mile they saw nine canoes, each containing one man, come out from the river and follow them.

"They mean to stick to us," Godfrey said uneasily. "I'm afraid we are going to have a lot of trouble with them, Luka."

After paddling for another two hours they turned their heads seaward. The canoes did the same. In four hours more the land had almost disappeared, but the clump of canoes still maintained their position behind them.

"It is of no use going out any further, Luka. We are a long way out of sight of any one on shore now. Now let us head west again." An hour later one of the canoes left the group and paddled rapidly towards the land.

"That is what their game is," Godfrey said. "They have sent off to tell their friends ashore the course we are taking, and do what we will they will keep them informed of it. We may have a fleet of canoes out at any moment after us. Do you think we could leave them behind if we were to cast off the boat?"

Luka shook his head decidedly. "No; their canoes are very small; paddle quick, much quicker than we could."

"She is very fast, Luka."

"Yes; but too many things on board. If we threw over everything—food, and kettles, and dog, and furs—we might go as fast as they could; but even then I think they would beat us."

"Well, we won't try that anyhow, Luka; I would rather risk a fight than that. I don't see anything to do but to wait for the wind. It is not often calm like this long, and we have had it three or four days already. If we do get a wind we can certainly beat them by cutting loose the boat."

"Beat them anyhow," Luka said. "With wind and paddles they might keep up with us rowing very hard for a bit; but men tire, wind never tires. We sure to beat them at last. I think we shall have wind before very long."

"I hope so, Luka; and not too much of it. Well, as we can't get away from them by paddling, Luka, we may as well lower our lines. We have only got two or three days' provisions on board, and we may just as well lay in a stock while we can."

The hooks were baited with pieces of meat and lowered, and the paddles laid in. Scarcely were the lines out when Godfrey felt a fierce tug. "Hulloa!" he exclaimed, "I have got something bigger than usual." He hauled up, and gave a shout of satisfaction as he pulled a cod of fully ten pounds weight from the water. Five minutes later Luka caught one of equal size.

"That will do, Luka. I will throw mine into the boat, and we will keep yours on board. Now we have got among cod there is no fear of our not getting plenty of food. I know they catch enormous quantities off the northern coast of Norway, and it is evident that they come as far as these waters. It is some time since we tried this deep-sea fishing, which accounts for our not having caught any before."

"Are they good fish?" Luka asked. "I have never seen any like them."

"First-rate, Luka, especially if we had some oyster sauce to eat with them; as we haven't we must do without. They are capital, and they are not full of bones like the herrings. Now we will paddle on again. You leave that fish alone, Jack; you shall have some of it for supper."

"There is a dark line on the water over there," Luka said presently, "wind coming."

"That is a comfort, Luka."

Half an hour later the breeze came up to them. "Shall I get up the sail, Godfrey?"

Godfrey did not reply for a minute or two. "Yes, I think we may as well, Luka. Whether we go fast or slow these fellows will be able to send word on shore, and we may as well tire them a bit."

The sails were hoisted, Godfrey took the sheet and laid in his paddle. "The wind may freshen," he said, "and it would not do to fasten the sheet."

Luka, who seemed tireless, continued paddling, and the boats went through the water at a considerably faster pace than before. The effect on their pursuers was at once visible. Instead of paddling in a leisurely manner in a close group, the paddles could be seen to flash faster and faster.

"They have to row pretty hard to keep up with us now," Luka said, looking over his shoulder at them. "Up to now they felt comfortable, think everything right, and quite sure to catch us presently. Now they begin to see it is not so easy after all." They maintained their relative positions till the sun was near the horizon.

"It is ten o'clock, Luka, the sun will set in half an hour. You lay your paddle in, and get us a cup of tea and a bit of that dry meat. You had better boil the kettle over one of the candles. Then you lie down to sleep for four hours, after that I will take a turn. We are a deal better off than those fellows behind; they must keep on paddling all night, and as they only have one man in each boat there is no relief for them."

Luka did as he was ordered. After drinking his tea Godfrey lighted his pipe, and Luka lay down. Godfrey did not feel very sleepy, although he had not closed his eyes the night before; but they had had a long bout of sleep when compelled to keep their tent by the fog, and the excitement of the chase kept him up now. As it grew dusk he could see that the canoes drew closer, but he had no hope, in any case, of giving them the slip, for it was never perfectly dark. When, four hours later, he woke Luka the sky was brightening again.

"More wind come presently," the Tartar said, looking at the sky.

"I won't lie down just yet, Luka. It will be quite light in half an hour, and I want to have a good look towards the shore before I go to sleep."

Luka at once took the paddle. The wind was perceptibly freshening and the canoe was slipping fast through the water.

"Now, Luka," Godfrey said presently, "stand up and have a look round. Be careful how you do it; it would not do to capsize her now."

Two minutes later Luka exclaimed, "I see them; a whole lot of canoes, twenty or thirty, over there," and he pointed towards the shore but somewhat ahead of them.

"Sit down, Luka, and I will stand up and have a look. Yes, it is as much as they will do to cut us off. They did not calculate on our coming along so fast. I will luff up a little more, and we shall pass ahead of them however hard they paddle."

So saying he sat down, hauled in the sheet and headed nearer to the wind. "The fellows behind won't see them for some time," he said. "The canoes must be four miles away at least, and I don't suppose they could see each other more than half that distance, being so low in the water. If we had just a little more wind we should do it nicely."

Half an hour later the sheet was eased again, and the boat resumed her former course, as Godfrey saw that he should pass well ahead of the canoes coming out from the shore, and she moved faster with the wind abeam than she did close-hauled. Even while sitting down the canoes could be seen now. The natives were paddling their hardest, and the light craft danced over the surface of the water, which was now beginning to be ruffled by the breeze.

Half an hour later they joined the pursuers astern, and their yells could be heard although they were half a mile away. Godfrey counted them as he passed ahead of the fleet, and there were thirty-three canoes, each with two paddlers.

"The yourts must be thick along the coasts here, Luka; they must have gathered up all those canoes from at least half a dozen camps. Now I will lend you a hand."

He eased the sheet still further, so that the boat should heel over less, and fastened it in a loose knot, which could be slipped in an instant. Then he betook himself to his paddle.

"Those fellows behind have had a long row out against the wind, and have no doubt been working their hardest ever since they caught sight of our sail. A stern-chase is a long chase. I fancy the wind has freshened a little, but it is very little."

Occasionally he looked back over his shoulder.

"They are gaining slowly, Luka, but they are a good half mile behind us still, and it will take them two or three hours to pick that up. I am quite sure now that if we cut the boat adrift we can forge ahead, hand over hand, but that must be a last resource; it is almost a matter of life and death to be able to keep it with us. Still it is a satisfaction to know that if the worse comes to the worst we can get away from them."

Jack fully entered into the excitement of the chase, taking his seat on the covering near the stern, and barking defiance at their pursuers. Another hour's paddling and the space between the canoe and the natives was lessened by half.

"Now, Luka, I will send them a couple of bullets as a reminder that we have got weapons."

Laying in his paddle he took his gun, turned round and knelt looking astern, and fired both barrels at the fleet of canoes. He had not taken any particular aim, for the gun was of little use at a distance exceeding a hundred yards, and the motion of the canoe would have prevented anything like accuracy of shooting even with a rifle. He intended to frighten rather than to hurt, and gave the gun a considerable elevation. He saw, however, the men in one of the canoes cease paddling and drop behind the rest, and could make out that one of its occupants was doing something.

"I hit one of the canoes, Luka; I fancy they are trying to patch up the hole." He loaded the gun again, this time with his largest-sized shot, laid it down and resumed his paddle.

"I have put in buck-shot this time, Luka; I don't want to kill any of the poor beggars, and the shot will spread. I have put in double charges so as to give them a good dose as they come up. Small shot would be of no use, it would not get through those thick leather coats of theirs. Now, then, let us send her along."

The wind was certainly freshening, for it was not until another four or five miles had been traversed that the canoes had crept up to within a hundred yards' distance. At last Godfrey felt it was time to fire again, and waiting till the canoes were within about seventy yards' distance he fired both barrels, slightly shifting his aim between each shot. A series of yells arose from the canoes, four or five of them at once dropped behind.

"Paddle your hardest, Luka, while I load again, the beggars are coming up fast now."

The natives with yells of fury were sending their canoes through the foaming water, and were but fifty yards away when he again fired. This time five or six of the natives dropped their paddles, and two of the canoes were upset. A volley of arrows fell thickly round the boat, and one or two spears skimmed along the water close to it. Godfrey seized his paddle again.

"Head towards the shore, Luka," he said; and as the boat headed round he slackened the sheet and so brought the wind nearly dead aft. The boat was on an even keel now, and they could feel by the lessened strain on the paddles that her speed was considerably increased. In two or three minutes Godfrey looked round; the canoes were a hundred yards behind.

"We are gaining on them, Luka."

Another ten minutes and the interval was more than doubled.

"They are beginning to get tired," Godfrey said. "We are going a good deal faster, of course, now we have got the wind astern, but I do not think they are going as fast as they did, and I expect that last dose of buck-shot took the heart out of them a good deal. They had reckoned that we should be only able to fire once or twice before they came up, and that I should use bullets; but that handful of buck-shot evidently peppered a good many of them, and they know if they come up they will have four more barrels at least among them. I think the fighting is all over now."

Another hour and the canoes were a mile astern, and the land was now but four or five miles away. Godfrey thought that he could safely resume his course west, especially as the wind had distinctly freshened.

"I will lay in my paddle now, Luka. I must give all my attention to the sail. I expect they will give it up. They will think when they see me cease paddling that we know we can get away from them whenever we like."

Godfrey's surmise turned out correct; the natives did not attempt to follow, but held on their course straight for the land, paddling slowly now. They were in two divisions, five or six of the canoes being a good deal astern of the others, those with single rowers that had followed them so long having dropped behind to pick up the occupants of the canoes that had capsized. In several of the canoes in this division Godfrey could make out that only one man was paddling, and guessed that the other was more or less disabled by the shot.

"I don't think we shall be troubled any more by them," he said; "they will be a couple of hours before they reach land, by which time we shall be out of sight, and even reindeer will hardly take the news along the shore with all its deep indentations as quickly as we shall sail; besides, I fancy, they will come to the conclusion that the game is not worth the candle. Now lay in your paddle and let us have breakfast comfortably. It is just twelve o'clock."

Day after day they coasted along, passed through Waigatz Straits, between the island of that name and the mainland, then touched at four islands lying across the mouth of a large and deep bay, and then held on until they reached the mouth of the Petchora. The distance to this point from the Kara River was, Godfrey calculated, about three hundred and fifty miles. It took them fifteen days to cover that distance, as they stopped and spent a day shooting several times, for they were not fortunate along here in catching many fish as they went. On passing one of the islands Godfrey shot a seal, the flesh of which they found was by no means bad.

The weather continued very fine, but there was so little wind that during the whole distance they did not once put up their sail, but depended entirely upon their paddles. Upon one of their shooting expeditions Godfrey had the good luck to shoot a very fine black fox. They had had their meal and were stretched at full length by the fire. Luka had gone off to sleep. Godfrey was almost dozing when he heard a slight rustle in the grass, and opening his eyes saw a black fox standing at a distance of ten paces. It had evidently been attracted by the smell of some fish they had been frying, and stood with its nose in the air sniffing. Godfrey's gun was lying beside him, the left-hand barrel he always kept loaded with ball. His hands stole quietly to it, and as he grasped it he sat up and fired a snap shot at the fox as it turned and darted away. To his surprise as well as delight it rolled over.

"There is a piece of luck, Luka," he said, as the latter sprang to his feet bow in hand at the report. "That is a pure fluke, for I fired without raising the gun or taking the least aim."

Luka examined the fox. "It is one of the largest I ever saw," he said, "and the fur is in splendid condition."

"Its skin will come in handy, Luka. We must put in and replenish our stores at Droinik, at the mouth of the Petchora. We are running very short of tea and tobacco, we have been very extravagant lately, and we have had no flour since those scamps robbed us. It is very lucky Jack was so sound asleep. I often scold you, Jack, for being such a sleepy little beggar, but for once it is lucky, for if you had heard the fox coming he would have been off without my getting a shot at him."

Accordingly when they reached the mouth of the Petchora they landed three miles from Droinik, and Luka, taking the fox-skin and those of other smaller animals they had shot during their excursions, went into the town, and returned with four pounds of tea, as much tobacco, forty pounds of flour, two large tin kettles, each capable of holding a gallon of water, to carry an extra supply, and sixty silver roubles.

"I am heartily glad you are back, Luka, for I have been nearly eaten alive; the mosquitoes are awful—worse, I think, than at any place we have landed."

They had indeed entirely given up sleeping ashore since their forced stay on the Gulf of Obi, always pushing off two or three hundred yards from the shore and anchoring, for the mosquitoes were terrible; and upon their hunting expeditions they always smeared their faces, necks, and hands thickly over with bears' fat, but even with this they suffered severely. Nowhere, indeed, are mosquitoes so great a scourge as along the shores of the Arctic Sea.

They had already determined that they would at any rate make for the Kanin Peninsula, and would then be guided by the weather. If it still remained calm and quiet, they would sail across the entrance to the White Sea, and coast along until they reached the frontier of Norway, which would be about four hundred miles from the point of the Kanin Peninsula; if the weather showed signs of changing they would go up the White Sea to Archangel, which would be about the same distance.

Two days' paddling took them to the western mouth of the bay, the course from here lay due west to Kolgueff Island, nearly two hundred miles away. Godfrey did not hesitate to strike for it, as it was seventy or eighty miles saved, and there was no risk of missing it. Four long days' paddling took them there, and an equal time brought them to the western point of the Kanin Peninsula. The weather continued still and clear, the sea was as smooth as glass, and there were no signs of change; but September had begun, and every hour was of importance. They therefore determined now to abandon the boat, which made a considerable difference in their speed.

"Our candles will do for cooking. We have still forty pounds of dried flesh, and twenty of flour, and we may expect to get a few fish anyhow. Our three kettles will hold two gallons and a half of water, enough to last us seven or eight days. In three days at most we ought to strike the coast again, and we are sure to find some streams running down to the sea in a very short time, so we will risk it. We know that the two of us can send her along a good five miles an hour."

Accordingly the dried meat and flour were transferred to the canoe, the kettles were filled up with fresh water, and, after taking a long drink and letting Jack lap as much as he could take, they took their seats in the canoe again, threw off the tow-rope and started due west.

Accustomed as they now were to the work, and their muscles hardened by exercise, they sent the boat rapidly through the water.

"We mustn't exert ourselves too much, Luka," Godfrey said after the first quarter of an hour. "A long slow stroke is the one to send her along, and we can keep that up for any time. We must do our very best till we sight the coast again. After the way she behaved in that storm I am not afraid of wind, but I am horribly afraid of fog. If we had but a compass it would not matter to us one way or other; but if a fog came down when we are a good way off the land, there would be nothing to do but to lay in our paddles and wait, even if it lasted for a fortnight. Still, as long as there is no change of weather, there does not seem any reason why a fog should set in; but I shall not feel happy till we have got the land alongside of us."

For three days the paddles were kept going, each taking alternately six hours' sleep, and working together for twelve. Jack having nothing to do was the most uneasy of the party, sometimes lying down with his nose between his paws, sometimes getting up and giving a series of short impatient barks. Early on the second day they were fortunate in passing through a large shoal of herrings. Godfrey laid in his paddles and attended to the lines, and in half an hour had forty-five fish. After that they paid no further attention to fishing, being now amply supplied with food. The herrings, too, required less water than the dried meat. They fried them over the candles, and whenever their mouths were parched they chewed a piece of raw herring and found great relief from it. Jack was allowed two raw herrings a day; with that and a very small allowance of water he did very well. On the third day a light southerly wind sprang up, and they at once hoisted their sail and found that it eased their labour materially.

"I should think we ought to see the land to-night, Luka; three days at eighty miles a day is two hundred and forty miles. If we don't see it by evening, we must head a little more to the south. Of course we cannot depend very accurately on our steering, and we may have been going a trifle north of west all this time. But it is all right, for the coast we are making for keeps on trending north, and we are certain to hit it sooner or later."

At six o'clock they had a meal which Luka had been cooking, and then Godfrey said, "Now I will have my six hours' sleep." He stood up to change places and let Luka come astern to steer, when he exclaimed, "Look, is that a cloud ahead of us, or is it land?"

"Land!" Luka said after gazing at it attentively. "It is high land."

All idea of sleep was given up. Godfrey seized his paddle again, and in four hours they were within a mile of the land. It differed widely from the low coast they had so long been passing. Steep hills rose from the very edge of the shore, clad in many places with pine forests. They were not long before they found a suitable place to land, and soon had the canoe ashore and the tent erected, for the nights were already becoming unpleasantly cold. Luka went into the woods, and soon returned with some dried branches and a quantity of pine cones. Godfrey cut three sticks and made a tripod, from which the small kettle was suspended, and fish and meat were soon grilling over the fire. As soon as the kettle boiled a handful of tea was dropped into it, and it was taken off the fire. The three companions made an excellent meal, then Luka and Godfrey lighted their pipes and sat smoking by the fire for half an hour, and then lay down in the tent for a sound sleep.

When Godfrey woke he found that Luka was already up. He had stirred up the embers, put on fresh wood, filled the kettle and hung it over the fire, and had then evidently sauntered off into the wood. Godfrey, after the luxury of a rapid bathe, began to prepare breakfast, and by the time it was ready Luka came down with a dozen squirrels he had shot.

"Lots of them in the wood," he said; "if stop here three or four days, get lots of skins."

"I don't think they would be much good to us, Luka, though those you shot will be useful for food; but I have been obliged to stand with my head over the smoke of the fire to keep off these rascally mosquitoes, and my face was so swelled with their bites when I woke that I could hardly see out of my eyes till I bathed my face with cold water. The sooner we are off the better, if we don't want to be eaten alive."

Accordingly, as soon as the meal was finished they packed up and continued their voyage. After eight hours' paddling they came upon the mouth of a river.

"This must be the Seriberka," Godfrey said. "That is the only river marked in the map anywhere about here. We will paddle a mile or two up and fill our kettles. If it is that river, we shall come upon an island a few miles off the coast, in another twenty or thirty miles. See, Luka, how near we are getting to the end of the map. We are not very much more than a hundred miles from this line; that is the division between Russia and Norway. Once we land on the other side of that line we are free."

In seven or eight hours after leaving the river, Godfrey said, "There is Kildina Island, Luka. We will land over there instead of upon this shore. There may be some Laplanders about, and there is a Russian place called Kola about twenty miles up a river a little way past the island, and the natives might take us there if they came upon us, for they would not understand either Ostjak or the Samoyede dialect, and I don't suppose they would talk Russian. Anyhow, we may as well be on the safe side. After coming seven or eight thousand miles we won't run any risk of a failure in the last hundred. I don't much like the look of the sky away to the north. I fancy we are going to have a storm. Thank God it did not come two days earlier."

They landed on the island, hauled up the boat, then Godfrey took some time in finding a hollow where they could light a fire without risk of its being seen on the mainland, as, if there were Lapps there, they might cross in their canoes to see who had made it. They had no trouble in collecting plenty of drift-wood along the shore, and carefully choosing the driest, so as to avoid making a great smoke, they lit a fire and erected the tent to leeward of it, so that the smoke might blow through it, and so keep out their enemies the mosquitoes. Godfrey's prediction about the weather was speedily verified. The wind got up very rapidly, and in two hours was blowing a gale from the north.

"No fear of canoes coming across," Luka said.

"No fear at all. I don't suppose there was any real risk of it in any case, but I feel more nervous now than I have done all the time. At any rate the storm has made it perfectly safe. There will soon be a sea on that no canoe could face."

For three days the storm raged, and they were glad to resume their fur jackets. Jack lay coiled up in the furs in the tent, and nothing could persuade him to move except for breakfast and dinner. They waited twelve hours after the gale ceased to allow the sea to go down and then started again, hoisting their sail as there was enough wind to help them.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME AGAIN.

Godfrey felt in wild spirits as they hoisted their sail, for the end of the journey was close at hand, and, unless some altogether unforeseen misfortune were to befall them, they would have accomplished an undertaking that had been deemed almost impossible. They kept well out from land, increasing the distance as they sailed west until they were some ten miles out, for the map showed that some five-and-twenty miles from the point where they had camped a rocky peninsula jutted out. In three hours they could make out its outline, for the land was bold and high, and it took them another four hours before they were abreast of its eastern point, Cape Navalok. Then they coasted along the peninsula until they arrived at Cape Kekour, its western point. They had now been paddling nearly twelve hours, for Godfrey was too impatient to be content with the sail only. Just before they arrived at the cape, Luka, seeing a good place for landing, suggested a halt.

"No, no," Godfrey said, "we will not risk another landing. We have been marvellously fortunate up to now, and it would be folly to run even the slightest risk when we are so near the end of our journey. We will keep on. There are only thirty or forty more miles to go, and then we shall enter the Voranger Fiord. Then we shall be in Norway. Think of that, Luka! We can snap our fingers at the Russians, and tell everyone we meet that we have escaped from their prisons."

"Who shall we meet?" Luka asked.

"Ah, that is more than I can tell you. The sooner we meet some one the better. Norway is not like this country we have been passing along; it is all covered with great mountains and forests. I don't know anything about the coast, but I fancy it is tremendously rocky, and we should have a poor chance there if caught in another storm from the north. There are Laplanders, who are people just like the Samoyedes, and who have got reindeer; if we find any of them, as I hope we shall, we ought to be all right. We have got a hundred silver roubles, and if you show a man money and make signs you want to go somewhere, and don't much care where, he is pretty safe to take you. Now you take a sleep, Luka. I will steer. There is no occasion to paddle, the wind is taking us along nearly three miles an hour, and time is no particular object to us now. You get three hours, then I will take three, and then we will set to with the paddles again."

Eight hours later they could make out high land on the starboard bow, and knew that they were approaching the entrance to the fiord. They had not taken to their paddles again, for the wind had freshened, and they were going fast through the water. Luka cooked a meal, and as it was growing dark the land closed in on both sides to a distance of about eight miles.

An hour later they saw lights on their right hand. "Hurrah!" Godfrey exclaimed, "there is a village there. We won't land to-night. We might find it difficult to get a place to sleep in. One night longer on board won't do us any harm. Thank God we are fairly out of Russia at last, and shall land as free men in the morning."

They drew in towards the shore a mile or so above the lights, and paddled cautiously on until close to the land. There they dropped their anchor overboard, and, wearied out by their long row, were speedily sound asleep.

It was broad daylight when they woke. Godfrey, when he sat up, gave a loud cheer, which set Jack off barking wildly. "Look!" Godfrey shouted, "it is a town, and there are two steamboats lying there. Thank God, our troubles are all over. You had better get breakfast, Luka. It is of no use going ashore till people are awake."

Breakfast over the anchor was at once pulled up, and in a quarter of an hour they were alongside a quay. Their appearance was so similar to that of the Lapps that they themselves would have attracted but little notice, but the canoe was so different in its appearance to those used by these people that several persons stood on the little quay watching them as they came alongside. Their surprise at the boat was increased when Godfrey came up on to the quay. No Laplander or Finn of his height had ever been seen, and moreover, his face and hands were clean. They addressed him in a language that he did not understand. He replied first in English, then in Russian. Apparently they recognized the latter language, and one of them motioned to Godfrey to follow him.

"You wait here till I come back, Luka. I daresay the people are honest enough, but I don't want any of our furs or things stolen now that we have got to the end of our journey."

He then followed his conductor to a large house in the principal street, where he went in to a sort of office and spoke to a man sitting there. Then he went out, and in a minute returned with a gentleman.

"Do you speak English, sir?" Godfrey said.

"I speak it a little," the gentleman replied in surprise at hearing the language from one who looked like a Laplander.

"Do you speak Russian better?" Godfrey next asked.

"Yes," he replied in that language. "I know Russian well. And who are you?"

"I am an Englishman. I was resident in St. Petersburg when I was seized and condemned to exile in Siberia as a Nihilist, although I was perfectly innocent of the charge. I was taken to the mines of Kara in the east of Siberia, but made my escape, descended the Yenesei, and have coasted from there in a canoe."

The man looked at him incredulously.

"I am not surprised that you doubt my story," Godfrey said. "If you will come down with me to the wharf you will see the canoe in which I made the journey. I built it on the Yenesei. I have with me a Tartar who escaped with me and shared my fortunes."

The merchant put on his hat and walked down to the wharf.

"It is a strange craft," he said, "though I have seen some at Christiania similar in form but smaller, built of wood, that Englishmen have brought over. And is it possible that you have sailed from the mouth of the Yenesei in her?"

"There has been no great difficulty about it," Godfrey said. "We have kept near the coast, and have generally landed when bad weather came on. I have a gun, and with that and fishing there has been no difficulty about food. The journey has been a long one. It is seventeen months since I left Kara. I am provided with Russian money, sir, and shall be glad if you can tell me what is my best way of getting back to England."

"It is fortunate indeed that you did not arrive here two days later, for the last steamer will sail for Hamburg to-morrow. She touches at many ports on her way, but I don't know that you can do better than go to Hamburg, whence there is a steamer nearly every day to England. If you had been two days later you would have lost her, for the season is just over, and you would then have had to travel by land and river down to Tornea on the Gulf of Bothnia. But come up with me to my house; I am the agent here for the steamer. What are you going to do with your canoe?"

"I shall take her home with me just as she stands," Godfrey said.

"And the Tartar?"

"Yes, the Tartar and the dog."

"Very well. Stay here for ten minutes," he said to Luka, "I will send a man down to help you up with the canoe. We may as well put it in my yard," he went on as he started back with Godfrey. "The people are as honest as the day, but they might be pulling it about and examining it, and it is just as well to stow it away safe. Well, this is a wonderful escape of yours! During the twenty years I have been here, it has never happened before."

"I wonder it has not been done many times," Godfrey said. "Canoes go from Archangel to the Petchora, which is quite half-way to the mouth of the Obi, and there is no more difficulty between the Petchora and the Yenesei than there is on this side. The first thing to do now is to get some clothes."

"The first thing to do, I think, is to get some breakfast," the trader said.

"I have already had some breakfast on board," Godfrey said; "but I daresay I can eat another."

"I will warrant you can. Your breakfast was probably of the roughest."

"It was," Godfrey admitted. "I have not eaten a piece of real bread for more than a year. We haven't had much of anything made of flour since we started in the canoe in June; but one gets to do without bread very well."

"I have not asked you your name yet," the trader said.

"It is Godfrey Bullen. My father is head of a firm in London that does a good deal of trade with Russia. He was Living in St. Petersburg a good many years. That is how it is that I speak the language."

"I was wondering how it was that you spoke it so well. Now, then, let me introduce you to my wife and family. This is an English gentleman, wife," he said in his own language to a pleasant-looking lady. "He does not look like it, but when I tell you that he has made his escape from Siberia in a canoe it will account for it."

Godfrey found that his early meal had in no way abated his appetite. The breakfast was an excellent one, but he confined himself to bread and butter, and thought he had never tasted anything so good in his life. He learned that his host was an importer of goods of all kinds, and did the principal trade at Vadsö, besides supplying all the villages on the fiord.

"If you had been here a few days earlier," he said, "you would have found a countryman of yours, a Mr. Clarke, who almost monopolizes the whaling trade here. He owns three steamers, and has a great melting-down establishment. I myself send great quantities of cod to Hamburg by steamer. Most of the boats here work for me."

After breakfast Godfrey gave his host a sketch of his adventures.

"It has been a wonderful journey," his host said when he concluded. "I have heard of one or two cases where men have made their way to Archangel, and thence by land to our frontier, but I never heard of anyone attempting it by sea before. It was a perilous journey indeed, and required a knowledge of canoeing, which no Russian prisoner would be likely to have. Then you were certainly fortunate in having a companion with you who was at home with those Ostjaks. Still, as you brought him with you for that purpose, that was forethought rather than luck."

"Which is the first port at which the steamer will stop that I can send a telegram from?"

The merchant laughed. "If you go down-stairs into the office, and go through the door to your left hand, you will find yourself in a telegraph office."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. We have had the telegraph here for some little time."

Godfrey rushed down-stairs, and sent off a telegram as follows:—

"Have just arrived here. Made my escape from prison at Kara, in Siberia. Seventeen months on the way. Am in first-rate health. Start to-morrow by steamer to Hamburg. Hope all are well. Have plenty of money."

He directed it to his father's office, so that the news might be broken gradually to his mother. In the afternoon the answer came:—

"Thank God for His mercies. All well. I shall cross to Hamburg to meet you."

While Godfrey was being made much of by the merchant and his family, and, indeed, by many of their acquaintances, who, upon hearing the news, came in to see him and inquire into the wonderful voyage, Luka was no less a centre of attraction to the fishermen, and was so generously treated that long before it became dark he was obliged to be assisted, in a state of inebriation, to a pallet that had been prepared for him. Godfrey was annoyed when he heard it; "but," as his host said, "after being eighteen months, and, for aught I know, eighteen months before that, without touching liquor, very little would be likely to produce an effect upon him. I daresay it is his talking as much as the spirit that has turned his head; besides, you know, the lower class of Russians and Tartars are all fond of spirits."

"I shall not be angry with him in the morning," Godfrey said, "because I do think that it is pardonable; but I shall talk seriously to him about it, and tell him that if he is coming home to England with me he must give up spirits. He has done without them so long that it can't be any hardship."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I have not the most remote idea," Godfrey laughed. "If he likes to return to his people I daresay my father would be able, through the Russian embassy, to get a pardon for him and permission to go back; but I don't think he has any notion of that. He lost his parents when he was a child, and I never heard him express the slightest desire to go back again. He has attached himself to me heart and soul, and I think looks upon it as a settled thing that he will be always with me. I don't know in what capacity, still, I suppose, something will be found for him."

The steamer was to start at nine o'clock on the following morning, and by that hour Godfrey, Luka, and Jack were on board and the canoe carefully stowed on deck. Both had obtained a complete fit-out from the merchant's stores, and although Godfrey's garments would scarcely have passed muster in London, they did very well for the voyage. Luka was greatly amused at his own appearance in European garb, though Godfrey thought he looked much better in his Ostjak costume.

"We will rig him out fresh when I get him home," he said to the merchant. "I don't know what he looks like now in that greatcoat and billycock hat."

The merchant stayed on board until the last moment. As soon as he got into his boat the paddles began to revolve and the steamer started on her way. She was ten days on her voyage, ascending many of the fiords, landing or taking on board cargo or passengers.

Godfrey enjoyed the voyage greatly. The scenery was magnificent, and eagerly as he desired to be at home, he was almost sorry when the end approached. It had been so strange to have nothing to do but to sit and watch the shore, to eat and to sleep. Luka had been very penitent over his little excess at Vadsö, and had solemnly promised Godfrey to abstain from spirits in future; and he, too, enjoyed the voyage in his way, eating enormously, and drinking vast quantities of tea and coffee. Godfrey had sent off one or two telegrams from the ports at which he touched, so that his father might be able to judge when the ship was likely to arrive; and when one morning early the vessel steamed up to the wharf at Hamburg Godfrey saw him waiting there. It was a joyful meeting indeed, and it was not until they were alone together at an hotel, Luka being left down-stairs in charge of the canoe, that they were enabled to begin to talk.

"Did you know what had become of me, father?"

"Yes, my boy. Petrovytch telegraphed to me that you had been missing three days, and I at once went over to St. Petersburg. He thought that you had fallen into bad hands, and had been murdered and thrown into the Neva; but remembering that you had got into that silly scrape before with the police, I thought it possible that, coming, as your absence did, directly after the affair at the Winter Palace, suspicion had fallen on you again. I went to the head of the police; he declined to give me any information. Then I set the embassy at work, and they found out that you had been arrested with some desperate Nihilists. At last they obtained a sight of the records of the court-martial before which you had been tried, and told me that the case was so strong against you that nothing could be done; indeed, had it not been for your youth, and the fact that you were a British subject, you would certainly have been executed. I tried everything, but I found it absolutely useless. The embassy recommended me to let the matter drop for the present, and in time, perhaps, when the Nihilist scare passed off, it might be possible to interest some minister or other in your favour and obtain a reversion of your sentence. Then a few months later came the assassination of the Czar, and, of course, that rendered it more hopeless than ever, and all we could hope for was, that in the course of years we might again move in the matter. Of course it has been a terrible business for us all. But we won't talk about that now. Thank God it is over, and that you have returned to us. But what madness, Godfrey, to mix yourself up with these people!"

"Indeed, father, I was perfectly innocent, though I cannot blame the court-martial for finding me guilty." And he then gave his father the details of his connection with the two Nihilists Akim Soushiloff and Petroff Stepanoff, and of the circumstances of his arrest in their room.

"I am very glad to hear that, Godfrey. Not that it makes any actual matter now, but because, after the warning I had given you to avoid the society of any people holding extreme opinions, it seemed to me you must have showed an incredible amount of wilfulness and folly in getting yourself mixed up with these desperate conspirators. I am heartily glad to find that I was mistaken, and that, except as regards that foolish business at the theatre, you have really not been to blame in the matter, and have been altogether a victim of circumstances. Now, tell me how you got away. And first, who is that queer-looking little fellow with your canoe?"

"He is my comrade and friend, father. He escaped from prison with me, and is devoted to me; but for him I should have had no chance whatever of making my way through all the difficulties of the journey." And he then gave his father an outline of their adventures from the time of their leaving Kara.

When he had finished, Mr. Bullen went down-stairs and saw Luka, and shook hands with him heartily, telling him in Russian that he had heard from Godfrey how much he owed to him, and assuring him that he need have no fear for the future.

Two days later the party arrived at home. There is no occasion to say anything as to the joy of that meeting. The three years of hardship and roughing it had converted the careless school-boy into a powerful young fellow. His spirits were as high and he was as full of fun as of old; but the experience he had gone through had strengthened his character, had given him self-reliance and confidence, and had, as his father and mother soon saw, had a very beneficial effect in forming his character.

Two or three days after his arrival Godfrey wrote to Mikail. It was a very guarded letter, because he knew that it would be opened by the prison authorities, but it thanked him for the kindness he had shown to him while in prison, and expressed a hope that, now that he would have obtained partial freedom, and would be united to his wife, he would succeed and prosper. He inclosed a five-hundred-rouble note from his father as a present in return for the kindness he had shown him, and he also inclosed a directed envelope, so that he could acknowledge the receipt of the letter.

An answer written by the priest of the village—for Mikail was unable to write—came at the end of five months. It was expressed in the most grateful terms. He had been released four months after Godfrey left, and the governor had, as a reward for his good conduct, allowed him to work for a farmer instead of in the mines. He said that he was perfectly happy, and that, as he should now be able to purchase a small farm for himself, he should be sure to do well. "I have a boy," he said, "who was born three months ago; we have christened him Godfrey, in memory of the night when you saved my life at the risk of your own."

Luka was for some time a difficulty. He absolutely refused to return to Russia, and was for a time established as doorkeeper at the office, but in the spring after Godfrey's return the latter took him down with him to a house Mr. Bullen had just purchased near Richmond. Luka was so delighted with the country that he was established there, and became a sort of general factotum, assisting in the garden, stables, or house, wherever he could make himself useful, and being in special charge of a sailing boat that Godfrey keeps on the river. He had picked up a good deal of English from Godfrey on their travels, and soon came to speak it fairly, and being regarded as a friend by all the family, he is in every way perfectly contented with his lot. Four years after Godfrey's return, a clerk one day came into the office with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him, and Godfrey was astounded at the entry of Alexis.

"I have come," the Russian said. "You told me to come, and I have done so."

"I am delighted to see you, Alexis. I had thought of you as married and settled among the Buriats."

"I did marry," Alexis said; "but three years afterwards I lost my wife. What was I to do? I could not remain all my life a wandering shepherd, afraid ever to enter a town or to speak with a civilized being; so I sold my flocks and herds. You know my wife owned a third of those of the Buriat. He was a rich man and bought most of them, and for the rest I found other purchasers. Then he negotiated for me with one of the tea merchants, and I managed to go as a driver with one of his caravans to Pekin."

"And what do you mean to do, Alexis? I can still keep my promise, and make a berth for you here in the office."

"I thank you, my friend," Alexis said; "but I shall return to my profession. I am a doctor, you know, and have my Russian diplomas. I shall learn your language, and study in your hospitals for a time; then I shall set up here. I believe you have many Russians in your poorer districts; and as, besides, I speak German, I should be able to obtain a sufficient practice. Moreover, I have brought with me orders on a bank here for five thousand pounds, which I paid into their branch at Hong-Kong. I will get you to invest that for me, and you will see that it will give me an income sufficient for all my wants."

Alexis carried out his plans, and has now a large although not very remunerative practice among the Russian and German colony in the East End of London. He married the daughter of a clergyman there, and remains fast friends with Godfrey, who has now set up an establishment of his own, of which Luka is major-domo, and special guardian and playmate to Godfrey's little boys.

Godfrey has not returned to Russia, but is his father's right hand in the London business; at the same time he is free to visit St. Petersburg did he wish to do so, as Mr. Bullen drew up a full statement of his case, and this having been forwarded by the Russian ambassador, with a strong recommendation on his part, a reversal of the sentence of the court-martial was obtained, and a full pardon granted to him. It is not probable, however, that he will again set foot on Russian soil, his experiences as a prisoner in Siberia having been, as he says, ample for a lifetime.

THE END.

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The heroic story of the relief of Ladysmith forms the theme of one of the most powerful romances that have come from Mr. Henty's pen. When the war breaks out, the hero, Chris King, and his friends band themselves together under the title of the Maritzburg Scouts. From first to last the boy scouts are constantly engaged in perilous and exciting enterprises, from which they always emerge triumphant, thanks to their own skill and courage, and the dash and ingenuity of their leader.

"Just the sort of book to inspire an enterprising boy."—Army and Navy Gazette.

By England's Aid: or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). With 10 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and 4 Maps. 6s.

Two English lads go to Holland in the service of one of "the fighting Veres". After many adventures one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the defeat of the Armada, and escapes from Spain only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful, however, in getting back to Spain, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz.

"Boys know and love Mr. Henty's books of adventure, and will welcome his tale of the freeing of the Netherlands."—Athenæum.

Condemned as a Nihilist: A Story of Escape from Siberia. With 8 page Illustrations by WAL PAGET. 5s.

Godfrey Bullen, a young Englishman resident in St. Petersburg, becomes involved in various political plots, resulting in his seizure and exile to Siberia. After an unsuccessful attempt to escape, he gives himself up to the Russian authorities. Eventually he escapes, and reaches home, having safely accomplished a perilous journey which lasts nearly two years.

"The escape from Siberia is well told and the description of prison life is very graphic."—Academy.

From THE TREASURE OF THE INCAS BY G. A. HENTY (See page 1)

G. A. HENTY

Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War with 8 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 5s.

The Renshaws lose their property and emigrate to New Zealand. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant lad, is the mainstay of the household. The odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasantest of the New Zealand valleys.

"A book which all young people, but especially boys, will read with avidity." —Athenæum.

Beric the Briton: A Story of the Roman Invasion of Britain. With 12 page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. 6s.

Beric is a boy-chief of a British tribe which takes a prominent part in the insurrection under Boadicea: and after the defeat of that heroic queen he continues the struggle in the fen-country. Ultimately Beric is defeated and carried captive to Rome, where he succeeds in saving a Christian maid by slaying a lion in the arena, and is rewarded by being made the personal protector of Nero. Finally, he escapes and returns to Britain, where he becomes a wise ruler of his own people.

"He is a hero of the most attractive kind.... One of the most spirited and well-imagined stories Mr. Henty has written."—Saturday Review.

"His conflict with a lion in the arena is a thrilling chapter."—School Board Chronicle.

"Full of every form of heroism and pluck."—Christian World.

The Dash for Khartoum: A Tale of the Nile Expedition. With 10 page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG and J. NASH. 6s.

In the record of recent British history there is no more captivating page for boys than the story of the Nile campaign, and the attempt to rescue General Gordon. For, in the difficulties which the expedition encountered, and in the perils which it overpassed, are found all the excitement of romance, as well as the fascination which belongs to real events.

"The Dash for Khartoum is your ideal boys' book."—Tablet.

"It is literally true that the narrative never flags a moment."—Academy.

"The Dash for Khartoum will be appreciated even by those who don't ordinarily care a dash for anything."—Punch.

With Wolfe in Canada: or, The Winning of a Continent. With 12 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 6s.

Mr. Henty tells the story of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy on the North American continent. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations.

"A moving tale of military exploit and thrilling adventure."—Daily News.

G. A. HENTY

Held Fast for England: A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. With 8 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 5s.

The story deals with one of the most memorable sieges in history. The hero, a young Englishman resident in Gibraltar, takes a brave and worthy part in the long defence, and we learn with what bravery, resourcefulness, and tenacity the Rock was held for England.

"There is no cessation of exciting incident throughout the story."—Athenæum.

In the Irish Brigade: A Tale of War in Flanders and Spain. With 12 page Illustrations by CHARLES M. SHELDON. 6s.

The hero is a young officer in the Irish Brigade, which for many years after the siege of Limerick formed the backbone of the French army. He goes through many stirring adventures, successfully carries out dangerous missions in Spain, saves a large portion of the French army at Oudenarde, and even has the audacity to kidnap the Prime Minister of England.

"A stirring book of military adventure."—Scotsman.

At Agincourt: A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. With 12 page Illustrations by WAL PAGET. 6s.

Sir Eustace de Villeroy, in journeying from Hampshire to his castle in France, made young Guy Aylmer one of his escort. Soon thereafter the castle was attacked, and the English youth displayed such valour that his liege-lord made him commander of a special mission to Paris. This he accomplished, returning in time to take part in the campaign against the French which ended in the glorious victory for England at Agincourt.

"Cannot fail to commend itself to boys of all ages."—Manchester Courier.

A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. With 8 page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 5s.

The hero, a young Englishman, emigrates to Australia, where he gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work gain him promotion to a captaincy. In that post he greatly distinguishes himself, and finally leaves the service and settles down as a squatter.

"A stirring story capitally told."—Guardian.

"Young readers have no better friends than Blackie & Son."—Westminster Gazette.

Blackie & Son’s

Story Books for Boys

G. MANVILLE FENN

Dick o' the Fens: A Romance of the Great East Swamp. With 12 page Illustrations by FRANK DADD. 6s.

Dick o' the Fens and Tom o'Grimsey are the sons of a squire and a farmer living in Lincolnshire. Many sketches of their shooting and fishing experiences are related, while the record of the fenmen's stealthy resistance to the great draining scheme is full of keen interest. The ambushes and shots in the mist and dark, and the long-baffled attempts to trace the lurking foe, are described with Mr. Fenn's wonted skill.

"Mr. Fenn has here very nearly attained perfection. Life in the Fens in the old ante-drainage days is admirably reproduced. We have not of late come across a historical fiction, whether intended for boys or for men, which deserves to be so heartily praised as regards plot, incidents, and spirit. It is its author's masterpiece as yet."—Spectator.

Nat the Naturalist: A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. With 8 page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE. 5s.

The boy Nat and his uncle go on a voyage to the islands of the Eastern seas to seek specimens in natural history, and their adventures there are full of interest and excitement. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life sparkle with genuine humour.

"This book encourages independence of character, develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes open."—Saturday Review.

The Golden Magnet: A Tale of the Land of the Incas. With 12 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s.

The tale is of a romantic youth, who leaves home to seek his fortune in South America. He is accompanied by a faithful companion, who, in the capacity both of comrade and henchman, does true service, and shows the dogged courage of an English lad during their strange adventures.

"There could be no more welcome present for a boy. There is not a dull page, and many will be read with breathless interest."—Journal of Education.

From THE DIAMOND SEEKERS BY ERNEST GLANVILLE (See page 11)

Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.

In the Great White Land: A Tale of the Antarctic Ocean. With 6 Illustrations by J. A. WALTON. 3s. 6d.

This is a most fascinating story from beginning to end. It is a true picture of what daring healthful British men and boys can do, written by an author whose name is a household word wherever the English language is spoken. All is described with a master's hand, and the plot is just such as boys love.

"The narrative goes with a swing and a dash from start to finish."—Public Opinion.

ERNEST GLANVILLE

The Diamond Seekers: A Story of Adventure in South Africa. With 8 Illustrations by WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I. 6s.

The discovery of the plan of the diamond mine, the dangers incurred in reaching the wild, remote spot in an armoured wagon, and the many incidents of farm and veldt life, are vividly described by an author who knows the country well.

"We have seldom seen a better story for boys."—Guardian.

Capt. F. S. BRERETON, R.A.M.C.

One of the Fighting Scouts: A Tale of Guerrilla Warfare in South Africa. With 8 Illustrations by STANLEY L. WOOD, and a Map. 5s.

This story deals with the guerrilla aspect of the Boer War, and shows how George Ransome is compelled to leave his father's farm and take service with the British. He is given the command of a band of scouts as a reward for gallantry, and with these he punishes certain rebels for a piece of rascality, and successfully attacks Botha's commando. Thanks to his knowledge of the veldt he is of signal service to his country, and even outwits the redoubtable De Wet.

"Altogether an unusually good story."—Yorkshire Post.

Under the Spangled Banner: A Tale of the Spanish-American War. With 8 Illustrations by PAUL HARDY. 5s.

Hal Marchant is in Cuba before the commencement of hostilities. A Spaniard who has been frustrated in an attempt to rob Hal's employer attacks the hacienda and is defeated, but turns the tables by denouncing Hal as a spy. The hero makes good his escape from Santiago, and afterwards fights for America both on land and at sea. The story gives a vivid and at the same time accurate account of this memorable struggle.

"Just the kind of book that a boy would delight in."—Schoolmaster.

FREDERICK HARRISON

The Boys of Wynport College. With 6 Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 3s. New Edition.

The hero and his chums differ as widely in character as in personal appearance. We have Patrick O'Fflahertie, the good-natured Irish boy; Jack Brookes, the irrepressible humorist; Davie Jackson, the true-hearted little lad, on whose haps and mishaps the plot to a great extent turns; and the hero himself, who finds in his experiences at Wynport College a wholesome corrective of a somewhat lax home training.

"A book which no well-regulated school-boy should be without."—Whitehall Review.

LÉON GOLSCHMANN

Boy Crusoes: A Story of the Siberian Forest. Adapted from the Russian by LÉON GOLSCHMANN. With 6 page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE, R.I. 3s. 6d.

Two Russian lads are so deeply impressed by reading Robinson Crusoe that they run away from home. They lose their way in a huge trackless forest, and for two years are kept busy hunting for food, fighting against wolves and other enemies, and labouring to increase their comforts, before they are rescued.

"This is a story after a boy's own heart."—Nottingham Guardian.

MEREDITH FLETCHER

Every Inch a Briton: A School Story. With 6 page Illustrations by SYDNEY COWELL. 3s. 6d.

This story is written from the point of view of an ordinary boy, who gives an animated account of a young public-schoolboy's life. No moral is drawn; yet the story indicates a kind of training that goes to promote veracity, endurance, and enterprise; and of each of several of the characters it might be truly said, he is worthy to be called, "Every Inch a Briton".

"In Every Inch a Briton Mr. Meredith Fletcher has scored a success."—Manchester Guardian.

EDGAR PICKERING

In Press-Gang Days. With 4 illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 2s. 6d. New Edition.

In this story Harry Waring is caught by the Press-gang and carried on board His Majesty's ship Sandwich. He takes part in the mutiny of the Nore, and shares in some hard fighting on board the Ph[oe]nix. He is with Nelson, also, at the storming of Santa Cruz, and the battle of the Nile.

"It is of Marryat, that friend of our boyhood, we think as we read this delightful story; for it is not only a story of adventure, with incidents well-conceived and arranged, but the characters are interesting and well-distinguished."—Academy.

FRED SMITH

The Boyhood of a Naturalist. With 6 page Illustrations. 3s. 6d. New Edition.

Few lovers of Nature have given to the world a series of recollections so entertaining, so vigorous, and so instinct with life as these delightful reminiscences. The author takes the reader with him in the rambles in which he spent the happiest hours of his boyhood, a humble observer of the myriad forms of life in field and copse, by stream and hedgerow.

"We cannot too highly recommend the book to all readers."—Guardian.

The World of Animal Life. Edited by FRED SMITH. Profusely Illustrated with Engravings after F. SPECHT and other eminent artists. 5s.

The aim of The World of Animal Life is to give in non-scientific language an account of those inhabitants of the land, sea, and sky with whose names we are all familiar, but concerning whose manner of life the majority of us have only the haziest conceptions.

"An admirable volume for the young mind enquiring after Nature."—Birmingham Gazette.

EDGAR PICKERING

An Old-Time Yarn: Adventures in the West Indies and Mexico with Hawkins and Drake. With 6 page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 3s. 6d.

The hero sails from Plymouth in the flagship of Master John Hawkins. Divers are the perils through which he passes. Chief of these are the destruction of the English ships by the treacherous Spaniards, the fight round the burning vessels, the journey of the prisoners to the city of Mexico, the horrors of the Inquisition, and the final escape to England.

"An excellent story of adventure.... The book is thoroughly to be recommended."—Guardian.

CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY

Gold, Gold in Cariboo: A Story of Adventure in British Columbia. With 4 Illustrations by G. C. HINDLEY. 2s. 6d. New Edition.

Ned Corbett, a young Englishman, and his companion set out with a pack-train in order to obtain gold on the upper reaches of the Fraser River. After innumerable adventures, and a life-and-death struggle with the Arctic weather of that wild region, they find the secret gold-mines for which they have toilsomely searched.

"It would be difficult to say too much in favour of Gold, Gold in Cariboo. We have seldom read a more exciting tale of wild mining adventure in a singularly inaccessible country. There is a capital plot, and the interest is sustained to the last page."—The Times.

ROBERT LEIGHTON

The Golden Galleon. With 6 Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I. 3s. New Edition.

Gilbert Oglander, and his friend, Timothy Trollope, join in Lord Thomas Howard's expedition to intercept the Spanish treasure-fleet from the West Indies, and are on board The Revenge in the memorable fight between that one little man-of-war and fifty-three great galleons of Spain. After the battle come storm and shipwreck, and the lads, having drifted for days, find refuge on board a derelict galleon, whence they are rescued and brought home to England.

"A well-constructed and lively historical romance."—Spectator.

S. BARING-GOULD

Grettir the Outlaw: A Story of Iceland in the days of the Vikings. With 6 page Illustrations by M. ZENO DIEMER. 3s.

A narrative of adventure of the most romantic kind. No boy will be able to withstand the magic of such scenes as the fight of Grettir with the twelve bearserks, the wrestle with Karr the Old in the chamber of the dead, the combat with the spirit of Glam the thrall, and the defence of the dying Grettir by his younger brother.

"Has a freshness, a freedom, a sense of sun and wind and the open air, which make it irresistible."—National Observer.

C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE

The Captured Cruiser: or, Two Years from Land. With 6 page Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. 3s. 6d.

The central incidents deal with the capture, during the war between Chili and Peru, of an armed cruiser. The heroes and their companions break from prison in Valparaiso, board this warship in the night, overpower the watch, escape to sea under the fire of the forts, and finally, after marvellous adventures, lose the cruiser among the icebergs near Cape Horn.

"The two lads and the two skippers are admirably drawn. Mr. Hyne has now secured a position in the first rank of writers of fiction for boys."—Spectator.

Stimson's Reef: With 4 page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 2s. 6d.

This is the extended log of a cutter which sailed from the Clyde to the Amazon in search of a gold reef. It relates how they discovered the buccaneer's treasure in the Spanish Main, fought the Indians, turned aside the river Jamary by blasting, and so laid bare the gold of Stimson's Reef.

"Few stories come within hailing distance of Stimson's Reef in startling incidents and hairbreadth 'scapes. It may almost vie with Mr. R. L. Stevenson's Treasure Island."—Guardian.

From ONE OF THE FIGHTING SCOUTS BY CAPT. F. S. BRERETON (See page 11)

R. STEAD

Grit will Tell: The Adventures of a Barge-boy. With 4 Illustrations by D. CARLETON SMYTH. Cloth, 2s. 6d.

A lad whose name has been lost amidst early buffetings by hard fortune suffers many hardships at the hands of a bargeman, his master, and runs away. The various adventures and experiences with which he meets on the road to success, the bear-hunt in which he takes part, and the battle at which he acts as war correspondent, form a story of absorbing interest and after a boy's own heart.

"A thoroughly wholesome and attractive book."—Graphic.

HARRY COLLINGWOOD

The Pirate Island. With 6 page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND and J. R. WELLS. 3s. New Edition.

By a deed of true gallantry the hero's whole destiny is changed, and, going to sea, he forms one of a party who, after being burned out of their ship in the South Pacific, are picked up by a pirate brig and taken to the "Pirate Island". After many thrilling adventures, they ultimately succeed in effecting their escape.

"A capital story of the sea; indeed in our opinion the author is superior in some respects as a marine novelist to the better-known Mr. Clark Russell."—Times.

FLORENCE COOMBE

Boys of the Priory School. With 4 page Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 2s. 6d.

The interest centres in the relations of Raymond and Hal Wentworth, and the process by which Raymond, the hero of the school, learns that in the person of his ridiculed cousin there beats a heart more heroic than his own.

"It is an excellent work of its class, cleverly illustrated with 'real boys' by Mr. Harold Copping."—Literature.

JOHN C. HUTCHESON

Afloat at Last: A Sailor Boy's Log. With 6 page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. 3s. 6d.

From the stowing of the vessel in the Thames to her recovery from the Pratas Reef on which she is stranded, everything is described with the accuracy of perfect practical knowledge of ships and sailors; and the incidents of the story range from the broad humours of the fo'c's'le to the perils of flight from, and fight with, the pirates of the China Seas.

"As healthy and breezy a book as one could wish."—Academy.

Blackie & Son’s

Story Books for Girls

ETHEL F. HEDDLE

A Mystery of St. Rule's. With 8 Illustrations by G. DEMAIN HAMMOND, R.I. 6s. Illustrated Edition.

"The author has been amazingly successful in keeping her secret almost to the end. Yet the mystery attending a stolen diamond of great value is so skilfully handled that several perfectly innocent persons seem all but hopelessly identified with the disappearance of the gem. Cleverly, however, as this aspect of the story has been managed, it has other sources of strength."—Scotsman.

"The chief interest ... lies in the fascinating young adventuress, who finds a temporary nest in the old professor's family, and wins all hearts in St. Rule's by her beauty and her sweetness."—Morning Leader.

"Into the dignified atmosphere of a northerly academic town Miss Ethel Heddle introduces a coil of events worthy of Wilkie Collins."—Manchester Guardian.

KATHARINE TYNAN

A Girl of Galway. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. 6s.

When Bertha Grace is on the threshold of young womanhood, she goes to stay with her grandfather in Ireland, with the trust from her mother of reconciling him and his son, Bertha's father. Bertha finds her grandfather a recluse and a miser, and in the hands of an underling, who is his evil genius. How she keeps faith with her mother and finds her own fate, through many strange adventures, is the subject of the story.

"Full of the poetic charm we are accustomed to find in the works of that gifted writer."—World.

CAROLINE AUSTIN

Cousin Geoffrey and I. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. 3s.

The only daughter of a country gentleman finds herself unprovided for at her father's death, and for some time lives as a dependant upon her kinsman. Life is saved from being unbearable to her by her young cousin Geoffrey, who at length meets with a serious accident for which she is held responsible. She makes a brave attempt to earn her own livelihood, until a startling event brings her cousin Geoffrey and herself together again.

"Miss Austin's story is bright, clever, and well developed."—Saturday Review.

ELLINOR DAVENPORT ADAMS

A Queen among Girls. With 6 Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. Cloth, 3s. 6d.

Augusta Pembroke is the head of her school, the favourite of her teachers and fellow-pupils, who are attracted by her fearless and independent nature and her queenly bearing. She dreams of a distinguished professional career; but the course of her life is changed suddenly by pity for her timid little brother Adrian, the victim of his guardian-uncle's harshness. The story describes the daring means adopted by Augusta for Adrian's relief.

"An interesting and well-written narrative, in which humour and a keen eye for character unite to produce a book happily adapted for modern maidens."—Globe.

A Girl of To-Day. With 6 page Illustrations by G. D. HAMMOND, R.I. 3s. 6d.

"What are Altruists?" humbly asks a small boy. "They are only people who try to help others," replies the Girl of To-Day. To help their poorer neighbours, the boys and girls of Woodend band themselves together into the Society of Altruists. That they have plenty of fun is seen in the shopping expedition and in the successful Christmas entertainment.

"It is a spirited story. The characters are true to nature and carefully developed. Such a book as this is exactly what is needed to give a school-girl an interest in the development of character."—Educational Times.

FRANCES ARMSTRONG

A Girl's Loyalty. With 6 Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. Cloth, 3s. 6d. New Edition.

When she was still but a child, Helen Grant received from her grandfather, on his death-bed, a secret message. The brief words remained fast in her memory, and dominated her whole career. She was loyal to her trust, however, and to her friends in the hour of their need. For the girl was possessed of that quick courage which leaps up in a shy nature when evil-doers have to be unmasked, and wrongs made right.

"The one book for girls that stands out this year is Miss Frances Armstrong's A Girl's Loyalty."—Review of Reviews.

G. NORWAY

A True Cornish Maid. With 6 page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE. 3s. 6d.

The heroine of the tale is sister to a young fellow who gets into trouble in landing a contraband cargo on the Cornish coast. In his extremity the girl stands by her brother bravely, and by means of her daring scheme he manages to escape.

"The success of the year has fallen, we think, to Mrs. Norway, whose True Cornish Maid is really an admirable piece of work."—Review of Reviews.

From A MYSTERY OF ST. RULE'S BY ETHEL F. HEDDLE (See page 17)

ROSA MULHOLLAND (LADY GILBERT)

The Girls of Banshee Castle. With 6 Illustrations by JOHN H. BACON. Cloth, 3s. 6d. New Edition.

Three girls, with an old governess, migrate from Kensington to the West of Ireland. Belonging as they do to "the ould family", the girls are made heartily welcome in the cabins of the peasantry, where they learn many weird and curious tales from the folk-lore of the district. An interesting plot runs through the narrative, but the charm of the story lies in its happy mingling of Irish humour and pathos.

"Is told with grace, and brightened by a knowledge of Irish folk-lore, making it a perfect present for a girl in her teens."—Truth.

Gianetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. With 6 full-page Illustrations by LOCKHART BOGLE. 3s.

The story of a changeling who is suddenly transferred to the position of a rich English heiress. She develops into a good and accomplished woman, and has gained too much love and devotion to be a sufferer by the surrender of her estates.

ANNIE E. ARMSTRONG

Violet Vereker's Vanity. With 6 full-page Illustrations by G. DEMAIN HAMMOND, R.I. 3s. 6d.

The heroine was an excellent girl in most respects. But she had one small weakness, which expressed itself in a snobbish dislike of her neighbours, the Sugdens, whose social position she deemed beneath her own. In the end, however, the girl acknowledged her folly, with results which are sure to delight the reader.

"A book for girls that we can heartily recommend, for it is bright, sensible, and with a right tone of thought and feeling."—Sheffield Independent.

ALICE CORKRAN

Margery Merton's Girlhood. With 6 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s. 6d.

The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by her father an officer in India—to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. The accounts of the various persons who have an after influence on the story are singularly vivid.

"Margery Merton's Girlhood is a piece of true literature, as dainty as it is delicate, and as sweet as it is simple."—Woman's World.

ELIZA F. POLLARD

For the Red Rose. With 4 Illustrations by JAMES DURDEN. 2s. 6d.

A gipsy finds a little girl in the forest of Wimbourne, after the sacking of the castle by the Yorkists. He carries her to the camp and she is adopted by the tribe. The story tells how, when some years later Margaret of Anjou and her son are wrecked on the coast of England, the gipsy girl follows the fortunes of the exiled queen, and by what curious chain of events her own origin is discovered.

"This is a good story, and of special interest to lovers of historical romance."—Court Circular.

MRS. E. J. LYSAGHT

Brother and Sister: With 6 page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 3s. 6d.

A story showing, by the narrative of the vicissitudes and struggles of a family which has "come down in the world", and of the brave endeavours of its two younger members, how the pressure of adversity is mitigated by domestic affection, mutual confidence, and hopeful honest effort.

"A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly constructed, and the moral is excellent."—Athenæum.

ANNE BEALE

The Heiress of Courtleroy. With 8 full-page Illustrations by T. C. H. CASTLE. 5s.

Mimica, the heroine, comes to England as an orphan, and is coldly received by her uncle. The girl has a brave nature, however, and succeeds in saving the estate from ruin and in reclaiming her uncle from the misanthropical disregard of his duties as a landlord.

"One of the very best of girl's books we have seen."—Sheffield Telegraph.

SARAH TYTLER

A Loyal Little Maid. With 4 page Illustrations by PAUL HARDY. 2s. 6d.

This pretty story is founded on a romantic episode of Mar's rebellion. A little girl has information which concerns the safety of her father in hiding, and this she firmly refuses to divulge to a king's officer. She is lodged in the Tolbooth, where she finds a boy champion, whom in future years she rescues in Paris from the lettre de cachet which would bury him in the Bastille.

"Has evidently been a pleasure to write, and makes very enjoyable reading."—Literature.

From THE FAIRCLOUGH FAMILY BY MRS. HENRY CLARKE (See page 24)

GERALDINE MOCKLER

The Four Miss Whittingtons: A Story for Girls. With 8 full-page Illustrations by CHARLES M. SHELDON. 5s.

This story tells how four sisters, left alone in the world, went to London to seek their fortunes. They had between them £400, and this they resolved to spend on training themselves for the different careers for which they were severally most fitted. On their limited means this was hard work, but their courageous experiment was on the whole very successful.

"A story of endeavour, industry, and independence of spirit."—World.

ALICE STRONACH

A Newnham Friendship. With 6 full-page Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING. 3s. 6d.

A sympathetic description of life at Newnham College. After the tripos excitements, some of the students leave their dream-world of study and talk of "cocoas" and debates and athletics to begin their work in the real world. Men students play their part in the story, and in the closing chapters it is suggested that marriage has its place in a girl graduate's life.

"Foremost among all the gift-books suitable for school-girls this season stands Miss Alice Stronach's A Newnham Friendship."—Daily Graphic.

BESSIE MARCHANT

The Secret of the Everglades. With 4 Illustrations by A. A. DIXON. 2s. 6d.

The father of the Osneys is supposed to have been killed whilst trapping in the Everglades of Florida. The family organize a series of expeditions to search for their father; but the secret of the swamp is hard to solve, and the end of the book is reached before the mystery is made clear.

"A fresh and original story of incident and adventure in the mysterious Florida swamps. An excellent and engrossing story."—St. James's Gazette.

Three Girls on a Ranch: A Story of New Mexico. With 4 page Illustrations by W. E. WEBSTER. 2s. 6d.

The Lovell family emigrate from England to New Mexico, where they settle on a ranch. Mr. Lovell is delicate and unfit for farming, but the three eldest girls take upon themselves the burden of working the ranch. They have adventures of a perilous kind, and the story of their mishaps and how they overcame them is throughout both exciting and stimulating.

"A story with a fresh, bright theme, well handled."—Nottingham Guardian.

"A rousing book for young people."—Queen.

MRS. HENRY CLARKE

The Fairclough Family. With 6 Illustrations by G. D. HAMMOND, R.I. Cloth, 3s. 6d.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. Obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. Corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below:

Inconsistent spelling?:

Irkutsk (throughout) and Irkoutsk (pages 92, 94)

Yuruks (page 287) and Yuraks (pages 220, 309)

Mesentzeff (page 62) and Mezentsoff (page 66)

Moskow (page 62), although Moscow elsewhere

page 32: added quote

"He is released from his suffering," Katia said solemnly. "Anything else, Akim?["]

page 35: added quote

as he entered. ["]It is a foolish business altogether, but if

page 41: typo corrected

"That is more cheerful by a long way," Godfrey said to himself as the man, who had mantained[maintained] absolute silence on

page 46: added quote

of being mixed up in the most remote way with politics, your best friends will shun you like the plague.["]

page 61: extra quote removed

grave. Nothing was said until the servant, having handed round the dishes, left the room.["]

page 69: typo corrected

There are the Guards in London, but the populalation[population] is so large that you might go a week without seeing

page 117: added quote

political prisoners now. We might be honest peasants if it were not for these confounded heads of hair.["]

page 122: typo corrected

"we should have been down on the Selinga[Selenga] to-morrow, and we had calculated

page 132: extra quote removed

lifting the eyelid. "He is coming round now," he said at last.["] A few more passes and the child drowsily opened

page 198: added hyphen

On the fourth day they saw a small farm[-]house lying not far from the edge of the wood.

page 240: added hyphen

fishing, keeping holes broken in the ice and catching fish by torch[-]light. The men walked with the sledges, which only

page 250: typo corrected

"The isvostchiks[Isvostchiks] are often frozen in St. Petersburg in

page 276: added comma

"It may be either a fox or a bear," Luka said[,] making his way farther back into the hut, and returning with his

Table of Contents

The Young Franc Tierur

Preface.

Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.

Chapter 2: Terrible News.

Chapter 3: Death To The Spy!

Chapter 4: Starting For The Vosges.

Chapter 5: The First Engagement.

Chapter 6: The Tunnel Of Saverne.

Chapter 7: A Baffled Project.

Chapter 8: The Traitor.

Chapter 9: A Desperate Fight.

Chapter 10: The Bridge Of The Vesouze.

Chapter 11: A Fight In The Vosges.

Chapter 12: The Surprise.

Chapter 13: The Escape.

Chapter 14: A Perilous Expedition.

Chapter 15: The Expedition.

Chapter 16: A Desperate Attempt.

Chapter 17: A Balloon Voyage.

Chapter 18: A Day Of Victory.

Chapter 19: Down At Last.

Chapter 20: Crossing The Lines.

Chapter 21: Home.

The Young Franc Tireurs

Preface.

My Dear Lads,

The present story was written and published a few months, only, after the termination of the Franco-German war. At that time the plan--which I have since carried out in The Young Buglers, Cornet of Horse, and In Times of Peril, and which I hope to continue, in further volumes--of giving, under the guise of historical tales, full and accurate accounts of all the leading events of great wars, had not occurred to me. My object was only to represent one phase of the struggle--the action of the bodies of volunteer troops known as franc tireurs.

The story is laid in France and is, therefore, written from the French point of view. The names, places, and dates have been changed; but circumstances and incidents are true. There were a good many English among the franc tireurs, and boys of from fifteen to sixteen were by no means uncommon in their ranks. Having been abroad during the whole of the war, I saw a good deal of these irregulars, and had several intimate friends amongst them. Upon the whole, these corps did much less service to the cause of France than might have been reasonably expected. They were too often badly led, and were sometimes absolutely worse than useless.

But there were brilliant exceptions, and very many of those daring actions were performed which--while requiring heroism and courage of the highest kind--are unknown to the world in general, and find no place in history. Many of the occurrences in this tale are related, almost in the words in which they were described to me, by those who took part in them; and nearly every fact and circumstance actually occurred, according to my own knowledge. Without aspiring to the rank of a history, however slight, the story will give you a fair idea of what the life of the franc tireurs was, and of what some of them actually went through, suffered, and performed.

Yours sincerely,

The Author

Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.

The usually quiet old town of Dijon was in a state of excitement. There were groups of people in the streets; especially round the corners, where the official placards were posted up. Both at the Prefecture and the Maine there were streams of callers, all day. Every functionary wore an air of importance, and mystery; and mounted orderlies galloped here and there, at headlong speed. The gendarmes had twisted their mustaches to even finer points than usual, and walked about with the air of men who knew all about the matter, and had gone through more serious affairs than this was likely to be.

In the marketplace, the excitement and buzz of conversation were at their highest. It was the market day, and the whole area of the square was full. Never, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had such a market been seen in Dijon. For the ten days preceding, France had been on the tiptoe of expectation; and every peasant's wife and daughter, for miles round the town, had come with their baskets of eggs, fowls, or fruits, to attend the market and to hear the news. So crowded was it, that it was really difficult to move about. People were not, however, unmindful of bargains--for the French peasant woman is a thrifty body, and has a shrewd eye to sous--so the chaffering and haggling, which almost invariably precede each purchase, went on as briskly as usual but, between times, all thoughts and all tongues ran upon the great event of the day.

It was certain--quite certain, now--that there was to be war with Prussia. The newspapers had said so, for some days; but then, bah! who believes a newspaper? Monsieur le Prefect had published the news, today; and everyone knows that Monsieur le Prefect is not a man to say a thing, unless it were true. Most likely the Emperor, himself, had written to him. Oh! There could be no doubt about it, now.

It was singular to hear, amidst all the talk, that the speculation and argument turned but little upon the chances of the war, itself; it being tacitly assumed to be a matter of course that the Germans would be defeated, with ease, by the French. The great subject of speculation was upon the points which directly affected the speakers. Would the Mobiles be called out, and forced to march; would soldiers who had served their time be recalled to the service, even if they were married; and would next year's conscripts be called out, at once? These were the questions which everyone asked, but no one could answer. In another day or two, it was probable that the orders respecting these matters would arrive and, in the meantime, the merry Burgundian girls endeavored to hide their own uneasiness by laughingly predicting an early summons to arms to the young men of their acquaintance.

At the Lycee--or great school--the boys are just coming out. They are too excited to attend to lessons, and have been released hours before their usual time. They troop out from the great doors, talking and gesticulating. Their excitement, however, takes a different form to that which that of English boys would do, under the same circumstances. There was no shouting, no pushing, no practical jokes. The French boy does not play; at least, he does not play roughly. When young he does, indeed, sometimes play at buchon--a game something similar to the game of buttons, as played by English street boys. He may occasionally play at marbles but, after twelve years of age, he puts aside games as beneath him. Prisoners' base, football, and cricket are alike unknown to him; and he considers any exertion which would disarrange his hair, or his shirt collar, as barbarous and absurd. His amusements are walking in the public promenade, talking politics with the gravity of a man of sixty, and discussing the local news and gossip.

This is the general type of French school boy. Of course, there are many exceptions and, in the Lycee of Dijon, these were more numerous than usual. This was due, to a great extent, to the influence of the two boys who are coming out of the school, at the present moment. Ralph and Percy Barclay are--as one can see at first sight--English; that is to say, their father is English, and they have taken after him, and not after their French mother. They are French born, for they first saw the light at the pretty cottage where they still live, about two miles out of the town; but their father, Captain Barclay, has brought them up as English boys, and they have been for two years at a school in England.

Their example has had some effect. Their cousins, Louis and Philippe Duburg, are almost as fond of cricket, and other games, and of taking long rambles for miles round, as they are themselves. Other boys have also taken to these amusements and, consequently, you would see more square figures, more healthy faces at the Lycee at Dijon than at most other French schools. The boys who joined in these games formed a set in themselves, apart from the rest. They were called either the English set or, contemptuously, the "savages;" but this latter name was not often applied to them before their faces, for the young Barclays had learned to box, in England; and their cousins, as well as a few of the others, had practised with the gloves with them. Consequently, although the "savages" might be wondered at, and sneered at behind their backs, the offensive name was never applied in their hearing.

At the present moment, Ralph Barclay was the center of a knot of lads of his own age.

"And so, you don't think that we shall get to Berlin, Ralph Barclay? You think that these Prussian louts are going to beat the French army? Look now, it is a little strong to say that, in a French town."

"But I don't say that, at all," Ralph Barclay said. "You are talking as if it was a certainty that we were going to march over the Prussians. I simply say, don't be too positive. There can be no doubt about the courage of the French army; but pluck, alone, won't do. The question is, are our generals and our organization as good as those of the Prussians? And can we put as many, or anything like as many, men into the field? I am at least half French, and hope with all my heart that we shall thrash these Germans; but we know that they are good soldiers, and it is safer not to begin to brag, till the work is over."

There was silence, for a minute or two, after Ralph ceased speaking. The fact was, the thought that perhaps France might be defeated had never once, before, presented itself to them as possible. They were half disposed to be angry with the English boy for stating it; but it was in the first place, evident now that they thought of it, that it was just possible and, in the second place, a quarrel with Ralph Barclay was a thing which all his schoolfellows avoided.

Ralph Barclay was nearly sixteen, his brother a year younger. Their father, Captain Barclay, had lost a leg in one of the innumerable wars in India, two or three years before the outbreak of the Crimean war. He returned to England, and was recommended by his doctors to spend the winter in the south of France. This he did and, shortly after his arrival at Pau, he had fallen in love with Melanie Duburg; daughter of a landed proprietor near Dijon, and who was stopping there with a relative. A month later he called upon her father at Dijon and, in the spring, they were married. Captain Barclay's half pay, a small private income, and the little fortune which his wife brought him were ample to enable him to live comfortably, in France; and there, accordingly, he had settled down.

His family consisted of Ralph, Percy, and a daughter--called, after her mother, Melanie, and who was two years younger than Percy. It had always been Captain Barclay's intention to return to England, when the time came for the boys to enter into some business or profession; and he had kept up his English connection by several visits there, of some months' duration, with his whole family. The boys, too, had been for two years at school in England--as well as for two years in Germany--and they spoke the three languages with equal fluency.

A prettier abode than that of Captain Barclay would be difficult to find. It was in no particular style of architecture, and would have horrified a lover of the classic. It was half Swiss, half Gothic, and altogether French. It had numerous little gables, containing the funniest-shaped little rooms. It had a high roof, with projecting eaves; and round three sides ran a wide veranda, with a trellis work--over which vines were closely trained--subduing the glare of the summer sun, casting a cool green shade over the sitting rooms, and affording a pretty and delightfully cool retreat; where Mrs. Barclay generally sat with her work and taught Melanie, moving round the house with the sun, so as to be always in the shade.

The drawing and dining rooms both opened into this veranda The road came up to the back of the house; and upon the other three sides was a garden, which was a compromise between the English and French styles. It had a smooth, well-mown lawn, with a few patches of bright flowers which were quite English; and mixed up among them, and beyond them, were clumps of the graceful foliaged plants and shrubs in which the French delight. Beyond was a vineyard, with its low rows of vines while, over these, the view stretched away to the towers of Dijon.

In the veranda the boys, upon their return, found Captain Barclay reading the papers, and smoking. He looked up as they entered.

"You are back early, boys."

"Yes, papa, there was so much talking going on, that the professor gave it up as hopeless. You have heard the news, of course?"

"Yes, boys, and am very sorry to hear it."

Captain Barclay spoke so gravely that Ralph asked, anxiously:

"Don't you think we shall thrash them, papa?"

"I consider it very doubtful, Ralph," his father said. "Prussia has already gained an immense moral victory. She has chosen her own time for war; and has, at the same time, obliged France to take the initiative, and so to appear to be the aggressor--and therefore to lose the moral support of Europe. She has forced this quarrel upon France, and yet nine-tenths of Europe look upon France as the inciter of the war. History will show the truth, but it will then be too late. As it is, France enters upon the war with the weight of public opinion dead against her and, what is worse, she enters upon it altogether unprepared; whereas Prussia has been getting ready, for years."

"But the French always have shown themselves to be better soldiers than the Prussians, papa."

"So they have, Percy, and--equally well led, disciplined, and organized--I believe that, in anything like equal forces, they would do so again. The question is, have we generals to equal those who led the Prussians to victory against Austria? Is our discipline equal--or anything like equal--to that of the Prussians? Is our organization as good as theirs? And lastly, have we anything like their numbers?

"I don't like the look of it, boys, at all. We ought, according to published accounts, to be able to put a larger army than theirs in the field, just at first and, if we were but prepared, should certainly be able to carry all before us, for a while. I question very much if we are so prepared. Supposing it to be so, however, the success would, I fear, be but temporary; for the German reserves are greatly superior to ours. Discipline, too, has gone off sadly, since I first knew the French army.

"Radical opinions may be very wise, and very excellent for a nation, for aught I know; but it is certain that they are fatal to the discipline of an army. My own opinion, as you know, is that they are equally fatal for a country, but that is a matter of opinion, only; but of the fact that a good Radical makes an extremely bad soldier, I am quite clear, and the spread of Radical opinion among the French army has been very great. Then, too, the officers have been much to blame. They think of pleasure far more than duty. They spend four times as much time in the cafes and billiard rooms as they do in the drill ground. Altogether, in my opinion, the French army has greatly gone off in all points--except in courage which, being a matter of nationality, is probably as high as ever. It is a bad lookout, boys--a very bad lookout.

"There, don't talk about it any more. I do not want to make your mother unhappy. Remember not to express--either as my or your own opinion--anything I have said, in the town. It would only render you obnoxious, and might even cause serious mischief. If things go wrong, French mobs are liable to wreak their bad temper on the first comer."

"Percy," Mrs. Barclay said, coming into the room, "please to run down to the end of the garden, and cut some lettuces for salad. Marie is so upset that she can do nothing."

"What is the matter with her, mamma?" both the boys asked, at once.

"Victor Harve--you know him, the son of the blacksmith Harve, who had served his time in the army, and came back two months ago to join his father in his forge, and to marry our Marie--has left to join his regiment. He was here, an hour since, to say goodbye. By this time he will have started. It is not wonderful that she weeps. She may never see him again. I have told her that she must be brave. A Frenchwoman should not grudge those she loves most to fight for France."

"Ah! Melanie," Captain Barclay said, smiling, "these little patriotic outbursts are delightful, when one does not have to practice them at one's own expense. 'It is sweet and right to die for one's country,' said the old Roman, and everyone agrees with him but, at the same time, every individual man has a strong objection to put himself in the way of this sweet and proper death.

"Although, as you say, no Frenchwoman should grudge her love to her country; I fancy, if a levee en masse took place, tomorrow, and the boys as well as the cripples had to go--so that Ralph, Percy, and I were all obliged to march--you would feel that you did grudge us to the country, most amazingly."

Mrs. Barclay turned a little pale at the suggestion.

"Ah! I can't suppose that, Richard. You are English, and they cannot touch you, or the boys; even if you could march, and if they were old enough."

Captain Barclay smiled.

"That is no answer, Melanie. You are shirking the question. I said, if they were to make us go."

"Ah, yes! I am afraid I should grudge you, Richard, and the boys, except the enemy were to invade France; and then everyone, even we women, would fight. But of that there is no chance. It is we who will invade."

Captain Barclay made no reply.

"The plums want gathering, papa," Percy said, returning from cutting the lettuces. "It was arranged that our cousins should come over, when they were ripe, and have a regular picking. They have no plums, and Madame Duburg wants them for preserving. May we go over after dinner, and ask them to come in at three o'clock, and spend the evening?"

"Certainly," Captain Barclay said; "and you can give your mamma's compliments, and ask if your uncle and Madame Duburg will come in, after they have dined. The young ones will make their dinner at our six o'clock tea."

In France early dinner is a thing scarcely known, even among the peasantry; that is to say, their meals are taken at somewhat the same time as ours are, but are called by different names. The Frenchman never eats what we call breakfast; that is, he never makes a really heavy meal, the first thing in the morning. He takes, however, coffee and milk and bread and butter, when he gets up. He does not call this breakfast. He speaks of it as his morning coffee; and takes his breakfast at eleven, or half-past eleven, or even at twelve. This is a regular meal, with soup, meat, and wine. In England it would be called an early lunch. At six o'clock the Frenchman dines, and even the working man calls this meal--which an English laborer would call supper--his dinner. The Barclays' meals, therefore, differed more in name than in reality from those of their neighbors.

Louis and Philippe Duburg came in at five o'clock, but brought a message that their sisters would come in with their father and mother, later. Melanie was neither surprised nor disappointed at the non-arrival of her cousins. She greatly preferred being with the boys, and always felt uncomfortable with Julie and Justine; who, although little older than herself, were already as prim, decorous, and properly behaved as if they had been women of thirty years old. After tea was over, the four boys returned to their work of gathering plums; while Melanie--or Milly, as her father called her, to distinguish her from her mother--picked up the plums that fell, handed up fresh baskets and received the full ones, and laughed and chattered with her brothers and cousins.

While so engaged, Monsieur and Madame Duburg arrived, with their daughters, Julie and Justine. Monsieur Duburg--Mrs. Barclay's brother--was proprietor of a considerable estate, planted almost entirely with vines. His income was a large one, for the soil was favorable, and he carried on the culture with such care and attention that the wines fetched a higher price than any in the district. He was a clear-headed, sensible man, with a keen eye to a bargain. He was fond of his sister and her English husband, and had offered no opposition to his boys entering into the games and amusements of their cousins--although his wife was constantly urging him to do so. It was, to Madame Duburg, a terrible thing that her boys--instead of being always tidy and orderly, and ready, when at home, to accompany her for a walk--should come home flushed, hot, and untidy, with perhaps a swelled cheek or a black eye, from the effects of a blow from a cricket ball or boxing glove.

Upon their arrival at Captain Barclay's, the two gentlemen strolled out to smoke a cigar together, and to discuss the prospects of the war and its effect upon prices.

Mrs. Barclay had asked Julie and Justine if they would like to go down to the orchard; but Madame Duburg had so hurriedly answered in their name, in a negative--saying that they would stroll round the garden until Melanie returned--that Mrs. Barclay had no resource but to ask them, when they passed near the orchard, to call Milly--in her name--to join them in the garden.

"My dear Melanie," Madame Duburg began, when her daughters had walked away in a quiet, prim manner, hand in hand, "I was really quite shocked, as we came along. There was Melanie, laughing and calling out as loudly as the boys themselves, handing up baskets and lifting others down, with her hair all in confusion, and looking--excuse my saying so--more like a peasant girl than a young lady."

Mrs. Barclay smiled quietly.

"Milly is enjoying herself, no doubt, sister-in-law; and I do not see that her laughing, or calling out, or handing baskets will do her any serious harm. As for her hair, five minutes' brushing will set that right."

"But, my dear sister-in-law," Madame Duburg said, earnestly, "do you recall to yourself that Milly is nearly fourteen years old; that she will soon be becoming a woman, that in another three years you will be searching for a husband for her? My faith, it is terrible--and she has yet no figure, no manner;" and Madame Duburg looked, with an air of gratified pride, at the stiff figures of her own two girls.

"Her figure is not a bad one, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, composedly; "she is taller than Julie--who is six months her senior--she is as straight as an arrow. Her health is admirable; she has never had a day's illness."

"But she cannot walk; she absolutely cannot walk!" Madame Duburg said, lifting up her hands in horror.

"She walked upwards of twelve miles with her father, yesterday," Mrs. Barclay said, pretending to misunderstand her sister-in-law's meaning.

"I did not mean that," Madame Duburg said, impatiently, "but she walks like a peasant girl. My faith, it is shocking to say, but she walks like a boy. I should be desolated to see my daughter step out in that way.

"Then, look at her manners. My word, she has no manners at all. The other day when I was here, and Monsieur de Riviere with his sons called, she was awkward and shy; yes, indeed, she was positively awkward and shy. It is dreadful for me to have to say so, sister-in-law, but it is true. No manners, no ease! Julie, and even Justine, can receive visitors even as I could do, myself."

"Her manners are not formed yet, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly, "nor do I care that they should be. She is a young girl at present, and I do not wish to see her a woman before her time. In three years it will be time enough for her to mend her manners."

"But in three years, sister-in-law, you will be looking for a husband for her."

"I shall be doing nothing of the sort," Mrs. Barclay said, steadily. "In that, as in many other matters, I greatly prefer the English ways. As you know, we give up our house in two years, and go to England to reside. We have economized greatly, during the seventeen years since our marriage. We can afford to live in England, now.

"At sixteen, therefore, Milly will have good masters; and for two years her education will be carried on, and her walk and manner will, no doubt, improve. In England, fathers and mothers do not arrange the marriage of their children; and Milly will have to do as other girls do--that is--wait until someone falls in love with her, and she falls in love with him. Then, if he is a proper person, and has enough to keep her, they will be married."

Madame Duburg was too much shocked at the expression of these sentiments to answer at once. She only sighed, shook her head, and looked upwards.

"It is strange," she said at last, "to hear you, sister-in-law--a Frenchwoman--speak so lightly of marriage. As if a young girl could know, as well as her parents, who is a fit and proper person for her to marry. Besides, the idea of a young girl falling in love, before she marries, is shocking, quite shocking!"

"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, "we have talked this matter over before, and I have always stated my opinion, frankly. I have been a good deal in England; and have seen, therefore, and know the result of English marriages. I know also what French marriages are; and no one, who does know the state of things in the two countries, can hesitate for a moment in declaring that married life in England is infinitely happier, in every respect, than it is in France. The idea of telling your daughter that she is to marry a man whom she has never seen--as we do in France--is, to my mind, simply monstrous. Fortunately, I myself married for love; and I have been happy, ever since. I intend Milly, when the time comes, to do the same thing."

Before Madame Duburg had time to answer, the gentlemen joined them, and the conversation turned upon the war. In a short time the three girls came up.

"What a rosy little thing you are, Milly," her uncle said; "where do you get your plump cheeks, and your bright color? I wish you could give the receipt to Julie and Justine. Why, if you were to blow very hard, I do think you would blow them both down."

"I am really surprised at you, Monsieur Duburg," his wife said, angrily. "I am sure I do not wish Julie and Justine to have as much color as their cousin. I consider it quite a misfortune for poor Milly. It is so very commonplace. Poor child, she looks as if she had been working at the vintage."

"That is right, madame; stand up for your own," and her husband, who was accustomed to his wife's speeches, laughed. "But for all that, commonplace or not commonplace, I should like to see some of Milly's bright, healthy color in my girls' cheeks; and I should like to see them walk as if they had forgotten, for a moment, their tight boots and high heels."

His wife was about to make an angry reply, when the arrival of the four boys--bearing in triumph the last basket of plums--changed the conversation; and shortly afterwards, Madame Duburg remarking that the evening was damp, and that she did not like Julie and Justine to be out in it any later, the Du burgs took their leave.

Chapter 2: Terrible News.

The ten days succeeding the declaration of war were days of excitement, and anticipation. The troops quartered at Dijon moved forward at once; and scarcely an hour passed but long trains, filled with soldiers from Lyons and the South, were on their way up towards Metz. The people of Dijon spent half their time in and around the station. The platform was kept clear; but bands of ladies relieved each other every few hours, and handed soup, bread, fruit, and wine to the soldiers as they passed through. Each crowded train was greeted, as it approached the station, with cheers and waving of handkerchiefs; to which the troops as heartily responded. Most of the trains were decorated with boughs, and presented a gay appearance as, filled with the little line men, the sunburned Zouaves, swarthy Turcos, gay hussars, or sober artillerymen, they wound slowly into the town.

Some of the trains were less gay, but were not less significant of war. Long lines of wagons, filled with cannon; open trucks with the deadly shell--arranged side by side, point upwards, and looking more like eggs in a basket than deadly missiles--came and went. There, too, were long trains of pontoons for forming bridges while, every half hour, long lines of wagons filled with biscuits, barrels of wine, sacks of coffee, and cases of stores of all sorts and kinds passed through.

The enthusiasm of Dijon, at the sight of this moving panorama of war, rose to fever heat. The sound of the Marseillaise resounded from morning to night. Victory was looked upon as certain, and the only subject of debate was as to the terms which victorious France would impose upon conquered Prussia. The only impatience felt was for the news of the first victory.

Captain Barclay sent down several casks of wine, for the use of the passing troops; and his wife went down, each day, to assist at the distribution. In the evening she and Milly scraped old rags, to make lint for the wounded. The Lycee was still closed--as it was found impossible to get the boys to attend to their studies--and Ralph and Percy spent their time in watching the trains go past, and in shouting themselves hoarse.

Captain Barclay did not share in the general enthusiasm and, each morning at breakfast, he looked more and more grave as, upon opening the papers, he found there was still no news of the commencement of hostilities.

"What difference does it make, papa?" Ralph asked, one day; "we are sending fresh troops up, every hour, and I do not see how a few days' delay can be any disadvantage to us."

"It makes all the difference, Ralph, all the difference in the world. We had a considerably larger standing army than the Prussians, and had the advantage that the main body of our troops were very much nearer to the frontier than those of the Prussians. If things had been ready, we ought to have marched two hundred thousand men into Germany, three or four days--at latest--after the declaration of war. The Germans could have had no force capable of resisting them. We should have had the prestige of a first success--no slight thing with a French army--and we should also have had the great and solid advantage of fighting in an enemy's country, instead of upon our own.

"The German reserves are far greater than our own. We know how perfect their organization is, and every hour of delay is an immense advantage to them. It is quite likely now that, instead of the French invading Germany, it will be the Prussians who will invade France."

The boys were but little affected by their father's forebodings. It was scarcely possible to suppose that everyone could be wrong; still more impossible to believe that those great hosts which they saw passing, so full of high hope and eager courage, could be beaten. They were, however, very glad to sit round the table of an evening, while Captain Barclay opened a great map on the table, explained the strength of the various positions, and the probability of this or that line of attack being selected by one or the other army.

Day after day went by until, on the 2nd of August, the news came at last. The first blow had been struck, the first blood shed--the French had taken Saarbruck.

"It is too late," Captain Barclay said, as Ralph and Percy rushed in, to say that the news was posted up at the Prefecture. "It is too late, boys. The English papers, of this morning, have brought us the news that the Germans are massing at least seven or eight hundred thousand men, along the line from Saar Louis to Spiers. It is evident that they fell back from Saarbruck without any serious resistance. In another two or three days they will be in readiness and, as they must far outnumber our men, you will see that the advantage at Saarbruck will not be followed up, and that the Prussians will assume the offensive."

"Then what do you really think will be the result, papa?"

"I think, Ralph, that we shall be forced to do what--not having, at once, taken the offensive--we ought to have done from the first. We shall have to fall back, to abandon the line of frontier--which is altogether indefensible--and to hold the line of the Moselle, and the spurs of the Vosges; an immensely strong position, and which we ought to be able to hold against all the efforts of Prussia."

The exultation of Dijon was but short lived for, on the 5th, the boys came up in the afternoon, from the town, with very serious faces.

"What is the matter, Ralph?"

"There is a rumor in the town, papa, that the Swiss papers have published an account of the capture of Weissenburg, by the Prussians. A great many French are said to be prisoners. Do you think it can be true?"

"It is probable, at any rate, Ralph. The Swiss papers would, of course, get the news an hour or so after it is known in Germany. We must not begin by believing all that the telegram says, because both sides are certain to claim victories; still, the absolute capture of a town is a matter upon which there can be no dispute, and is therefore likely enough to be true. We know the Prussians were massed all along that line and, as I expected, they have taken the offensive. Their chances of success in so doing were evident; as neither party know where the others are preparing to strike a blow, and each can therefore concentrate, and strike with an overwhelming force at any given point.

"Now that the Germans have made the first move, and shown their intention, both parties will concentrate in that direction. You see, from Weissenburg the Germans can either march south upon Strasburg, or southwest upon Metz or Nancy; but to reach this latter place they will have to cross the spurs of the Vosges. The French will, of course, try to bar their further advance. We may expect a great battle, in a day or two."

The news came but too soon for--two days later--Dijon, as well as all France, stood aghast at the news of the utter rout of MacMahon's division, after the desperately contested battle of Woerth; and the not less decided, though less disastrous, defeats of the French left, at Forbach, by the troops of Steinmetz. Some little consolation was, however, gleaned by the fact that the French had been beaten in detail; and had shown the utmost gallantry, against greatly superior numbers. They would now, no doubt, fall back behind the Moselle; and hold that line, and the position of the Vosges, until fresh troops could come up, and a great battle be fought upon more even terms.

Fresh levies were everywhere ordered, and a deep and general feeling of rage prevailed. No one thought of blaming the troops--it was evident that they had done their best; the fault lay with the generals, and with the organization.

Captain Barclay pointed out, to the boys, that the officers and men were somewhat to blame, also; for the utter confusion which prevailed among MacMahon's troops, in their retreat, showed that the whole regimental system was faulty; and that there could have been no real discipline, whatever, or the shattered regiments would have rallied, a few miles from the field of battle.

In Dijon, the change during the last fortnight was marvelous The war spirit was higher than ever. Cost what it might, this disgrace must be wiped out. The Mobiles were hard at work, drilling. The soldiers who had long left the army were starting, by every train, to the depots. The sound of the Marseillaise rang through the streets, night and day. The chorus, "To arms," gained a fresh meaning and power and, in spite of these first defeats, none dreamed of final defeat.

Every day, however, the news became worse. Strasburg was cut off; and the Prussians marched unopposed across the spurs of the Vosges, where a mere handful of men might have checked them.

"Boys, there are terrible days in store, for France," Captain Barclay said, when the news came that the enemy had entered Nancy. "The line of the Moselle is turned. Bazaine will be cut off, unless he hurries his retreat; and then nothing can stop the Prussians from marching to Paris."

The boys sat speechless at this terrible assurance.

"Surely it cannot be as bad as that," Mrs. Barclay said. "Frenchmen cannot have lost all their old qualities; and all France will rise, like one man, to march to the defense of Paris."

"Raw levies will be of no use, whatever, against the Prussian troops, flushed with victory," Captain Barclay said; "even if they were armed--and where are the arms, for a levy en masse, to come from? If Bazaine be beaten, the only hope of France is for all the troops who remain to fall back under the guns of the forts of Paris; and for France to enter upon an immense guerrilla war. For hosts of skirmishers to hang upon their flanks and rear; cutting every road, destroying every bridge, checking the movements of every detached body, and so actually starving them out, on the ground which they occupy.

"This, however, will demand an immense amount of pluck, of endurance, of perseverance, of sacrifice, and of patriotism. The question is, does France possess these qualities?"

"Surely, Richard, you cannot doubt the patriotism of the French," Mrs. Barclay said, a little reproachfully.

"My dear Melanie," her husband said, "I am sorry to say that I very greatly doubt the patriotism of the French. They are--more than any people, more even than the English, whom they laugh at as a nation of shopkeepers--a money-making race. The bourgeoise class, the shopkeepers, the small proprietors, are selfish in the extreme. They think only of their money, their business, and their comforts. The lower class are perhaps better, but their first thoughts will be how the war will affect themselves and, unless there is some chance of the enemy approaching their homes, driving off their cattle, and plundering their cottages, they will look on with a very calm eye at the general ruin.

"I believe, remember, that those who will be called out will go and, if affairs go as I fear that they will do, every man under fifty years old in France will have to go out; but it is not enough to go out. For a war like this, it will require desperate courage and endurance, and an absolute disregard of life; to counterbalance the disadvantages of want of discipline, want of arms, want of artillery, and want of organization I may be wrong--I hope that I am so--but time will show."

"And do you think that there is any chance of their coming down here, as well as of going to Paris, papa?" Percy asked.

"That would depend upon the length of the resistance, Percy. If France holds out, and refuses to grant any terms which the Prussians might try to impose upon them, they may overrun half the country and, as this town is directly upon their way for Lyons--the second town of France--they are exceedingly likely to come this way."

"Well, if they do, papa," Ralph said, with heightened color, "I feel sure that every man who can carry a gun will go out, and that every home will be defended."

"We shall see, Ralph," Captain Barclay said, "we shall see."

Another pause, and then came the news of that terrible three days' fighting--on the 14th, 16th, and 18th--near Metz; when Bazaine, his retreat towards Paris cut off, vainly tried to force his way through the Prussian army and, failing, fell back into Metz. Even now, when the position was well-nigh desperate--with the only great army remaining shut up and surrounded; and with nothing save the fragment of MacMahon's division, with a few other regiments, collected in haste, and the new levies, encamped at Chalons, between the victorious enemy and the capital--the people of France were scarcely awake to the urgency of the position. The Government concealed at least a portion of the truth, and the people were only too ready to be deceived.

In Dijon, however, the facts were better known, and more understood. The Swiss newspapers, containing the Prussian official telegrams and accounts, arrived daily; and those who received them speedily spread the news through the town. The consternation was great, and general, but there was no sign of despair. Those of the Mobiles who were armed and equipped were sent off, at once, to Chalons. At every corner of the street were placards, calling out the Mobiles and soldiers who had served their time; and, although not yet called to arms, the national guard drilled in the Place d'Armes, morning and evening.

"You will allow, Richard, that you were mistaken as to the patriotism of the people," Mrs. Barclay said, one evening, to her husband. "Everyone is rushing to arms."

"They are coming out better than I had expected, Melanie; but at the same time, you will observe that they have no choice in the matter. The Mobiles are called out, and have to go. All who can raise the most frivolous pretext for exemption do so. There is a perfect rush of young men to the Prefecture, to obtain places in the clothing, medical, arming, and equipping departments; in any sort of service, in fact, which will exempt its holder from taking up arms.

"At the same time, there is a great deal of true, earnest patriotism. Many married men, with families, have volunteered; and those belonging to the categories called out do go, as you say, cheerfully, if not willingly and, once enrolled, appear determined to do their duty.

"France will need all the patriotism, and all the devotion of her people to get through the present crisis. There is no saying how it will end. I have no hope, whatever, that MacMahon's new army can arrest the march of the enemy; and his true course is to fall back upon Paris. Our chance, here, of remaining free from a visit of the enemy depends entirely upon the length of time which Strasburg and Metz hold out. Bazaine may be able to cut his way out but, at any rate, he is likely to remain where he is, for some little time, under the walls of Metz; for he occupies the attention of a considerably larger force than that which he commands.

"The vital point, at present, is to cut the roads behind the Germans. If it were not for this cork leg of mine, Melanie, I would try and raise a small guerrilla corps, and set out on my own account. I have lived here for seventeen years, now, and the French fought by our side, in the Crimea. Could I do so, I should certainly fight for France, now. It is clearly the duty of anyone who can carry a musket to go out."

Just at this moment the door opened, and Ralph and Percy entered hastily. They both looked excited, but serious.

"What is it, boys?"

"Papa," Ralph said, "there is a notice up, signed by your friend Captain Tempe. He calls for a hundred volunteers, to join a corps of franc tireurs--a sort of guerrillas, I believe--to go out to harass the Germans, and cut their communication. Those who can are to provide their own arms and equipments. A meeting is to be held, tonight, for subscribing the money for those who cannot afford to do so.

"We have come to ask you to let us join, papa. Louis and Philippe have just gone to ask uncle's leave."

Captain Barclay listened in silence, with a very grave face. Their mother sat down in a chair, with a white face.

"Oh, my boys, you are too young," she gasped out.

"We are stronger, mamma, than a great many of the men who have been called out; and taller and stouter, in every way. We can walk better than the greater portion of them. We are accustomed to exercise and fatigue. We are far more fit to be soldiers than many young men who have gone from here. You said yourself, mamma, that everyone who could carry a gun ought to go out."

"But you are not French, boys," Mrs. Barclay said, piteously.

"We are half French, mamma. Not legally, but it has been home to us, since we were born and, even if you had not been French, we ought to fight for her."

Mrs. Barclay looked at her husband for assistance, but Captain Barclay had leaned his face in his hands, and said nothing.

"Ah, Ralph; but Percy at least, he is only fifteen."

"I am nearly as big, nearly as strong as Ralph, mamma. Besides, would it not be better to have two of us? If one is ill or--or wounded--the other could look after him, you know.

"Mamma, dearest, we have talked it over, and we think we ought to go. We are very strong for our ages; and it is strength, not years, which matters. Mamma, you said a Frenchwoman should not grudge those she loves to France; and that if France was invaded all, even the women, should go out."

Mrs. Barclay was silent. She could not speak. She was so deadly pale, and her face had such an expression of misery, that the boys felt their resolution wavering.

Captain Barclay looked up.

"Boys," he said, very gravely, "I have one question to ask; which you will answer me truly, upon your faith and honor Do you wish to go merely--or principally--from a desire to see the excitement and the adventure of a guerrilla war; or do you go out because you desire earnestly to do your best, to defend the country in which you were born, and lived? Are you prepared to suffer any hardship and, if it is the will of God, to die for her?"

"We are, papa," both boys said.

And Ralph went on:

"When we first talked over the possibility of everyone being called out--and of our going, too--we did look upon it as a case of fun and excitement; but when the chance really came, we saw how serious it was. We knew how much it would cost you, and dear mamma; and we would not have asked you, had we not felt that we ought to go, even if we knew we should be killed."

"In that case, boys," Captain Barclay said, solemnly, rising and laying one hand on the shoulder of each of his sons, "in that case, I say no more. You are a soldier's sons, and your example may do good. It is your duty, and that of everyone, to fight for his country. I give you my full consent to go. I should not have advised it. At your age, there was no absolute duty. Still, if you feel it so, I will not stand in your way.

"Go then, my boys, and may God watch over you, and keep you, and send you safe home again."

So saying, he kissed them both on the forehead, and walked from the room without saying another word.

Then the boys turned to their mother, who was crying silently and, falling upon her neck, they kissed her and cried with her. It was understood that her consent was given, with their father's.

Milly, coming in and hearing what was the matter, sat down in sudden grief and astonishment on the nearest chair, and cried bitterly. It was a sad half hour, and the boys were almost inclined to regret that they had asked for leave to go. However, there was no drawing back now and, when they left their mother, they went on to tell their cousins that they were going.

They found Louis and Philippe in a state of great disappointment, because their father had altogether refused to listen to their entreaties. Upon hearing, however, that Ralph and Percy were going, they gained fresh hope; for they said, if English boys could go and fight for France, it was shameful that French boys should stay at home, in idleness.

Captain Barclay, after giving permission to his sons to go as franc tireurs, first went for a walk by himself, to think over the consequences of his decision. He then went down into Dijon, and called upon Captain Tempe. The commander of the proposed corps had served for many years in the Zouaves, and was known to be an able and energetic officer. He had left the service, five or six years previously, upon his marriage. He lived a short distance, only, from Captain Barclay; and a warm friendship had sprung up between them.

Upon Captain Barclay telling him why he had come to see him, Captain Tempe expressed his satisfaction at the decision of the young Barclays.

"I have already the names of one or two lads little, if any, older than your eldest boy," he said; "and although the other is certainly very young yet, as he is very stout and strong for his age, I have no doubt he will bear the fatigue as well as many of the men."

"I wish I could go with you," Captain Barclay said.

"I wish you could, indeed," Captain Tempe replied, warmly; "but with your leg you never could keep up, on foot; and a horse would be out of the question, among the forests of the Vosges mountains.

"You might, however--if you will--be of great use in assisting me to drill and discipline my recruits, before starting."

"That I will do, with pleasure," Captain Barclay said. "I had been thinking of offering my services, in that way, to the municipality; as very few of the officers of the Mobiles, still less of the national guard, know their duty. As it is, I will devote myself to your corps, till they march.

"In the first place, how strong do you mean them to be?"

"One strong company, say one hundred and twenty men," Captain Tempe answered. "More than that would be too unwieldy for guerrilla work. I would rather have twenty less, than more; indeed, I should be quite satisfied with a hundred. If I find that volunteers come in, in greater numbers than I can accept, I shall advise them to get up other, similar corps. There ought to be scores of small parties, hanging upon the rear and flank of the enemy, and interrupting his communication."

"How do you think of arming them?"

"Either with chassepots, or with your English rifles. It is of no use applying to Government. They will not be able to arm the Mobiles, for months; to say nothing of the national guard. We must buy the rifles in England, or Belgium. It will be difficult to get chassepots; so I think the best plan will be to decide, at once, upon your Sniders."

"I know a gentleman who is connected with these matters, in England; and will, if you like, send out an order at once for, say, eleven dozen Sniders; to be forwarded via Rouen, and thence by rail."

"I should be very glad if you would do so," Captain Tempe said. "I have no doubt about getting that number of recruits, easily enough. I have had a good many calls already, this morning; and several thousand francs of subscription have been promised. In another three or four days, the money will be ready; so if you write to your friends, to make an agreement with a manufacturer, I can give you the money by the time his answer arrives. When the guns arrive, those who can pay for them will do so, and the rest will be paid for by the subscriptions.

"Of course, we shall want them complete with bayonets. If, at the same time, you can order ammunition--say, two hundred rounds for each rifle--it would be, perhaps, a saving of time; as the Government may not be able to supply any, at first. However, after the meeting, this evening, I shall see how the subscriptions come in; and we can settle on these points, tomorrow. The municipality will help, I have no doubt."

"What is your idea as to equipment, Tempe?"

"As light as possible. Nothing destroys the go of men more than to be obliged to carry heavy weights on their shoulders. We shall be essentially guerrillas Our attacks, to be successful, must be surprises. Speed, therefore, and the power to march long distances, are the first of essentials.

"I do not propose to carry knapsacks--mere haversacks, bags capable of containing a spare shirt, a couple of pairs of socks, and three days' biscuits. Each man must also carry a spare pair of boots, strapped to his belt, behind. A thick blanket--with a hole cut for the head, so as to make a cloak by day, a cover by night--will be carried, rolled up over one shoulder like a scarf; and each man should carry a light, waterproof coat.

"I do not propose to take even tents d'abri. They add considerably to the weight and, unless when we are actually engaged in expeditions, we shall make our headquarters at some village; when the men can be dispersed among the cottages, or sleep in stables, or barns. When on expeditions, they must sleep in the open air."

"I quite approve of your plan," Captain Barclay said. "Exclusive of his rifle and ammunition, the weight need not be above fifteen pounds a man and, with this, they ought to be able to march, and fight, with comfort. The way your soldiers march out, laden like beasts of burden, is absurd. It is impossible for men either to march, or fight, with a heavy load upon their backs.

"Have you thought about uniform?"

"No, I have not settled at all. I thought of letting the men fix upon one of their own choice."

"Do nothing of the sort," Captain Barclay said. "The men will only think of what is most becoming, or picturesque. You cannot do better than fix upon some good, serviceable uniform of a dark-grayish color; something similar to that of some of our English Volunteer Corps. I will give you a drawing of it.

"Let the tunics be made of a thick and good cloth. Let the men have short trousers--or, as we call them, knickerbockers--with leather gaiters and lace boots. The shoes of your soldier are altogether a mistake. I will bring you a sketch, tomorrow; and you will see that it is neat, as well as serviceable."

"Thank you.

"By the way, I suppose that you have no objection to my mentioning, at the meeting this evening, that your sons have joined? If there should be any inclination to hang back--which I hope there will not be--the fact that your boys have joined may decide many who would otherwise hesitate."

"Certainly.

"I will not detain you longer, at present. I shall see you in a day or two, and any assistance which I can give is at your service."

"Thanks very much. I only wish that you could go with us.

"Goodbye. Tell the boys that their names are down, and that we shall begin drill in a day or two."

Chapter 3: Death To The Spy!

The next morning Madame Duburg arrived, at ten o'clock; an hour at which she had never, as far as Mrs. Barclay knew, turned out of her house since her marriage. She was actually walking fast, too. It was evident that something serious was the matter.

Mrs. Barclay was in the garden, and her visitor came straight out from the house to her.

"Is anything the matter?" was Mrs. Barclay's first question.

"Yes, a great deal is the matter," Madame Duburg began, vehemently. "You and your English husband are mad. Your wretched boys are mad. They have made my sons mad, also; and--my faith--I believe that my husband will catch it. It is enough to make me, also, mad."

Notwithstanding the trouble in which Mrs. Barclay was, at the resolution of her sons, she could scarcely help smiling at the excitement of Madame Duburg; the cause of which she at once guessed. However, she asked, with an air of astonishment:

"My dear sister-in-law, what can you be talking about?"

"I know what I say," Madame Duburg continued. "I always said that you were mad, you and your husband, to let your boys go about and play, and tear and bruise themselves like wild Indians. I always knew that harm would come of it, when I saw my boys come in hot--oh, so unpleasantly hot, to look at--but I did not think of such harm as this. My faith, it is incredible. When I heard that you were to marry yourself to an Englishman, I said at once:

"'It is bad, harm will come of it. These English are islanders. They are eccentric. They are mad. They sell their wives in the market, with a cord round their neck.'"

"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay interrupted, "I have so often assured you that that absurd statement was entirely false; and due only to the absolute ignorance, of our nation, of everything outside itself."

"I have heard it often," Madame Duburg went on, positively. "They are a nation of singularities. I doubt not that it is true, he has hidden the truth from you. True or false, I care not. They are mad. For this I care not. My faith, I have not married an Englishman. Why, then, should I care for the madness of this nation of islanders?

"This I said, when I heard that you were to marry an Englishman. Could I imagine that I, also, was to become a victim? Could I suppose that my husband--a man sensible in most things--would also become mad; that my boys would grow up like young savages, and would offer themselves to go out to sleep without beds, to catch colds, to have red noses and coughs, perhaps even--my faith--to be killed by the balls of German pigs? My word of honor, I ask myself:

"'Am I living in France? Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Am I, too, mad?'

"I said to myself:

"'I shall go to my sister-in-law, and I will demand of her, is it possible that these things are true?'"

"If you mean by all this, sister-in-law, is it true that I have consented to my boys going out to fight for France, it is quite true," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly.

Madame Duburg sat down upon a garden seat, raised her hands, and nodded her head slowly and solemnly.

"She says it is true, she actually says that it is true."

"Why should they not go?" Mrs. Barclay continued, quietly. "They are strong enough to carry arms, and why should they not go out to defend their country? In a short time, it is likely that everyone who can carry arms will have to go. I shall miss them sorely, it is a terrible trial; but other women have to see their sons go out, why should not I?"

"Because there is no occasion for it, at all," Madame Duburg said, angrily; "because they are boys and not men, because their father is English; and stupid men like my husband will say, if these young English boys go, it will be a shame upon us for our own to remain behind.

"What, I ask you, is the use of being well off? What is the use of paying taxes for an army, if our boys must fight? It is absurd, it is against reason, it is atrocious."

Madame Duburg's anger and remonstrance were, alike, lost upon Mrs. Barclay; and she cut her visitor short.

"My dear sister-in-law, it is of no use arguing or talking. I consider, rightly or wrongly, that the claims of our country stand before our private convenience, or inconvenience. If I were a man, I should certainly go out to fight; why should not my boys do so, if they choose? At any rate, I have given my consent, and it is too late to draw back, even if I wished to do so--which I say, frankly, that I do not."

Madame Duburg took her departure, much offended and, late in the evening, her husband came in and had a long talk with Captain Barclay. The following morning Louis and Philippe came in--in a high state of delight--to say that their father had, that morning, given his consent to their going.

In three days after the opening of the list, a hundred and twenty men had inscribed their names; and Captain Tempe refused to admit more. Numbers were, he argued, a source of weakness rather than of strength, when the men were almost entirely ignorant of drill. For sudden attacks, for night marches, for attacks upon convoys, number is less needed than dash and speed. Among large bodies discipline cannot be kept up, except by immense severity upon the part of the officers; or by the existence of that feeling of discipline and obedience, among the men, which is gained only by long custom to military habits. Besides which, the difficulty of obtaining provisions for a large body of men would be enormous.

Indeed, Captain Tempe determined to organize even this small corps into four companies, each of thirty men; to act under one head, and to join together upon all occasions of important expeditions; but at other times to be divided among villages, at such distance as would enable them to watch a large extent of country, each company sending out scouts and outposts in its own neighborhood.

By far the larger proportion of those who joined were either proprietors, or the sons of proprietors, in and around Dijon. At that time Government had made no arrangement, whatever, concerning franc tireurs; and no pay was, therefore, available. The invitation was, therefore, especially to those willing and able to go out upon their own account, and at their own expense. Other recruits had been invited but, as these could join the regular forces and receive pay, and other advantages, the number who sent in their names was small. The men who did so were, for the most part, picked men; foresters, wood cutters, and others who preferred the certainty of active and stirring service, among the franc tireurs, to the pay and comparative monotony of the regular service. There were some forty of these men among the corps, the rest being all able to provide at least their outfit. Subscriptions had come in rapidly and, in a week, an ample sum was collected to arm and equip all those not able to do so for themselves; and to form a military chest sufficient to pay for the food of the whole corps, in the field, for some time.

When the list of volunteers was complete, a meeting was held at which, for the first time, the future comrades met. Besides Ralph and Percy, and their cousins, there were six or eight others of their school friends, all lads of about sixteen. It was an important moment in their lives, when they then felt themselves--if not actually men--at least, as going to do the work of men. Upon the table in the room in which the meeting was held was a document, which each in turn was to sign and, behind this, Captain Tempe took his seat.

As many of those present knew each other, there was a considerable buzz and talk in the room, until Captain Tempe tapped the table for silence, and then rose to speak.

"My friends," he began, "--for I cannot call you comrades, until you have formally entered your names--before you irrevocably commit yourselves to this affair, I wish you each to know exactly what it is that we are going to do. This will be no holiday expedition. I can promise all who go with me plenty of excitement, and a great deal of fighting; but I can also promise them, with equal certainty, an immense deal of suffering--an amount of hardship and privation of which, at present, few here have any idea, whatever. The winter is fast coming on, and winter in the Vosges mountains is no trifle. Let no one, then, put down his name here who is not prepared to suffer every hardship which it is well possible to suffer.

"As to the danger, I say nothing. You are Frenchmen; and have come forward to die, if needs be, for your country."

Here the speaker was interrupted by loud cheering, and cries of "Vive la France!"

"Next, as to discipline. This is an extremely important point. In our absence from military stations, it is essential that we, ourselves, should keep and enforce the strictest discipline. I have this morning received from General Palikao--under whom I served, for many years--an answer to an application I wrote to him, a week since. He highly approves of my plan of cutting the roads behind the Prussians, and only wishes that he had a hundred small corps out upon the same errand. He has already received other proposals of the same nature. He enclosed, with his letter, my formal appointment as Commandant of the Corps of Franc Tireurs of Dijon; with full military authority, and power."

Great cheering again broke out.

"This power, in case of need, I warn you that I shall use unhesitatingly. Discipline, in a corps like ours, is everything. There must be no murmuring, under hardships; no hesitation in obeying any order, however unpleasant. Prompt, willing, cheerful obedience when at work; a warm friendship, and perfect good fellowship at other times: this is my programme."

The speaker was again interrupted with hearty cheering.

"I intend to divide the corps into four companies, each of thirty men. Each company will have an officer; and will, at times, act independently of each other. I have deliberated whether it is best to allow each company to choose its own officer, or whether to nominate them myself. I have determined to adopt the latter course. You can hardly be such good judges, as to the qualities required by officers during an expedition like the present, as I am; and as I know every man here, and as I shall have the opportunity of seeing more of each man, during the three weeks which we shall spend here upon drill, I shall then choose an officer for each company; but I will leave it to each company to decide whether to accept my choice, or not. There may be points in a man's character which may make him unpopular.

"Now, as to drill. We have three weeks before us. Not long enough to make men good soldiers; but amply sufficient--with hard work--to make them good skirmishers. I have already arranged with four men who have served as non-commissioned officers in the army, one of whom will take each company.

"Captain Barclay--who is well known to most of you--has kindly offered to give musketry instruction, for four hours each morning. Ten men of each company will go, each morning for a week, to drill at the range; so that, in three weeks, each man will have had a week's instruction. The hours will be from seven to eleven. The others will drill during the same hours.

"All will drill together, in the afternoon, from three to six. The officer commanding the troops, here, has promised us the loan of a hundred and twenty old guns, which are in store; and also of twenty chassepots for rifle practice.

"That is all I have to say. All who are ready and willing to enter, upon these terms, can now sign their names. Those who are not perfectly sure of their own willingness can draw back, before it is too late."

When the cheering ceased, each man came forward and signed his name.

"The first parade will take place, at seven tomorrow morning, in the Place d'Armes. A suit of uniform, complete, will be exhibited here at twelve o'clock. A man has offered to supply them, at contract prices; but any who prefer it can have it made by their own tailor.

"Now, good night, boys."

"Vive les franc tireurs du Dijon!"

"Vive la France!" and, with a cheer, the men separated.

The next morning the corps met, and were divided into companies. The division was alphabetical, and the young Barclays and Duburgs were all in the first company. This was a matter of great pleasure to them, as they had been afraid that they might have been separated.

The following day, drill began in earnest and, accustomed as the boys were to exercise, they found seven hours a day hard work of it. Still, they felt it very much less than many of the young men who, for years, had done little but lounge in cafes, or stroll at the promenade. All, however, stuck to their work and, as their hearts were in it, it was surprising how quickly they picked up the rudiments of drill. Fortunately, they were not required to learn anything beyond the management of their firearms, the simplest movements, and the duty of skirmishers; as all complicated maneuvers would have been useless, in a small corps whose duties would be confined entirely to skirmishing.

With this branch of their work, Captain Tempe was determined that they should be thoroughly acquainted, and they were taught how to use cover of all kinds with advantage; how to defend a building, crenelate a wall, fell trees to form an obstacle across roads, or a breastwork in front of them; and how to throw themselves into square, rapidly, to repel cavalry.

Captain Barclay was indefatigable as a musketry instructor and, with the aid of a few friends, got up a subscription which was spent in a number of small prizes, so as to give the men as much interest as possible in their work. Captain Tempe impressed most strenuously, upon the men, the extreme importance of proficiency in shooting; as it was upon the accuracy and deadliness of their fire that they would have to rely, to enable them to contend with superior forces in the combats they would have to go through; and each man would probably have frequently to depend, for his life, upon the accuracy of his fire.

The original plan--of instructing a third of the men, each week, in musketry--was abandoned; and the parties were changed each day, in order to enable all to advance at an equal rate. Besides, their ammunition was supplied; so that those who chose to do so could practice shooting, for their own amusement, between their morning and afternoon drill.

The Barclays were constant in their attendance at the shooting ground; and the steady hand and eye which cricket, fencing, and other exercises had given them now stood them in good stead for, by the end of the time, they became as good marksmen as any in the corps. They still lived at home, as did all those members of the corps whose residences were in and around Dijon. For those who lived too far away to come in and out every day to drill, a large empty barn was taken, and fitted up as a temporary barracks.

The time did not pass away without great excitement for, as the end of August drew on, everyone was watching, in deep anxiety, for the news of a battle near Chalons--where MacMahon had been organizing a fresh army. Then came the news that the camp at Chalons was broken up, and that MacMahon was marching to the relief of Bazaine. Two or three days of anxious expectation followed; and then--on the 3rd of September--came the news, through Switzerland, of the utter defeat and surrender of the French army, at Sedan.

At first, the news seemed too terrible to be true. People seemed stunned at the thought of a hundred thousand Frenchmen laying down their arms. Two days later came the news of the revolution in Paris. This excited various emotions among the people; but the prevailing idea seemed to be that--now there was a republic--past disasters would be retrieved.

"What do you think of the news, papa?" the boys asked as, drill over, they hurried up to talk the matter over with their father.

"With any other people, I should consider it to be the most unfortunate event which could have possibly occurred," Captain Barclay said. "A change of Government--involving a change of officials throughout all the departments, and a perfect upset of the whole machinery of organization--appears little short of insanity. At the same time, it is possible that it may arouse such a burst of national enthusiasm that the resistance which, as far as the civil population is concerned, has as yet been contemptible--in fact, has not been attempted at all--may become of so obstinate and desperate a character that the Prussians may be fairly wearied out.

"There is scarcely any hope of future victories in the field. Raw levies, however plucky, can be no match for such troops as the Prussians, in the open. The only hope is in masses of franc tireurs upon the rear and flanks of the enemy. Every bridge, every wood, every village should be defended to the death. In this way the Prussians would only hold the ground they stand on; and it would be absolutely impossible for them to feed their immense armies, or to bring up their siege materiel against Paris.

"The spirit to do this may possibly be excited by the revolution; otherwise, France is lost. Success alone can excuse it; for a more senseless, more unjustifiable, more shameful revolution was, in my mind, never made. It has been effected purely by the Radicals and roughs of Paris--the men who have, for years, been advocating a war with Prussia; and who, a month ago, were screaming 'To Berlin.' For these men to turn round upon the Emperor in his misfortune and, without consulting the rest of France, to effect a revolution, is in my mind simply infamous.

"Even regarded as a matter of policy, it is bad in the extreme. Austria, Italy, and Russia--to say nothing of England--would, sooner or later, have interfered in favor of an established empire; but their sympathies will be chilled by this revolution. The democratic party in all these countries may exult, but the extreme democratic party do not hold the reins of power anywhere; and their monarchs will certainly not feel called upon to assist to establish a republic.

"Prussia herself--intensely aristocratic in her institutions--will probably refuse to treat, altogether, with the schemers who have seized the power; for the King of Prussia is perhaps the greatest hater of democracy in Europe.

"Still, boys, these changes make no difference in your duty. You are fighting for France, not for an empire or a republic and, as long as France resists, it is your duty to continue. In fact, it is now more than ever the duty of you, and of every Frenchman, to fight. Her army is entirely gone; and it is simply upon the pluck and energy of her population that she has to trust."

"Do you think Paris will hold out, papa?"

"She is sure to do so, boys. She has made the revolution, and she is bound to defend it. I know Paris well. The fortifications are far too strong to be taken by a sudden attack, and it will be a long time before the Prussians can bring up a siege train. Paris will only be starved out and, if her people are only half as brave as they are turbulent, they ought to render it impossible for the Prussians to blockade such an immense circle. At any rate, France has two months; perhaps much longer, but two months ought to be quite enough, if her people have but spirit to surround the enemy, to cut off his supplies, and to force him to retreat."

The next morning, when the corps assembled for drill, Captain Tempe addressed them on the subject of the events in Paris. He told them that, whether they approved or disapproved of what had taken place there, their duty as Frenchmen was plain. For the present they were not politicians, but patriots; and he hoped that not a word of politics would be spoken in the corps, but that everyone would give his whole thought, his whole strength and, if must be, his life in the cause of France.

His address was greatly applauded, and gave immense satisfaction to the men; for already differences of opinion were becoming manifest among them. Some had exulted loudly at the downfall of Napoleon; others had said little, but their gloomy looks had testified sufficiently what were their opinions; while many among the gentlemen in the corps, especially those belonging to old families, were well known to be attached either to a Legitimist or Orleanist Prince. The proposal, therefore, that no politics should be discussed during the war, but that all should remember only that they were fighting for France, gave great satisfaction; and promised a continuance of the good fellowship which had hitherto reigned in the corps.

It was a great day when, a fortnight from its first organization, the corps turned out for the first time in their uniforms. The band of the national guard headed them, as they marched down the high street of Dijon to the parade ground; and--as the spectators cheered, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the whole corps joined in cheers, to the stirring notes of the Marseillaise--the young Barclays felt their cheeks flush, their hands tighten upon their rifles, and their hearts beat with a fierce longing to be face to face with the hated Prussians.

A day or two after this, the Snider rifles ordered from England by Captain Barclay arrived; and although the men at first preferred the chassepots, with which they were familiar, they were soon accustomed to the new weapons; and readily acknowledged the advantage which--as their commander pointed out to them--the dark-brown barrels possessed, for skirmishers, over the bright barrels of the chassepots which, with the sun shining upon them, would betray them to an enemy miles away.

A day or two afterwards, as Ralph and Percy were returning in the evening from drill, they heard a great tumult in the streets. They hurried forward to see what was the matter, and found an excited crowd shouting and gesticulating.

"Death to the spy!"

"Death to the spy!"

"Hang him!"

"Kill the dog!" were the shouts, and two gendarmes in the center of the crowd were vainly trying to protect a man who was walking between them. He was a tall, powerful-looking man; but it was impossible to see what he was like, for the blood was streaming down his forehead, from a blow he had just received.

Just as the boys came up, another blow from a stick fell on his head; and this served to rouse him to desperation, for he turned round, with one blow knocked down the fellow who had struck him, and then commenced a furious attack upon his persecutors. For a moment they drew back, and then closed upon him again. Blows from sticks and hands rained upon him, but he struggled desperately. At last, overwhelmed by numbers, he fell; and as he did so he raised a wild shout, "Hurroo for ould Ireland."

"He is an Englishman, Percy," Ralph exclaimed; "he is not a Prussian, at all. Come on!

"Here, Louis, Philippe, help; they are killing an Englishman."

Followed by their cousins--who had just arrived at the spot--the boys made a rush through the crowd; and arrived in another moment by the prostrate man, whom his assailants were kicking savagely. The rush of the four boys--aided by the butt-end of their rifles, which they used freely on the ribs of those who stood in their way--cleared off the assailants for an instant; and the two gendarmes--who had been hustled away--drawing their swords, again took their place by the side of their insensible prisoner.

The mob had only recoiled for a moment; and now, furious at being baulked of their expected prey, prepared to rush upon his defenders; shouting, as they did so:

"Death to the spy!"

The moment's delay had, however, given time to the boys to fix bayonets.

"Keep off," Ralph shouted, "or we run you through! The man is not a spy, I tell you. He is an Englishman."

The noise was too great for the words to be heard and, with cries of "Death to the spy!" the men in front prepared for a rush. The leveled bayonets and drawn swords, however, for a moment checked their ardor; but those behind kept up the cry, and a serious conflict would have ensued, had not a party of five or six of the franc tireurs come along at the moment.

These--seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets, keeping the mob at bay--without asking any questions, at once burst their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left, heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.

Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and--the supposed spy being laid down on the bench--cold water was dashed in his face; and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.

"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly blackguards!

"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.

"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be afraid, you're safe now."

"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as illegant English as I do, meself."

"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another minute or two, and we should have been too late."

"God bless your honor!" the man--who had now thoroughly recovered himself--said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely. You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a thick stick, Tim's the boy."

"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."

"Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."

The gendarmes now intimated that, as the prisoner was restored, he must go in at once before the Maire. The young Barclays accompanied him, and acted as interpreters at the examination. The story was a simple one, and the passport and other papers upon the Irishman proved its truth conclusively.

Tim was an Irishman, who had come out as groom with an English gentleman. His master had fallen ill at Lyons, had parted with his horses and carriage, and returned to England. Tim had accepted the offer of the horse dealer who had purchased the horses to remain in his service, and had been with him six months when the war broke out. He had picked up a little French, but had been several times arrested in Lyons, as a spy; and his master had at last told him that it was not safe for him to remain, and that he had better return to England.

He had reached Dijon on that morning; but the train, instead of going on, had been stopped, as large numbers of Mobiles were leaving for Paris, and the ordinary traffic was suspended. Tim had therefore passed the day strolling about Dijon. The hour had approached at which he had been told that a train might leave, and Tim had asked a passer by the way to the station.

His broken French at once aroused suspicion. A crowd collected in a few minutes; and Tim was, in the first place, saved from being attacked by the arrival of two gendarmes upon the scene. He had at once told them that he was English, and had produced his passport; and they had decided upon taking him to the Maire, for the examination of his papers--but on the way the crowd, increased by fresh arrivals, had determined to take the law into their own hands; and only the arrival of the young Barclays, and their cousins, had saved his life.

The Maire saw at once, upon examination of the papers, that the story was correct; and pronounced that Tim was at liberty to go where he pleased. The poor fellow, however--though he made light of his wounds and bruises--was much shaken; and it would, moreover, have been dangerous for him to venture again into the streets of Dijon. Ralph therefore at once offered to take him out, and to give him a night's shelter; an offer which the Irishman accepted, with many thanks.

It was now getting dark and, accompanied by their cousins, the Barclays were let out with Tim Doyle from a back entrance to the Maine; and made their way unnoticed through the town; and arrived, half an hour later, at home. Captain and Mrs. Barclay, upon hearing the story, cordially approved of what the boys had done; and Captain Barclay having--in spite of Tim's earnest remonstrance that it was of no consequence in the world--put some wet rags upon the most serious of the wounds, bandaged up his head, and sent him at once to bed.

In the morning, when the lads started for drill, the Irishman was still in bed; but when they returned to dinner, they found him working in the garden, as vigorously as if the events of the previous day had been a mere dream. When he saw them coming, he stuck his spade into the ground and went forward to meet them.

"God bless your honors, but I'm glad to see you again; and to thank you for saving my life, which them bastes had made up their minds they were going to have. I ain't good at talking, your honors; but if it's the last drop of my blood that would be of any use to you, you'd be heartily welcome to it."

"I am very glad we arrived in time, Tim," Ralph said. "And it's lucky for you that you shouted 'Hurrah for old Ireland!' as you went down; for of course we had no idea you were a countryman and, although we were disgusted at the brutality of that cowardly mob, we could hardly have interfered between them and a German spy.

"What are you thinking of doing now? It will hardly be safe for you to travel through France while this madness about spies lasts for, with your broken French, you would be getting taken up continually."

"I'm not thinking of it at all, your honor," the Irishman said. "The master has been telling me that your honors are starting for the war, and so I've made up my mind that I shall go along wid ye."

The boys laughed.

"You are not in earnest, Tim?"

"As sure as the Gospels, your honor I've served five years in the Cork Militia, and wore the badge as a marksman; and so I mean to 'list, and go as your honors' sarvint."

"But you can't do that, Tim, even if we would let you," Ralph laughed. "There won't be any servants at all."

"Sure, your honor is mistaken, entirely," Tim said, gravely. "In the sarvice, a soldier is always told off as a sarvint for each officer."

"But we are not going as officers, Tim," Percy said. "We are going as simple soldiers."

"What! Going as privates?" Tim Doyle said, in astonishment. "Does your honor mane to say that you are going to shoulder a firelock, and just go as privates?"

"That's it, Tim. You see, this is not a regular regiment; it is a corps of irregulars, and more than half the privates are gentlemen."

"Holy Mother!" ejaculated Tim, in astonishment, "did one ever hear of the like?"

Then, after a pause:

"Then your honor will want a sarvint more than iver. Who is to clean your boots, and to pipeclay your belts; to wash your linen, to clean your firelock, and cook your dinners, and pitch your tent, if you don't have a sarvint? The thing's against nature, entirely."

"We shall do it all ourselves, Tim--that is to say, as far as cleaning the rifles, washing our linen, and cooking the dinner. As for the other things, I don't suppose we shall ever have our boots cleaned; we have no white belts to pipeclay, for they are made of buff leather; and we shall not have to pitch tents, for we don't take them with us, but shall, when necessary, sleep in the open air."

Tim was too surprised to speak, for a time. At last, he said doggedly:

"Sarvint or no sarvint, your honor, it is evident that it's rough times you're going to have; and Tim Doyle will be there with you, as sure as the piper."

"We should like you with us very much, Tim, if you make up your mind to go," Ralph said; "but the corps is quite full. We have refused dozens of recruits."

Tim looked downcast. At last he said:

"Well, your honor, it may be that they won't have me as a soldier; but I'll go sure enough, if I die for it. There's no law to punish a man for walking after a regiment of soldiers and, wherever your regiment goes, sure enough I'll tramp after ye. There's many an odd way I might make myself useful, and they'll soon get used to see me about, and let me come and go into the camp."

No persuasion could alter Tim's determination and, as they felt that having so attached a fellow near them might be of real utility, and comfort, when the boys went down in the afternoon they spoke to Captain Tempe about it. At first he said that it was impossible, as he had already refused so many offers of service; but upon hearing all the story, and thinking the matter over, he said suddenly:

"By the bye, there is a way by which he might go with us. You know I have ordered a light two-wheel cart, built very strong for the mountains, to carry our spare ammunition, powder for blowing up bridges, cooking pots, and stores. I have not engaged a driver as yet. If your Irishman--who you say understands horses--likes to go as a driver, to begin with, I will promise him the first vacant rifle. I fear that he will not have long to wait, after we once get near the enemy; and as he has already served, you say, he will be better than a new recruit, and we can get a countryman to take his place with the cart."

Upon their return in the evening with the news, Tim Doyle's joy knew no bound; and he whooped and shouted, till Milly laughed so that she had to beg of him to stop.

The next day, Tim went down with Captain Barclay and signed the engagement. He remained with the captain during the time that the latter was giving his instructions in musketry--entering upon his duties in connection with the corps by going down to the butts, and acting as marker--and then returned with him to the cottage; as it was agreed that he had better remain there, quietly, until the corps was ready to march--as, if he were to venture alone in the town, he might at any time be subject to a repetition of the attack upon the day of his arrival.

At the cottage he soon became a general favorite His desire to make himself useful in any way, his fund of fun and good temper, pleased everyone. Even Marie and Jeannette--the two servants, who could not understand a word of what he said--were in a constant broad grin, at the pantomime by which he endeavored to eke out his few words of French. Milly became quite attached to him; and Captain and Mrs. Barclay both felt cheered, and comforted, at the thought that this devoted fellow would be at hand to look after and assist the boys, in time of danger, suffering, or sickness.

Chapter 4: Starting For The Vosges.

The day for the departure of the corps was near at hand. The party at the Barclays were all filled with sadness, at the thoughts of separation; but all strove to hide their feelings, for the sake of the others. Captain and Mrs. Barclay were anxious that the boys should leave in good spirits, and high hope; while the boys wished to keep up an appearance of merely going upon an ordinary excursion, in order to cheer their parents.

The day before starting, the whole corps marched to the cathedral; where mass was celebrated, a sermon preached, and a blessing solemnly prayed for for them. The boys had asked their father if he had any objections to their taking part in this ceremonial, in a Roman Catholic Church; but Captain Barclay had at once said that, upon the contrary, he should wish them to do so. Protestants might not approve of many things in the Catholic Church; but that could be no reason, whatever, against a Protestant taking part in a solemn prayer to God, wherever that prayer might be offered up.

The young Duburgs were unaffectedly glad that the time for their departure had come, for the month that had passed had been a most unpleasant one to them. Their mother had in vain tried to persuade them to stay; first by entreaty, and then by anger and, finding these means fail, she had passed her time either in sullen silence, or in remaining in bed; declaring that her nerves were utterly shattered, and that she should never survive it. She had refused to see Mrs. Barclay when the latter called, a day or two after their visit to the cottage, and she had not been near her since. Julie and Justine were forbidden to go in to see Milly and, altogether, there was quite an estrangement between the two families.

The boys however were, of course, constantly together; and Monsieur Duburg came in as usual, every day or two, for a chat with Captain Barclay.

September the fifteenth--the day of separation--arrived. They were to march at eight in the morning; and left home, therefore, at seven. This was so far fortunate that it left less time for the painful adieus. Captain Barclay had a long talk with the boys the night before, repeating all the hints and instructions which he had before given them.

It is not necessary to describe the parting. Every one of my readers can imagine for themselves how sad was the scene. How Milly sobbed aloud, in spite of her efforts; how Mrs. Barclay kissed her boys, and then ran up to her own room to cry alone; how their father wrung their hands and, after giving them his blessing, turned hastily away, that they might not see the tears which he could not keep back; and how the boys, in spite of their uniform and their dignity as soldiers, cried, too. Tim Doyle had gone on an hour before, taking their blankets; so they had nothing to do but to snatch up their guns and hasten away, half blinded with tears, towards the town. They reached it just as the bugle sounded the assembly. By this time they had steadied themselves and, in the work of preparing for the start, soon lost all feeling of despondency.

It would be difficult to find a more workmanlike little corps than the franc tireurs of Dijon as, with the band of the national guard at their head, playing the Marseillaise, they marched through the old city. Their uniform was a brownish gray Their blankets--rolled up tight and carried, like a scarf, over one shoulder and under the other arm--were brown, also. Their belts and gaiters were of buff leather. Their caps had flat peaks, to shade their eyes; but round the cap was rolled a flap lined with fur, which let down over the ears and back of the neck, tying under the chin. On the outer side of the fur was thin India-rubber, to throw the rain off down over the light waterproof cloaks; which each man carried in a small case, slung to his belt. The waterproof on the caps, when rolled up, did not show; the caps then looking like fur caps, with a peak.

Slung over the shoulder, on the opposite side to the blanket, was a haversack--or stout canvas bag--brown like the rest of the equipments. Each bag was divided into two compartments; the larger one holding a spare shirt, a few pairs of socks and handkerchiefs, a comb, and other small necessaries. In the other, bread, biscuits or other provisions could be carried. Each man had also a water bottle, slung over his shoulder.

On either side of the ammunition pouch, behind, was strapped a new boot; so placed that it in no way interfered with the bearer getting at the pouch. Next was fastened the tin box; the lid of which forms a plate, the bottom a saucepan or frying pan. On one side hung the bayonet; upon the other a hatchet, a pick, or a short-handled shovel--each company having ten of each implement.

It will be judged that this was a heavy load, but the articles were all necessaries; and the weight over and above the rifle and ammunition was not--even including the pick or shovel--more than half that ordinarily carried by a French soldier.

At the head of the corps marched its commandant. The French term commandant answers to an English major, and he will therefore in future be termed Major Tempe. Each of the four companies was also headed by its officer. Major Tempe had chosen for these posts four men who, like himself, had served--three in the army, and one in the navy. He had written to them as soon as the corps was organized, and they had arrived ten days before the start. One or two only of the franc tireurs--who had entertained a hope of being made officers--were at first a little discontented but, as it was evidently vastly to the advantage of the corps to have experienced officers, the appointments gave great satisfaction to the rest of the men. Fortunately, there were in the ranks several men who had served as privates or non-commissioned officers; and from these Major Tempe selected a sergeant, and a corporal, for each company.

Behind the corps followed the cart; loaded with the stores of the corps, a considerable amount of ammunition, two or three cases of gun cotton for blowing up bridges, several small barrels of powder, a large quantity of fine iron wire, three or four crowbars, bags of coffee and rice, and a keg of brandy, four kettles and as many large saucepans, together with all sorts of odds and ends. By the side of the horse walked Tim Doyle; dressed in the uniform of the corps, but without the equipments, and with a long blouse worn over his tunic. He was, in fact, already enrolled as an active member of the corps. This was done, in the first place, at his own earnest request; and upon the plea that thus only could he escape the chance of being seized as a spy, whenever he might for a moment be separated from the corps; and also that, unless he had a uniform like the rest, how could he take any vacancy in the ranks, even when it should occur?

Major Tempe, in exceeding the hundred and twenty determined upon, was influenced partly by these arguments; but more by the fact that difficulties would arise about food, cooking, and various other points, if the driver were not upon the same footing as the rest of the corps.

The march was not a long one--only to the railway station. A few carriages, with a truck for the cart, and a horse box, were drawn up alongside the platform in readiness; and in ten minutes more all were in their places, the carriages attached to the ordinary train and--amidst great cheering and waving of handkerchiefs and hats, from hundreds of people collected in the station to see them off--they started for the Vosges.

Railway traveling, at no time rapid, was extremely slow at this period; and it was evening before they arrived at Epinal, where they were to pass the night. The journey, shortened by innumerable songs and choruses, had scarcely seemed long. The railway ran throughout its whole distance through pretty, undulating country; indeed, towards the end of their journey, when they were fairly among the Vosges, the scenery became wild and savage. At Vesoul, which was about halfway, the train had stopped for two hours; and here wine, bread and cheese, cold sausages, and fruits were distributed to the men by the inhabitants--who were assembled in large numbers at the station, and gave the corps an enthusiastic reception. They were the first band of franc tireurs who had passed through, and the inhabitants regarded them as protectors against the wandering Uhlans; whose fame, although as yet far off, had caused them to be regarded with an almost superstitious fear.

At Epinal, a similar and even warmer greeting awaited them; Epinal being so much nearer to the enemy that the fear of Uhlans was more acute. The station was decorated with green boughs; and the Maire, with many of the leading inhabitants, was at the station to receive them. The corps formed upon the platform; and then marched through the little town to the Hotel de Ville, loudly cheered by the people as they passed along. Here they were dismissed, with the order to parade again at half-past four in the morning.

There was no trouble as to billets for the night, as the Maire had already made out a list of the inhabitants who had offered accommodation--the number being greatly in excess of the strength of the corps. These persons now came forward, and each took off the number of franc tireurs who had been allotted to them.

The sergeant of the first company, knowing the relationship and friendship of the young Barclays and Duburgs, had promised them that--when practicable--he would always quarter them together. Upon the present occasion, the four were handed over to a gentleman whose house was a short distance outside the town. Upon the way, he chatted to them on the proposed course of the corps, upon its organization and discipline; and they asked for the first time the question which was so often, in future, to be upon their lips:

"Had he any news of the enemy?"

The answer was that none, as yet, had come south of Luneville; and that indeed, at present they were too much occupied at Metz, and Strasburg, to be able to detach any formidable parties. Small bodies of Uhlans occasionally had made raids, and driven in sheep and cattle; but they had not ventured to trust themselves very far into the mountains.

Upon arriving at the residence of their host, they were most kindly received by his wife and daughter; who, however, could not refrain from expressing their surprise at the youthfulness of their guests.

"But these are mere boys!" the lady said to her husband, in German; "are all the franc tireurs like these?"

"Oh no," her husband said, in the same language, "the greater part are sturdy fellows but, as they marched by, I observed some twelve or fourteen who were scarcely out of their boyhood.

"It is cruelty to send such youngsters out as these. What can they do against these Prussians, who have beaten our best soldiers?"

"Fortunately," Ralph said in German--which he spoke fluently, as has already been stated--and with a merry laugh--which showed that he was not offended at the remark--"fortunately, fighting now is not an affair of spears and battle axes Age has nothing to do with shooting; and as for fatigue, we shall not be the first in the corps to give up."

"I must really apologize very much, but I had no idea that you understood German, or I should not have made any remarks," the lady said, smiling; "but so few French boys, out of Alsace, do understand it that it never struck me that you spoke the language. You will find it an immense advantage for, outside the towns, you will scarcely meet a person understanding French. But I am sure you must be all very hungry, and supper is quite ready."

They were soon seated at a well-spread table--waited upon by the daughter of the family--while their host and hostess sat and chatted with them, as to their corps, while the meal went on.

"Excuse another remark upon your personal appearance," the lady said, smiling, "but two of you look more like Alsatians than French. You have the fair complexion and brown, wavy hair. You do not look like Frenchmen."

"Nor are we," Ralph laughed. "My brother and myself, although French born, are actually English. Our father is an English officer, but our mother is French and, as you see, we take after him rather than her."

"But I wonder that, as your father is English, he lets you go out upon this expedition--which is very perilous."

"We wished to go--that is, we thought it was our duty," Ralph said; "and although they were very sad at our leaving, they both agreed with us."

"I wish all Frenchmen were animated by the same feeling," their host said warmly. "Your gallant example should shame hundreds of thousands of loiterers and skulkers.

"You speak French perfectly. I should have had no idea that you were anything but French--or rather, from the way you speak German, that you were Alsatian."

"We have lived in France all our lives, except for two years which we passed in Germany; and two years at one time, together with one or two shorter visits, in England."

"And do you speak English as well as French?"

"Oh yes, we always speak English at home. Our father made a rule that we should always do so; as he said it would be an immense disadvantage to us, when we returned to England, if we had the slightest French accent. Our mother now speaks English as purely and correctly as our father."

"Are your friends any relations of yours?"

"They are our cousins," Ralph said; "their father is our mother's brother."

For some time longer they chatted, and then their host said:

"It is half-past nine; and we are early people, here. You will have to be up by five, so I think that it is time you were off to bed. We shall scarcely be up when you start; but you will find a spirit lamp on the table, with coffee--which only requires heating--together with some bread and butter. You will have some miles to march before you breakfast.

"And now, you must all promise me that, if you come to this place again, you will come straight up here, and look upon it as your home. If you get ill or wounded--which I hope will not happen--you will, of course, go home; but something may occur not sufficiently important for you to leave the corps, but which could be set straight by a few days' nursing, and rest. In that case, you will come to us, will you not?"

The boys all gratefully promised to avail themselves of the invitation, in case of need; and then said good night and goodbye to their host, and went off to the room prepared for them. In the morning they were up in good time, dressed as quietly as they could--so as not to disturb their host--and went downstairs; lit the spirit lamp under a glass bowl full of coffee and milk and, in ten minutes, were on their way towards the town.

"We shall be lucky if we are often as comfortable as that," Percy said, looking back; and there was a general assent.

"There goes the bugle," Louis Duburg said; "we have a quarter of an hour, yet.

"What pretty girls those were!"

Louis was nearly seventeen and, at seventeen, a French lad considers himself a competent judge as to the appearance and manners of young ladies.

"Were they?" Percy said carelessly, with the indifference of an English boy of his age as to girls. "I did not notice it. I don't care for girls; they are always thinking about their dress, and one is afraid of touching them, in case you should spoil something. There is nothing jolly about them."

The others laughed.

"I am sure Milly is jolly enough," Philippe Duburg said.

"Yes, Milly is jolly," Percy answered. "You see, she has been with us boys, and she can play, and doesn't screech if you touch her, or mind a bit if she tears her frock. So are our cousins in England--some of them. Yes, there are some jolly girls, of course; still, after all, what's the good of them, taking them altogether? They are very nice in their way--quiet and well behaved, and so on--but they are better indoors than out."

The clock was just striking half-past five, as the boys reached the place of assembly. Most of the men were already upon the spot, and the bugler was blowing lustily. In another five minutes all were assembled; including Tim Doyle, with his horse and cart.

"Good-morning, Tim," the boys said, as they came up to him. "I hope you had as comfortable quarters as we had, last night."

"Splendid, your honor--downright splendid; a supper fit for a lord, and a bed big enough for a duchess."

The boys laughed at the idea of a duchess wanting a bed bigger than anyone else, and Tim went on:

"Ah, your honor, if campaigning was all like this, sure I'd campaign all my life, and thank you; but it's many a time I shall look back upon my big supper, and big bed. Not that I should like it altogether entirely; I should get so fat, and so lazy, that I shouldn't know my own shadow."

And now the bugle sounded again, and the men fell in. As they started, they struck up a lively marching song; and several windows opened, and adieus were waved to them as they passed down the street into the open country. Everyone was in high spirits. The weather, which had for some time been unfavorable, had cleared up; the sun was rising brightly, and they felt that they had fairly started for work. The road was rough, the country wild and mountainous, thick forests extended in every direction, as far as the eye could carry.

"There is one comfort, Percy," Ralph said, "if we are beaten and driven back, we might get into this forest, and laugh at the Prussians."

Percy cast rather a doubtful eye at the dark woods.

"The Prussians might not be able to discover us, Ralph; but I would as leave be killed by Prussian balls as die of hunger, and our chances of getting food there, for a hundred men, would be very slight."

"They don't look hospitable, certainly, Percy. I agree with you. We had better keep in the open country, as long as possible."

The first village at which they arrived was Deyvilliers. Here a halt was called for ten minutes, five miles having already been marched. Many of the men--less fortunate than the Barclays and Duburgs--had had nothing to eat upon starting and, when the arms were piled, there was a general dispersal through the village, in search of provisions. Bread had been bought over night, at Epinal, and brought on in the cart; which was fortunate, for the village was a very small one, and there would have been a difficulty in obtaining more than a loaf or two. Cheese and fruit were in abundance; and the boys bought some apples, and sat down by the little feeder of the Moselle which passes through the village, and watched it tumbling past on its way to join the main stream, a few miles below Epinal.

In a quarter of an hour, they were again on the march. In another five miles they reached Fontaine, lying a little off the road to their right. They had now marched ten miles, and Major Tempe ordered a halt for three hours. A piece of level ground was chosen, arms were piled, blankets and haversacks taken off, and then preparations began for their first meal. Men were sent off with kettles, for water. Others went up to the village with cans for wine--or beer for, in Alsace, beer is more common than wine. Tim took the horse out of the shafts, and gave him some oats. Some of the men were sent from each company to fetch wood, and the old soldiers prepared for the important operation of cooking.

Several little fireplaces were made, with stones and turf, open on the side facing the wind. In these sticks were placed and, when they were fairly alight, the saucepans--each holding the allowance of ten men--were placed on them. In these the meat--cut up in pieces of about half a pound--was placed; with pepper, salt, onions, rice, and potatoes peeled and cut up, and the whole filled up with water.

When the preparations were finished, the men threw themselves down under the shade of some trees; and smoked and chatted until, in about an hour, the cooking was complete. Each man then brought up his tin canteen, and received his portion of soup in the deep side, and his meat and vegetables in the shallow can. The bread had already been cut up. The tin drinking pots which, with knives, forks, and spoons, were carried in the canteens, were filled with beer and, with much laughing and fun, each man sat down on the grass, or scattered rocks, to eat his breakfast.

Many of the villagers had come down; and these brought, for the most part, little presents: a few apples, a little fresh cheese, or a bunch of grapes. It was a merry meal, and the boys agreed that it was the jolliest picnic that they had ever been at.

At two o'clock the bugle sounded. The cooking things were packed up and placed in the cart again; the blankets and haversacks slung on, and the rifles shouldered and, with many a good wish from the peasants, they marched forward again.

Eight miles further marching brought them to the end of their day's journey, the village of Destord. It was a tiny place, with scarcely over a half-dozen houses. Major Tempe in consequence determined, as the weather was fine, upon bivouacking in the open air. For a time, all were busy collecting wood. A sheltered place was chosen, for the village lay very high, close to the source of a little stream running into the river Mortagne.

The cooking places were again prepared for supper. At seven o'clock the meal was served, differing but little from that of the morning; except that after the men had eaten the soup, and the meat from it (in France called bouilli), they fried some thin slices of meat in the lids of their canteens, and concluded the meal with a cup of coffee.

Then four large fires were lit--one for each company--and a smaller one for the officers. Blankets were spread out on the ground round these fires, and the men lit their pipes and chatted gaily. All were more or less tired for, although their month's hard drill had accustomed them to work, eighteen miles with arms, ammunition, and accouterments had tired them more than they had anticipated.

As this was their first night out, Major Tempe told them that he should not place a regular cordon of sentries; but that in future he should do so, whether they were near the enemy or not. By nine o'clock the fires began to burn low, the talking gradually ceased, and the men--rolling themselves up in their blankets, and putting their haversacks under their heads, for pillows--soon dropped off to sleep; a solitary sentry keeping guard against pilferers.

A short march of ten miles took them, next day, to Rambervillers, where they were billeted among the inhabitants; and fourteen miles on the day after to Baccarat, on the river Meurthe, where they also obtained quarters. They were now approaching the neighborhood of the enemy, and Major Tempe advised a halt for the next day; in order that he might make inquiries, and investigate thoroughly the best route to be pursued.

Chapter 5: The First Engagement.

The news which the commandant of the franc tireurs heard, at Baccarat, determined him to change his intentions; and to push on without delay to Halloville--a tiny hamlet on the lower spurs of the Vosges, some four miles from Blamont; and overlooking the valley of the Vexouse, in which the latter town was situated.

It was a long march, and the weather had again changed, the rain descending all day in a steady pour. The men--in their light, waterproof cloaks, and the flaps of their forage caps down--plodded steadily on; their spirit sustained by the thought that, ere another twenty-four hours, they might be in action. The news which hurried them forwards had been to the effect that a body of two hundred Uhlans had left Sarrebourg, and were advancing towards Blamont. They were going quietly, stopping to levy contributions at the villages on the way. It was probable that they would enter Blamont on the same evening that the franc tireurs reached Halloville. It was supposed that they would proceed, with the sheep and cattle that they had swept up, by the valley of the Vexouse to Luneville.

To within four miles of Halloville, the road had been a fair one; but it was here necessary to turn off, by a track that was little better than a goat path. In vain, a dozen of the men were told off to help with the cart; in vain they pushed behind, and shoved at the spokes of the wheels. The road was altogether impracticable. At last the horse and cart were taken aside into a thick wood and left there; with Tim Doyle, a corporal, and six of the men who were the most footsore, and incapable of pushing on. Tim was dreadfully disgusted at being thus cut off from the chance of seeing, and joining in, any fighting; and only consoled himself with the hope that a vacancy would be likely to occur the next day, and that he would then be able to exchange his whip for a rifle.

The rest of the corps plodded on until, long after dusk, they arrived at the half-dozen houses which form the village of Halloville. Their appearance, as they marched up to it, was greeted by a scream from a woman, followed by a perfect chorus of screams and cries. Men, women, and children were seen rushing out of the houses, and taking to flight; and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were made to understand the truth, that the formidable body, which had so suddenly dropped upon them, was not composed of the dreaded invaders.

When the truth was known, they did their best to receive them hospitably. Their means, however, were small; their houses equally so. However, in a short time blazing fires were lighted on the hearths; blankets having been put up before the windows, to prevent any light being visible from the valley. A fire was allotted for the cooking of each company, and preparations for supper were soon commenced. Then an examination was made of the facilities in the way of sleeping; and two barns were found, well provided with straw. This was shaken out and, after eating their suppers, the men packed close together upon the straw, and soon forgot both damp and fatigue; numerous sentries being thrown out, in various directions, to prevent the possibility of surprise--for the peasants had informed them that the information which they had received was correct; and that the Uhlans, about two hundred strong, had entered Blamont that afternoon, and had laid a requisition of twenty thousand francs upon the inhabitants, besides a considerable amount of stores of all sorts.

At three o'clock they were roused and found, to their great pleasure, that the rain had ceased. Guided by one of the villagers, they made their way down to a point where the wood approached quite close to the road, at a narrow point of the valley. Here Major Tempe posted his men along in the wood. Several coils of wire had been brought with them; and these were now stretched tightly from tree to tree, at a distance of about eighteen inches from the ground. Some forty yards farther back, young trees were felled and branches cut; and these were laid with the bushy parts towards the road, wires being twisted here and there among them, so as to form abattis perfectly impenetrable for horsemen, and difficult in the extreme for infantry. All worked hard and, by eight o'clock in the morning, everything was in readiness.

A small party had been left upon the high ground near Halloville, and one of them had brought down news every half hour. Soon after daybreak, a party of Uhlans had been seen to leave Blamont, and to visit Barbas and Harboise--two villages in the flat of Blamont--and then to retire, driving some cattle and sheep before them. At ten o'clock the rest of the men from Halloville came down, with the news that the Uhlans--about two hundred strong--had just left Blamont, and were coming down the valley.

Each man now took the station allotted to him: thirty men behind the trees, next to the road; the main body being stationed behind the abattis, each man having previously settled upon a spot where he could fire through the leaves, which entirely concealed them from view from the road. Number one company was placed to the right and, consequently, near to Blamont. Ralph and Percy were both in the front line, behind the trees.

Not a shot was to be fired, on any consideration, until Major Tempe gave the word. The men behind the trees were all ordered to lie down among the low undergrowth and brushwood. The line extended nearly a hundred yards. The waterproofs, blankets, and all other impediments had been left behind at Halloville, so that the men had the free use of their arms. The rifles were loaded, the pouches shifted round so as to be ready at hand and--orders having been given that not a word should be spoken, even in a whisper--a perfect silence reigned over the spot.

Ralph and Percy were near to each other. They had exchanged a hearty grip of the hand, before lying down; and now lay, with beating hearts and hands firmly grasping their rifles, in readiness for the signal.

The time was not very long--only a few minutes--but it seemed to them an age before they heard the tramp of horses. Nearer and nearer they came, and now they could hear the jingling of accouterments First, through their leafy screen, they could see two Uhlans pass at a walk; scanning keenly the woods, and looking for possible danger. The bushes were thick, and they noticed nothing, and kept on at the same pace. It is probable, indeed, that they really anticipated no possibility of an attack, as the Dijon franc tireurs were the first who appeared upon the scene of action; and the Prussians were, consequently, in entire ignorance of the vicinity of any armed body of the enemy and, at worst, apprehended a stray shot from a straggler from one of the French armies, hidden in the woods.

In another minute or two four more Uhlans passed; and after the same interval came the main body, escorting a number of cattle and sheep. The greater portion had passed the spot where the boys were lying, and were opposite the whole line of franc tireurs, when the silence of the wood was broken by Major Tempe's shout:

"Now!"

Before the Uhlans had time to rein in their horses, or to ask each other what was the meaning of the cry, the flash of thirty rifles broke from the trees, and several men fell from their horses. There was a momentary panic, followed by a hurried discharge of carbines at the invisible foe.

The captain of the Uhlans--a handsome young officer, with light mustache and beard--shouted to his men:

"Steady, they are only a handful. Form line, charge!"

Quickly as the maneuver was executed, the franc tireurs had time to fire again; and then--in accordance with their orders--retreated, and joined their comrades by passages left in the abattis, on purpose. In another instant the Uhlans charged but, as quickly, the direst confusion reigned, where before had been a regular line. The wire had served its purpose. Horses and men went down on the top of each other, and thirty rifles again fumed their deadly hail into the confused mass.

The second line of Uhlans--who had not charged--returned the fire of their invisible enemies and, although they could not see them, several of the balls took effect. Nothing could be cooler than the officers of the Uhlans, and their voice and example steadied their men. Under cover of the fire of their comrades the men, in part, extricated themselves and their horses, and drew back behind the wood. Orders were then given for all to dismount and, leaving their horses to be held by parties of their comrades--four horses to one man--the rest advanced on foot against their apparently greatly inferior foe, keeping up a heavy fire with their carbines. This was what the commandant of the franc tireurs had hoped for, and expected.

The wire had been broken down by the weight of the horses; and the Prussians advanced, opposed only by a feeble return to their heavy fire, until within five paces of the leafy wall. Then the fire from a hundred rifles flashed out upon them.

The effect was terrible, and a cry of surprise and rage burst from those who had escaped its effect. It was evident that they had fallen into an ambush. The captain--wild with rage and mortification, at the fault he had committed--rushed forward; and his men gallantly seconded his efforts. In vain, however, did they try to separate the interlaced boughs while, as they struggled, the shots from the enemy flashed out thick and fast. In another moment the young captain threw up his arms and fell, shot through the heart. The officer next in command ordered a retreat, the horses were regained and, amidst a continuous fire from the franc tireurs, the diminished troop galloped back towards Blamont.

The franc tireurs now quitted their leafy fortress. A small party was at once sent forward up the valley, to give notice if the Uhlans showed any signs of returning. A strong body set to work to drive in the scattered animals--which were galloping wildly about the valley--while the rest collected the dead and wounded.

Of the franc tireurs eight were killed, fourteen wounded. Of the Uhlans forty-seven were killed, and nineteen wounded remained on the ground. Their large number of killed, in proportion to the wounded, was accounted for by the fact that the firing was so close that, in many cases, the coats of the dead men were actually singed by the explosion; while the slightly wounded men had been able to regain their horses, and escape.

The first impulse of the young Barclays, when the fire ceased, was to turn round and to embrace each other with delight--on finding that they had each escaped without a scratch--and then to shake hands heartily with their cousins, whose fortune had been equally good. There was no time for words, however; for Major Tempe's order came, sharp and decisive:

"You the Barclays, you also the Duburgs, sling your arms, and go assist to drive in the cattle. Quick, lose no time.

"You have done well. I am content with you, my boys."

With a flush of pleasure, the boys started off to carry out the orders; which had been given, by their commander, with the kind thought of sparing the lads the terrible sight of the battle ground.

The short but desperate conflict through which they had passed seemed, to the young Barclays, almost like a dream. In the excitement of loading and firing, in the tumult and the rattle, they had scarcely had time even to give a thought to the danger.

Fear is seldom felt by the soldier when engaged in close conflict. The time when his nerves are most tried is while waiting inactive, at a distance, exposed to a heavy shell fire; or while advancing to an attack, under a storm of musketry and artillery. In a hand-to-hand conflict, he has no time to think. His nerves are strung up to so high a pitch that he no longer thinks of danger, or death. His whole thoughts are given to loading and firing.

Any thought that the boys had given to danger was not for themselves, but for each other; and Ralph--though his own position was unsheltered--had once or twice spoken, to Percy, to keep his body better sheltered by the trees behind which he was standing.

It was a long chase before the frightened animals were collected together, and driven up towards the spot where the fight had taken place. By the time that it was accomplished, the wounded had been collected, and the surgeons had bandaged many of their wounds. A qualified surgeon had accompanied the corps, as its regular doctor, and two other young surgeons had enlisted in its ranks; and these, their arms laid by, were now assisting to stanch the wounds and to apply bandages. Of the franc tireurs, there were only four so seriously wounded that they were unable to walk.

By that time two carts arrived from the village of Douteppe, which stood in the valley, half a mile only from the scene of action; and to which place Major Tempe had sent off a messenger directly the affair had terminated. In one of these the wounded were placed, while in the other were piled the arms and accouterments of the fallen Uhlans. One of the young surgeons was to accompany the wounded as far as Baccarat, where they were to remain for treatment.

Twenty-three horses of the Uhlans had also been captured, by the party who had driven in the cattle--among whom they were galloping. Four men were told off to take them back to Epinal, and there dispose of them, with their accouterments, for the benefit of the military chest of the corps.

The question then arose as to what was to be done with the Prussian wounded. Major Tempe decided this by saying that, as it was quite impossible for the corps to be burdened with wounded men, the best plan was to allow one of the slightly wounded among the prisoners to walk back to Blamont; with a message that the Uhlans could come back to fetch their wounded without molestation, as the franc tireurs were upon the point of taking their departure.

The corps then assembled round a grave which had already been dug, and into it the bodies of their comrades who had fallen were placed. Major Tempe then said a few brief words of adieu, hoping that all who fell might die equally bravely, and victoriously. Then the sods were shoveled in; and the men, saddened by the scene--though still flushed with the triumph of their first, and signal, success--prepared to leave the spot.

Major Tempe had already held a consultation with his officers, and their plan of operation had been decided upon. The difficulty which they had encountered the evening before, with the horse and cart, had already proved that it would be impossible to drag it about with them. They had also taken thirty fine cattle, and upwards of a hundred sheep from the enemy; and it was therefore resolved to establish a sort of headquarters in the mountains, where they could retire after their expeditions, and defy the efforts of the Prussians to disturb them. The spot fixed upon was the forest of Bousson, high up among the Vosges, and distant two hard days' marching.

A portion of the troop, therefore, went round to Halloville, to fetch the accouterments, blankets, etc. which had been left there; while the rest marched, by the road, to the place where the cart had been left the night before. Two peasants were engaged as guides and, in the afternoon, the corps started for their destination.

It was a terrible march. The roads were mere tracks, and the weather was terrible. Over and over again, the men had to unload the carts, shoulder the contents, and carry them for a considerable distance, until ground was reached where the cart could again be loaded.

It was not until late on the evening of the third day's march that, thoroughly done up by fatigue and hardship, the corps reached the little village of Raon, in the heart of the forest of Bousson. There was no possible fear of attack, here; and the commandant decided that, for the night, there was no occasion for any of the men to be out as sentries. The villagers at once took charge of the animals, and turned them into a rough enclosure. The men were too much done up even to care about keeping awake until supper could be cooked and--being divided among the houses of the village--they threw themselves down, and were fast asleep in a few minutes.

The next morning, the sun shone out brightly; and the men, turning out after a long sleep, felt quite different creatures to the tired band who had wearily crawled into the village. The bright sky, the fresh morning air, the pleasant odor of the great pine forest around them, and the bracing atmosphere--at the height of fifteen hundred feet above the sea--at once refreshed and cheered them.

There was a brief morning parade--at which Tim Doyle, for the first time, took his place with a rifle on his shoulder--and then the major dismissed them, saying that there would be no further parade that day, and that the men could amuse themselves as they liked. In a short time, every man was following the bent of his own inclination. First, however, there was a general cleaning of the rifles and accouterments; then most of the men went down to the stream, and there was a great washing of clothes, accompanied with much laughing and joking. Then needles and thread were obtained, from the women of the village, and there was much mending and darning--for the past three days' work, among rocks and woods, had done no little damage to their uniforms.

Next came the grand operation of breakfast, for which two of the sheep had been killed. This, being the first regular meal that they had had, for three days, was greatly enjoyed. After it was eaten most of the men lit their pipes, and prepared to pass a day of delightful idleness. Two or three of the village boys had been engaged, as cowherds and shepherds; and the animals were all driven out into the woods where, in the open glades, they would find an abundance of food.

The cart was unanimously condemned as worse than useless. An empty shed was turned into a storehouse; and it was determined that such stores of powder, etc. as might be required, upon each expedition, should be packed upon the horse's back and, if the horse could not take all required, that other horses should be hired.

The Barclays, with their cousins, started for a ramble in the wood; taking with them the Irishman, whose good humor and unflagging spirits, during the last three days, had made him a general favorite.

"Sure, and are there any wild bastes in the wood, your honor Because, if there be, it would be well to take our rifles with us. It would be mighty unpleasant to come across a lion, or a tiger, and not to be able to pass him the time of day."

"No, Tim, we shall meet neither lions nor tigers, so you need not trouble yourself with a rifle. A hundred years ago, we might have met with a bear, or a wild boar; but they have disappeared, long since. It is possible that there are a few wolves scattered about; but they are never formidable to any but a solitary person, even in winter; and at all other times fly from man's approach."

The party had a charming ramble, for the scenery here was very fine. At times, the forest was so thick that they could see no glimpse of the sky, and the trunks of the trees seemed to make a wall, all round them; then again, it would open, and they would obtain a glimpse over the country far away, rise beyond rise, to the plain of Champagne or--if the view were behind, instead of in front of them--they could see the tops of the highest range of the Vosges, rising hill above hill, and often wooded to the very summit--the Donon, one of the highest points of the range, being immediately behind them.

The villages are, here, few and far between, and the people extremely poor; for the soil is poor, and although in summer the cattle--which form their only wealth--are able to pick up an abundance of food, in the forests, they have a hard struggle to keep them alive during the winter. Their language is German, and their appearance and dress rather German than French but, notwithstanding this, they were thoroughly French in spirit, and regarded the invaders with an intense hatred.

Another day, passed in rest, completely restored the most exhausted of the band. Orders were therefore issued for an early start, the next morning; the object, this time, being to endeavor to cut the railway. The band were to march in a body for the slopes of the Vosges, behind Sarrebourg and Saverne; and were then to divide into companies, and scatter themselves among the villages between Lorquin and Marmontier, so as to act together or separately, as it might seem expedient.

Chapter 6: The Tunnel Of Saverne.

It is needless to follow the corps, step by step, through their marches; for the names of the little villages through which they passed would not be found in any maps published in England, and would therefore possess little interest for English readers. After two days' long marches, the main body of the corps reached a village situated in a wood, at about four miles from the great rock tunnel of Saverne. The fourth company had been left at a village, five miles to the left; while the third company were, next day, to march forward to a place at about the same distance to the right. Their orders were to keep a sharp lookout, to collect news of the movements and strength of the enemy; but not to undertake any expedition, or to do anything, whatever, to lead the enemy to guess at their presence in the neighborhood--as it was of vital importance that they should not be put upon their guard, until the great blow was struck.

As soon as they had marched into the village, the principal inhabitants came forward, and a consultation was held as to providing lodgings. After some conversation, it was agreed that the officers should have quarters in the village; and that the schoolrooms--two in number--should be placed at the disposal of the men. They were good-sized rooms, and would hold thirty men each, without difficulty. The company who were to march forward in the morning were provided with quarters in the village.

Ralph and Percy Barclay, as usual, acted as interpreters between Major Tempe and the inhabitants; for neither the major, nor any of his officers, spoke German. That language, indeed, was spoken only by a few men in the whole corps; and these the commandant had divided among the other companies, in order that each company might be able to shift for itself, when separated from the main body.

"Have you seen this proclamation?" one of the villagers asked. "You see that we are running no little risk, in taking you in."

Ralph read it, and as he did so his face flushed with indignation, and he exclaimed:

"This is infamous! Infamous!"

"What is it?" Major Tempe asked.

"It is a proclamation from the Prussian General commanding the district, major, giving notice that he will shoot every franc tireur he may catch; and also giving notice to the inhabitants that if any Prussian soldier be killed, or even shot at, by a franc tireur--if a rail be pulled up, or a road cut--that he will hold the village near the spot accountable; will burn the houses, and treat the male inhabitants according to martial law, and that the same penalties will be exacted for sheltering or hiding franc tireurs."

"Impossible!" Major Tempe said, astounded. "No officer of a civilized army could issue such an edict. Besides, during an invasion of Germany, the people were summoned by the King of Prussia to take up arms, to cut roads, destroy bridges, and shoot down the enemy--just as we are going to do, now. It is too atrocious to be true."

"There it is, in black and white," Ralph said. "There can be no mistake as to the wording."

Major Tempe looked grieved, as well as indignant.

"This will be a terrible business," he said, "if the war is to be carried on in this way. Of course, if they give us no quarter, we shall give them none. That is, we must make as many prisoners as we can in order that, if any of our men are taken prisoners, we may carry out reprisals if they shoot them.

"It will, besides this, do us great harm. Naturally, the villagers, instead of looking upon us as defenders, will regard us as the most dangerous of guests. They will argue:

"'If we make no resistance, the Prussians may plunder us, but at least our houses and our lives are safe; whereas if these franc tireurs are found to have been with us, or if they make any attack in our neighborhood, we are not only plundered, but burnt out, and shot!'

"Of course, we are always liable to treachery. There are scoundrels always to be found who would sell their own mothers, but now even the most patriotic cannot but feel that they are running an immense risk in sheltering us.

"Never before, I believe, in the annals of civilized nations, did a man in authority dare to proclaim that persons should suffer for a crime with which they had nothing, whatever, to do. If we arrive at a little village, how are the people to say to us, 'We will not allow you to pull up a rail!'? And yet, if they do not prevent us, they are to be punished with fire and sword. And these people call themselves a civilized nation!

"One of the evil consequences of this proclamation is that we shall never dare trust to the inhabitants to make inquiries for us. They will be so alarmed, in case we should attempt anything in their neighborhood, that they would be sure to do and say everything they could to dissuade us from it and, if inclined to treachery, might even try to buy their own safety by betraying us."

Major Tempe was speaking to the other officers, who thoroughly agreed with his opinion. Ralph and Percy had remained in the room, in case any further questions might be asked in reference to the proclamation. They now asked if anything else were required and, upon a negative answer being given, saluted and took their leave. It was dusk when they went out and, as they walked towards the schoolroom, they heard a great tumult of voices raised in anger, among which they recognized that of Tim Doyle.

"Howld yer jaw, you jabbering apes!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. "Give me a lantern, or a candle, and let me begone. The boys are all waiting for me to begin."

Hurrying up, they found Tim surrounded by a few of the principal inhabitants of the village, and soon learned the cause of the dispute. Supper was served, but it was too dark to see to eat it; and Tim--always ready to make himself useful--had volunteered to go in search of a light. He had in vain used his few words of French with the villagers he met, and these had at last called the schoolmaster, the only person in the village who understood French. This man had addressed Tim first in French and then in German and, upon receiving no coherent answer in either language, had arrived at the conclusion that Tim was making fun of them. Hence the dispute had arisen.

The boys explained matters, and the villagers--whose knowledge of England was of the very vaguest description; and most of whom, indeed, had previously believed that all the world spoke either French or German--were profuse in apologies, and immediately procured some candles, with which Tim and the boys hastened to the schoolroom. Two candles were given to each company and--one being lighted at each end of the room, and stuck upon nails in the wall--the boys were enabled to see what the place was like.

Clean straw had been littered, a foot deep, down each side of the room; and fifteen blankets were folded, side by side, along by each wall. Upon pegs above--meant for the scholars' caps--hung the haversacks, water bottles, and other accouterments; while the rifles were piled along the center of the room, leaving space enough to walk down upon either side, between them and the beds. At the farther end of the room was a large fireplace, in which a log fire was blazing; and a small shed, outside, had been converted into a kitchen.

"We might be worse off than this, a long way, Ralph," said Louis Duburg, as Ralph took his place on the straw next to him.

"That we might, Louis. The fire looks cheerful, too, and the nights are getting very cold."

"That they are, Ralph.

"Ah! Here is supper. I am quite ready for that, too."

The men who officiated as cooks--and who, by agreement, had been released from all night duty in consideration of their regularly undertaking that occupation--now brought in a large saucepan full of soup; and each man went up with his canteen, and received his portion, returning to his bed upon the straw to eat it.

"Anything new, Barclay?" one of the men asked, from the other side of the room.

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said. "New, and disagreeable. Mind none of you get taken prisoners, for the Prussian General has issued a proclamation that he shall shoot all franc tireurs he catches."

"Impossible!" came in a general chorus, from all present.

"Well, it sounds like it, but it is true enough," and Ralph repeated, word for word, the proclamation which he had translated to Major Tempe.

As might have been expected, it raised a perfect storm of indignation; and this lasted until, at nine o'clock, the sergeant gave the word:

"Lights out."

In the morning, after parade, Ralph and Percy strolled away together and had a long talk and, at the end of an hour, they walked to the house where Major Tempe had established his headquarters.

"Good morning, my friends," he said, as they entered. "Is there anything I can do for you? Sit down."

"We have been thinking, sir--Percy and I--that we could very easily dress up as peasants, and go down to Saverne, or anywhere you might think fit, and find out all particulars as to the strength and position of the enemy. No one would suspect two boys of being franc tireurs. It would be unlikely in the extreme that anyone would ask us any questions and, if we were asked, we should say we belonged to some village in the mountains, and had come down to buy coffee, and other necessaries. The risk of detection would be next to nothing, for we speak German quite well enough to pass for lads from the mountains."

Major Tempe was silent a minute.

"You know you would be shot, at once, if you were detected."

"No doubt, sir, but there is no reason in the world why we should be detected. The Prussians can't know everyone by sight, even within the town itself; and will not notice us, at all. If they do, our answer is sufficient."

"I tell you frankly, boys, I was thinking only last night of the matter; but--however much you may make light of it--there is, of course, a certain amount of danger in acting as spies; and your father--my friend Captain Barclay--might say to me, if evil came of it:

"'I gave you my boys to fight for France, and you have sent them to their death, as spies.'

"So I resolved to say nothing about it."

"But now we have offered, sir, the case is different," Ralph said. "From our knowledge of the language, and from our age, we are better fitted than anyone in the corps to perform this service; and therefore it would be clearly our duty to perform it, were it greatly more dangerous than it is. Our father said to us, at starting:

"'Do your duty, boys, whatever the danger.'

"We will see about our clothes--there can be no difficulty about that, there are several lads in the village whose things would fit us. Shall we come in this afternoon, for instructions?"

"Thank you, lads," Major Tempe said, warmly. "I trust, with you, that no harm will come of it. But your offer is of too great advantage to the corps for me to persist in my refusal."

Upon leaving the quarters of the commandant, the boys went at once to the house of a farmer a short distance from the village where, the day before, they had noticed two boys of about their own size. They explained to the farmer that they wanted to buy of him a suit of the working clothes of each of his sons. Greatly surprised at this request, the farmer had inquired what they could possibly want them for; and Ralph--who thought it better not to trust him with the secret--replied that, as the Prussian General had given notice that he should shoot all franc tireurs he might take prisoners, they wanted a suit of clothes, each, which they might slip on in case of defeat or danger of capture. The pretense was a plausible one; and the farmer sold them the required clothes, charging only about twice their cost, when new.

The boys took the parcel and, instead of returning to the village direct, they hid it carefully in a wood, at a short distance away. They then returned and, in the afternoon, received detailed instructions from Major Tempe.

It was arranged that the matter should be kept entirely secret, lest any incautious word might be overheard and reported. They were to start at daybreak, upon the following morning. Their cousins and Tim Doyle being--alone--taken into their confidence, their friends regretted much that they could not accompany them, and share their danger. The boys pointed out however that--even could they have spoken German fluently--they could not have gone with them as, although two strangers would excite no attention, whatever, five would be certain to do so.

The next morning they started together, as if for a walk. Upon reaching the spot in the wood where the peasants' clothes were hidden, the boys took off their uniforms--which were wrapped up, and concealed in the same place--and put on the clothes. They fitted fairly; and more than that was not necessary, as peasants' clothes are seldom cut accurately to the figure. Rounding their shoulders, and walking with a clumping sort of stride, no one would have imagined that they were other than they pretended to be--two awkward-looking young Alsatian lads.

They cut two heavy sticks, exchanged a hearty goodbye with their friends, and started for Saverne. Two hours later they were walking in its streets; staring into the shop windows, and at everything that was going on, with the open-mouthed curiosity of two young country lads. Then they made a few purchases--some coffee, sugar, and pepper--tied them in a colored pocket handkerchief, and then went into a small cabaret--where they saw some German soldiers drinking--sat down at a table, and called for some bread and cheese and beer.

While they were taking them, they listened to the conversation of the soldiers. The only information that they gleaned from it was that the men seemed to have no expectation, whatever, of any early movement; and that they were heartily sick of the monotony of the place, and the hard work of patrolling the line of railway, night and day. Presently the soldiers paid for their beer, and left; and some of the townspeople came in, and took the places they had left. Their conversation, of course, turned on the Prussian occupation, and deep were the curses heaped upon the invaders. The only thing mentioned in their favor was the smallness of their number. There were not over two hundred men; and this amount weighed but lightly upon Saverne, compared with the fifty, sixty, or a hundred quartered at every little village along the line of railway.

The boys had now learned what they most wanted to know and, paying for their refreshment, went out again into the street. Then they walked to the railway station--where they saw several soldiers, on guard--and then set off to a point where they could see the entrance to the tunnel. There two soldiers were on guard; while others were stationed, at short distances, all along the line.

The boys now went up to a wood whence, unseen themselves, they could watch the trains passing. They came along nearly every half hour; immensely long trains, filled with stores of all kinds. As it became dusk, they saw a body of Prussian soldiers marching down the line; relieving the sentries, and placing fresh ones at distances of little more than fifty yards apart. These marched backwards and forwards, until they met each other; then returning, until they faced their comrade at the other end of their beat.

"We can be off now, Percy," Ralph said, rising. "Our news is bad, for it will be by no means so easy to cut the line as we had expected. These weasels won't be very easily caught asleep."

"No, indeed," Percy said. "The idea of cutting the line sounded so easy, when we were at a distance; but it is quite a different matter, now we are here."

Upon their return they found--with some difficulty--the place where they had hidden their uniforms; again changed clothes, and then--carrying those they had just taken off, made up into bundles--they re-entered the village, and went straight to headquarters.

Major Tempe was at dinner with the other officers, and received them with great pleasure; for he had been anxious, all day, lest any misfortune might befall them. Finding that they had had nothing to eat, since early in the morning, he at once invited them to sit down to dinner; for military discipline is far less strict in these matters, in France, than it is in England; and among the corps of franc tireurs especially--as among the English volunteers, where the private is in many cases equal to, or superior to, his officer in social standing--the difference of rank is very much put aside, except on duty.

"And you say that they have a sentinel at every fifty or sixty yards, along the line?" Major Tempe said, when Ralph had given an account of their day's investigation. "That appears, to me, to be fatal to our plans."

"Why so?" Lieutenant de Maupas--who commanded the first company--asked. "It seems to me that nothing could be easier. Suppose we fell upon any given point, the sentries near it would be at once killed, or made prisoners; and even allowing--as young Barclay says--that there are troops in all the villages, it would be a good half hour before a force, sufficient to disturb us, could arrive."

"That is true enough," Major Tempe answered. "But what could we do, in half an hour? We might pull up two hundred yards of rail. What real advantage would be gained by that? The line of sentries along the rail would, by firing their rifles, pass the news ten miles, in half as many minutes; and the trains would be stopped long before they arrived at the break. Each train carries, I know, workmen and materials for repairing the line; and as it would be impossible for us to carry away the rails, after pulling them up, they would be replaced in as short a time as it took us to tear them up; and the consequence would be that the traffic would only be suspended for an hour or two, at most. For a break to be of any real utility, whatever, it must last for days, if not for weeks.

"The great coup, of course, would be the destruction of the rock tunnel of Saverne, which was the special object of our presence here. Failing that, we must try a bridge. The tunnel, however, is the great affair. Once destroyed, there would be no repairing it, for many weeks. My proposition is, therefore, that we turn our attention at once to that point."

There was a general murmur of assent.

"The best course would be for Hardin's company to march direct to the other end of the tunnel, seize it, and prevent interference from that end; while the others then seize the Saverne end, and hold it while preparations are made for blowing it up. Then, when the match is lighted, fall back--if possible--before the arrival of heavy bodies of the enemy."

"Nothing could be better," Lieutenant de Maupas exclaimed, and the other officers agreed with him.

"What day do you propose for the movement?"

"The day after tomorrow, at daybreak," Major Tempe said. "That will give us plenty of time to send orders to the other two companies; and the sooner it is done, the better."

The conference was about to break up, when the surgeon--who had listened in silence--said:

"The general plan is simple enough but, tell me, how do you propose to set about blowing the tunnel up? You may be able to hold it for half an hour, at most. How do you think of proceeding?"

Major Tempe and his officers looked at each other. They had not, as yet, thought the matter over; but the instant it was put plainly before them, they saw the difficulty.

"Oh," Lieutenant de Maupas said, confidently, "we shall, of course, put the nitroglycerine somewhere in the middle of the tunnel, and blow the whole affair up."

Lieutenant de Maupas had been a sailor; and his quickness of decision and go-ahead, straight-forward way of doing everything made him, at once, a favorite and an amusement to the men; who had nicknamed him "Grande Vitesse," or, as we should say in English, the "Express."

"I am afraid the matter is rather more difficult than you imagine, De Maupas," Major Tempe said, with a smile. "This is in Ribouville's way; as he was in the Engineers, he will know all about it."

The officer named, however, did not reply for some little time; but sat with his head on his hand, in deep thought.

"I feel ashamed to own it," he said, at last; "but I really do not know how one could set about the matter so as to have a chance of really destroying the tunnel, after so short a time for preparation. Were the tunnel an ordinary, brick-lined tunnel, the proposition of De Maupas--slightly modified--would no doubt have the effect of bringing down the brick lining, and the earth behind would fall in, of itself; but with a tunnel cut in the solid rock, it would be difficult. The natural strength of the tunnel would be so great that the force of the explosion would simply be lost, through the ends. It might or might not bring down a few masses of rock, but one could not rely upon it doing even that.

"If I had time, the matter would be easy enough. I should make a deep chamber in the solid rock, at the side of the tunnel; insert my charge, and then tamp or fasten it in, with masonry. This would ensure its destruction, at the point of explosion; but I have no hope of any great damage being done, by merely putting two barrels of nitroglycerine down upon the line, and then firing them. I can assure you the point mooted by the doctor is more serious and, as far as I see at present, I could do nothing in half an hour which would, in any way, ensure the destruction of the tunnel. To make such a chamber as I speak of (to hold two barrels of nitroglycerine) would be the work of four or five days, working night and day--even with the aid of powder--and of course, it would be out of the question to hope for as many hours."

There was a pause of consternation, as Lieutenant Ribouville spoke. Here was the end of the grand scheme, from which they had expected so much. At this time, the Germans had no other line of rail at their command; and the destruction of the tunnel would have been a disaster, equal to that of the loss of a pitched battle.

"There would be no chance, would there, of our hiding in the woods under which the tunnel runs; so as to bore down to it, and blow it in from above?" Major Tempe asked.

"None whatever. The depth to be bored would be considerable. The stone is hard, and it could not be pierced without the use of powder, which would betray our presence; and even could we use it, and were the men all good miners, it would be a work of months, at the very least."

There was a silence for some minutes, and then the commandant said:

"We cannot give it up, without a trial. Think it over, Ribouville, for the next three or four days. You may be able to pitch upon some plan. If you cannot do so, we must at least try the experiment of exploding our nitroglycerine in the middle of the tunnel--or, at any rate, as far in as we can carry it--and make our retreat in the half hour, which is all the time we can calculate upon holding the entrance."

Chapter 7: A Baffled Project.

Before leaving the headquarters of the commandant, the young Barclays asked if he wished that they should continue to keep silence upon the subject of their expedition. The commandant replied that he did not see that it could do any harm, provided that they impressed upon their comrades the necessity of maintaining an absolute silence upon the subject, when any of the people of the neighborhood were present. Although the villagers might appear to understand no language but German, they might yet know enough French to glean what was said and, if traitorously inclined, to warn the Germans, and thus enormously increase the danger when the Barclays should again go down to the town.

Their cousins had already heard of their return; for the boys, upon sitting down to dinner at the commandant's, had requested leave to send a line to their cousins, who would be anxiously expecting them.

"Hallo! You Barclay, where have you been to, all day?" was the general exclamation, as they entered.

"On duty," Ralph said.

"On duty--yes, but what duty? The Duburgs have been mysterious, and would say nothing. The sergeant here knew nothing about it, except that our lieutenant told him that you had leave; and Irish Tim has been hanging about all day, as restless as a cow that has lost its calf."

"We have been down to Saverne," Ralph said.

There was a general exclamation of astonishment. Those of the men who had already lain down upon their straw for the night sat up again, and all crowded round to hear Ralph's story, which he at once told at length; and which, when finished, gave rise here--as it had done at the officers' table--to an animated discussion. Several of the men shook hands warmly with the Barclays, congratulating them on their offer to undertake this dangerous service, and upon the valuable--though unfavorable--information which they had obtained.

From this time forward, the men ceased to attempt to pass jokes at the expense of any of the boys. When the corps was first raised, many of the young men had been inclined to protest against boys being accepted, when the list could have been readily filled with men but, by this time, the boys had proved that they were quite as capable of supporting fatigue as were the men. They had behaved equally well in action; and now the enterprise of the Barclays testified to the fact that, in a dangerous expedition requiring coolness, presence of mind, and nerve, they were equally to be relied upon. Henceforward there was no distinction, or difference, between the various members of the corps.

Another four days passed and--as the ex-officer of Engineers could suggest no certain plan, for the destruction of the tunnel, which could be carried out in the time which a surprise of the sentries at its mouth would give them--Major Tempe resolved upon delaying no longer; but on sending four men into the tunnel, under Lieutenant Ribouville, with instructions to go as far as they could in a quarter of an hour, to set down the barrels against the rock, to light a fuse cut to burn a quarter of an hour, and then to return at full speed to the mouth of the tunnel.

One company was to seize the other end, to tear up seven, eight, or ten rails, and to retire at once into the woods; as the delay in getting the rails into their places again would prevent any train entering, from that end, in time for its occupants to see and extinguish the burning fuse.

The other company--which was absent--was to join the headquarters, the evening before the attempt; and it was hoped that the three companies would be able to keep the enemy at bay for half an hour, so as to give time to the party with the nitroglycerine to take it to the required position, and rejoin their comrades. Immediately upon their doing so the retreat was to commence; as the enemy could not possibly penetrate the tunnel, and extinguish the fuse, before the explosion took place.

The attempt was not to be made till the following evening; in order that the Barclays might go down, and see that all was as before at Saverne, and along the line. The next day, accordingly, the boys again put on their disguises and started; as before, taking the precaution to change in the wood, so as not to be seen by any of the villagers. Upon reaching the spot from which a view of the tunnel was obtainable, they stopped, with a simultaneous exclamation of dismay. Not only were two sentries stationed near the entrance; but some fifteen or twenty German soldiers were sitting or standing by a small building, at a short distance, which had evidently been turned into a guard house.

"This looks very much against us, Ralph. One would think that they had got information of our being near."

"It looks bad, indeed, Percy. Let us go on into the town. We shall, perhaps, learn something about it, there."

A sharp walk soon brought them to Saverne. A sentry was on duty at the entrance to the town, and several of his comrades stood near. The sentry looked as if about to stop them; but seeing, when they came up, that they were only boys, he let them pass without question.

"Worse and worse, Percy. Something is up, sure enough."

This became more evident at every step they took, for the little town was absolutely crowded with German soldiers.

"Unless they are merely halting here, upon their march through, it is all up with our plan, Percy. There must be over two thousand men here, at the very least."

Upon questioning a lad of the town, of about their own age, they found that the fresh troops had arrived upon the preceding day; the infantry--two thousand strong--coming in by train, late in the evening before; and three hundred cavalry marched in, only half an hour before the boys' arrival. They were all quartered upon the inhabitants, and there appeared to be no sign of their early departure.

For some time the boys walked about, without obtaining any information; although they entered a dozen cabarets, and drank considerable quantities of beer. At last, before one of the principal cafes, they saw ten or twelve German officers sitting, talking. None of the inhabitants were sitting at the cafe; and the boys dared not go in to ask for anything, there, as it would not have been in accordance with their appearance.

"How are we to get within hearing, Percy?"

"Look here, Ralph; I will limp along, as if I had something in my shoe which hurts me. Then I will sit down on a doorstep, close to them, and take off my boot. You can sit down, too, and take some of the bread and cheese which we put in our pockets, because we could not eat it at the last place we went in. I will keep my boot off, to ease my foot; and we can eat our bread and cheese, as slowly as we like."

"That will do capitally, Percy."

In another couple of minutes the two lads were sitting, as agreed, upon the step of a door close to the cafe. They could not hear all that was said; but could catch the sense, as the German officers--as is their custom--spoke in a very loud voice. They belonged to the infantry; and were, it appeared, in ignorance of the reason of their sudden move to Saverne.

Presently a captain of the cavalry came along the street.

"Ah, Von Rausen," a major in the infantry exclaimed, "are you here? I have not seen you since the day you marched from Coblentz."

"No, indeed, major," the other said, saluting--as a Prussian officer always does, to his superior in rank--the other infantry officers all rising, and saluting in turn. "We have just come in from Hagenau."

"Are you in a hurry?" asked the major. "If not, sit down and let us talk."

The cavalry officer accepted the invitation and, for a few minutes, their talk ran upon mutual friends. Then the major said:

"By the way, do you know what we are here for? We were bustled off at a moment's notice; no one knows why, except of course the colonel, and he has not thought necessary to tell us and, naturally, we have not asked him."

"Do you not know?" Captain Von Rausen said. "It is no secret--at least, no secret from us, but a secret from the people here. I will speak in French; no doubt there are plenty of spies about."

"There is no one in hearing," the major said, "except those two stupid-looking lads, munching bread and cheese."

"The more likely to be spies," Von Rausen said. "Fellows who look like fools are just the people chosen."

"Well, speak in English then, Von Rausen," the major said; "we both understand it, and we should be safe, then, if all Saverne were listening."

"Yes, that will be safe.

"Well, then, the general received information, yesterday, that that corps of franc tireurs who cut up our cavalry near Blamont, the other day, are hid up in some village in the woods, four or five miles from here; no doubt with the intention of making an attempt to blow up the tunnel. The idea is a daring one and, if the plan had succeeded, it would have done us incalculable harm. As it is, we are safe; and tomorrow night we shall, I believe, make an expedition, and sweep the woods clear of these troublesome gentry.

"These franc tireurs will be mischievous if we do not give them a sharp lesson. The general's proclamation gave notice that every one of them taken would be shot, and our colonel is just the man to carry out the order."

"This is indeed important," the major said. "But how did we get the information? Is it certain?"

"Quite certain. A scoundrel of a schoolmaster at Grunsdorf--a village somewhere up in the woods--turned traitor; and sent a letter to the general, bargaining that he should be taken on as a spy, at some fabulous salary, and offering to begin by leading the troops to the village where these franc tireurs are hidden."

"An infamous scoundrel!" the major said warmly. "Of course, one cannot refuse to deal with traitors, when the information is of importance; but one longs to put a pistol bullet into them. Badly as the French have come out in many particulars, since the war began, there is not one which gives me such a mean idea of them as the number of offers which have been sent in to supply information, and betray their countrymen."

"Put on your boots, Percy," Ralph said, in a low voice. "It is time for us to be off. Don't hurry; and above all, if they should take it into their heads to address us suddenly in French, or English, don't start or seem to notice."

The major was, however, so absorbed in the information he had received--and so confident that the English, in which it had been told, would be unintelligible to anyone who might overhear it--that he paid no attention to the boys who--one of them limping badly--went slowly down the street; stopping, occasionally, to look in at the shop windows. It was not until they were fairly outside the town, and out of sight of the German sentries, that they either spoke or quickened their pace.

"The franc tireurs of Dijon may thank their lucky stars that they sent down spies to Saverne today, Percy; and especially that we, of all the members of the corps, were selected. If we had not been where we were, just at that moment, and if we had not understood English, it would have been all up with the corps, and no mistake."

"What an infamous scoundrel, as the major said, that schoolmaster must be, Ralph! What do you think the commandant will do?"

"He has nothing to do but to retreat, as quickly as we can go, Percy; but if it costs him half the corps, I hope he will hang that schoolmaster, before he goes."

"I hope so, too," Percy said; and scarcely another word was spoken, until they reached the village.

It was still early, scarcely two o'clock, and Major Tempe was drilling the whole corps--the two detached companies having arrived that morning--when the boys, having again put on uniform, approached him.

Major Tempe nodded to them, as they came up.

"You are back early," he said. "You are excused from drill. I will see you at my quarters, when it is over."

"If you please, major," Ralph said, respectfully, "you had better dismiss the men, at once. We have news of the highest importance to tell you."

The major looked surprised but, seeing by the boys' faces that the news was very serious, he at once dismissed the men; telling them to keep near, as they might be wanted. Then, calling his officers, he proceeded at once with the Barclays towards his quarters.

"Excuse me, major," Ralph said, "but instead of going to your quarters, would you move to some open space, where we can speak without a possibility of being overheard by anyone?"

Still more surprised, Major Tempe led the way to some felled trees at the edge of the forest, a short distance from the village. Here he sat down, and motioned to the others to do the same. Ralph then told his story, interrupted many times by exclamations of rage, upon the part of his auditors; and giving full credit to Percy for his idea of the plan by which, unnoticed, they had managed to get within hearing of the German officers. The fury of the French officers knew no bounds. They gesticulated, they stamped up and down, they swore terribly, they were ready to cry from sheer rage.

Major Tempe, alone, uttered no remark during the whole narration. When it was concluded, he sat silent for a minute or two; with his lips pressed together, and a look of deep indignation on his face. Then he rose, and said in a solemn tone:

"As sure as the sun shines, and as sure as my name is Edward Tempe, so sure shall that schoolmaster, of Grunsdorf, be hung before tomorrow morning!

"Lieutenant Ribouville, order the assembly to be sounded, and form the men here in hollow square.

"Messieurs Barclay, you will fall in with your company."

A little surprised--and hurt that the commandant had said no word of commendation to them, for the service they had performed--the boys hurried off to their quarters, to get their rifles.

"Sure, Master Ralph, and what is the matter, at all?" Tim Doyle said, as they entered. "Sure the major, honest man, must have gone off his head, entirely! Scarcely had we finished our male, and began to smoke the first pipe in aise and comfort, when the bugle blows for parade.

"'Confound the bugle!' says I, and I shoved me pipe aside, and put on my belt and fell in.

"Hardly had we begun the maneuvers when your honors arrived and said a word, private, to the major. The words weren't out of your mouth before he dismisses us from drill.

"'Botheration!' says I, 'is there no pace for the wicked?'

"Back I comes again, and takes off me belt and piles me firelock; and before I had got three draws at me pipe, and was just beginning to enjoy the creetur when, crack! and there goes the assimbly again. Sure and the major, honest man, has lost his head entirely; and it's a pity, for he is an illegant man, and a good officer, says I."

"Come along, Tim," Ralph said, laughing, "else you'll be late for parade. You will hear all about it in time, I have no doubt."

In five minutes the men were all assembled in a hollow square, two deep, facing the officers in the center The men saw at once, by the faces of Major Tempe and the officers, that something very serious had happened; and they had no sooner taken their places than there was a deep hush of expectancy, for it was evident that the commandant was about to address them.

"My men," he said, after a pause of a minute or two, "a great calamity has happened; and a still greater one would have happened, had we not providentially received warning in time. It had been resolved--as you would have heard this evening, had all gone well--that tonight we should attack the German sentries, and blow up the rock tunnel of Saverne. The affair would have been hot, but it would have been a vital service to France; and the franc tireurs of Dijon would have merited, and obtained, the thanks of all France. It was for the purpose of the attack that the two companies detached from us were recalled.

"All promised well for success. Two of your number had been down into Saverne, in disguise, and had brought us full information respecting the force and disposition of the enemy. All was prepared, the chance of success favorable, and the force the enemy could have brought against us was no larger than our own. We should have saved France, and immortalized ourselves.

"At the present moment there are two thousand five hundred men in Saverne. Tomorrow night this village is to be attacked, and every franc tireur found here put to the sword."

A cry of surprise and rage broke from the men.

"And how, think you, has the change been wrought? By treachery!"

Those cries of rage were renewed.

"By treachery! A Frenchman has been found, base and vile enough to sell us to Prussia. All hope of success is over, and we have only to retreat."

"Who is he? Who is he?" burst from the infuriated men. "Death to the traitor! Death to the traitor!"

"Yes, men, death to the traitor!" the major said, solemnly. "It is the schoolmaster of Grunsdorf who has sold you to the Prussians; who wrote that letter to their general, telling him of your intentions, which has caused these great reinforcements to be sent; and who has offered to guide a force to surround us, tomorrow night."

Another low cry of horror and indignation broke from the men.

"Is it your opinion that this man has deserved death?"

"Yes," was the unanimous answer.

"Then he dies," Major Tempe said, solemnly. "You were to have been his victims; you are his judges.

"Grunsdorf is three miles from here, in the woods, not far from Saverne. A party will be told off, presently, who will be charged with the execution of this sentence.

"I have now another duty. The corps has been saved from destruction. You--all of us--have been preserved from death by the intelligence and courage of two of your number.

"Ralph and Percy Barclay, stand forward!"

The two boys stepped two paces forward into the hollow square.

"Selected by me," continued Major Tempe, "for the duty, from their perfect acquaintance with German; they, upon their first visit to Saverne, obtained all the information required. Upon their second visit, this morning--finding the enemy had been immensely reinforced--they perceived the extreme importance of discovering the reason for the arrival of the reinforcements, and their intention. With a coolness and tact which does them the greatest credit, they contrived to arrive, and to remain within hearing of, a number of officers; and then learned the whole particulars of the treachery of this man, and of the intention of our enemies. So important was the secret judged that the Germans were afraid of telling it in German, or in French, lest they might be overheard. To prevent the possibility of this, they conversed in English; and the consequence is that we are saved, almost by a miracle.

"Ralph and Percy Barclay, your names will be inserted in the order of the day, being the first of the corps to whom that honor has been given; and I hereby offer you, in the name of myself, my officers, and the whole corps, my hearty thanks for your courage, coolness, and devotion.

"The parade is dismissed. The men will assemble at five o'clock, in full marching order, with all necessaries and accouterments."

As Major Tempe ceased speaking, the men broke up from the order in which they had been standing, and crowded round the young Barclays; shaking them by the hand, patting them on the shoulder, and congratulating them heartily upon the service that they had rendered, and upon the terms in which their commandant had thus publicly acknowledged it.

At five o'clock the corps assembled again in heavy marching order and, after inspection, the second, third, and fourth companies marched off; with their officers, who alone knew their destination, at their head. Major Tempe remained on the ground, with the first company. After waiting for a few minutes, they were marched off in the direction which the others had taken but--after getting out of sight of the village, and fairly entering the forest--they turned sharp off, and took the direction of Saverne.

Chapter 8: The Traitor.

After the company had marched for half an hour, a halt was called, and their commandant said:

"I daresay you have all guessed the object which we have in view. We are going to carry out the sentence pronounced by the whole corps. We are going to have that schoolmaster--that traitor--who has sold our lives to the Prussians; and who--which is of infinitely greater importance--has done immense injury to France, by betraying our intention of blowing up the tunnel. That traitor I intend to have, tonight; and if I have him, I will hang him, as sure as fate.

"This lane which we are following leads to Grunsdorf; which, according to the information I collected before leaving, cannot be above a mile distant. Now, we must be cautious. It is quite possible that a detachment of the enemy may have been sent up to the village, and in that case we might catch a Tartar. Even if there are no Germans there, we must be cautious, or the bird will escape. We neither know him, nor the house he lives in and--as he would naturally guess that his treachery had been discovered, and that we had come for him--he would slip out into the forest, the instant he saw the first bayonet approaching. It is essential, therefore, that we should obtain accurate information of the state of affairs, and of the position of this traitor's house.

"In another half hour it will be dusk. The Barclays have again volunteered to go in, and find out what we require. They will go on at once; and in an hour we will follow, and remain concealed, just outside the village, until they return.

"Sergeant, you will go forward with them, and agree upon the place where we shall remain hid, until they join us.

"Now, my lads, you have already received your instructions. Change your things, and go forward at once."

The distance was farther than they had expected, and it was nearly dark before the boys entered Grunsdorf. There was no one moving in the quiet village, for a fine rain was falling as the boys walked slowly along.

"There is no one to ask, Percy. We must go into the public house, as arranged, and ask where the priest's house is. It would not do for two strangers to ask for the schoolmaster. The priest will tell us where he lives."

So saying, they entered the little cabaret, walked down a long passage leading from the door, and paused for a moment at the threshold--for in the room were some eight or ten Prussian soldiers.

"It is too late to retreat, Percy. Come in boldly."

Lifting their caps, they walked up to an unoccupied table; and called for some bread, cheese, and beer. The landlord brought the refreshments, and the boys had scarcely begun to eat when a Prussian sergeant--who had exchanged a word with the landlord, evidently in reference to them--strode up to them and, laying his hand upon Ralph's shoulder, said:

"Who are you, young fellows? The landlord says you do not belong to the village."

"We belong to a party of woodcutters, from Colmar," Ralph said, quietly.

"Oh, indeed!" the sergeant said, in an incredulous voice, "and where are your party?"

"Out in the forest, at the place where we have begun to fell trees," Ralph said.

"But people do not come to cut wood without horses, or carts to take it away," the sergeant persisted.

"They are up in the forest with our father," Ralph said.

"Have you heard anything about this party?" the sergeant asked the landlord.

The man hesitated a moment. He evidently suspected, also, that the boys might belong to the franc tireurs; and was anxious to say nothing which could harm them.

"No," he said, after a pause, "I can't say that I have heard of them; but I know some of the forest was sold, not long ago, and they might have come from Colmar without coming this way."

"We only arrived this morning," Percy said, quietly, "so that you could hardly have heard of us, unless some of the people of your place happened to pass, when we were at work; and we have not seen anyone, all day."

"At any rate," the sergeant said, "I shall see if your story be true, and you will at once take us to the place.

"Corporal, get ten men in readiness."

"Certainly," Ralph said, "if you will allow us to finish our supper, we will show you the way, at once."

The sergeant nodded, and resumed his seat.

"Look here, Percy," Ralph said, quietly, "we are in a nasty fix, this time. There is only one thing to be done, that I can see. If we both go they will shoot us, to a certainty; for although one might make a bolt in the wood, it is certain we could not both get away.

"Only one thing is to be done. I will say your foot is bad, and ask for you to stay here. Directly we have gone, you slip out and go--as hard as you can--to the place where our men are hid. I will bring them in that direction. We shall have passed the place before you can reach it--at least, unless you can get out, at once--and pass on in the darkness. Take off your shoes, so as to run lightly. As we pass, fire a volley right into us; and I will make a dart into the wood, in the confusion."

"But you might be shot by our men, Ralph. They could not possibly distinguish you, in the dark. No, I will go with the men, and you make your way to Tempe."

"No, no, Percy, I won't have that."

"Very well," Percy said, doggedly, "then we will go together."

There was a silence for a minute or two, and then Ralph said:

"Look here, Percy, this is madness; however, as you won't do as I tell you, we will draw lots. I will put a piece of crumb in one of my hands. You shall guess which it is in. If you guess right, I will go with the Germans. If you guess wrong, you shall go."

"Very well," Percy said; "I agree to that."

Ralph then broke off a small piece of bread, and put it in one of his hands--having already, before he made the proposition, broken off a similar piece, unobserved by Percy. He then put both hands under the table, and then lifted them again; all the time trying to appear not to be engaged upon anything out of the way, as he knew that some of the Germans were watching them.

"Left," Percy said.

Ralph replied by opening the left hand, and dropping the piece of bread on the table; at the same time putting his right hand back into his pocket, as if to get out his handkerchief--and dropping, as he did so, the piece of bread it contained into the place.

"There, Percy, fortune has decided it.

"Goodbye; God bless you. I daresay I shall get out of it but, if not, give my love to them all, at home."

Then he finished his beer and rose, without giving Percy time to reply, even could he have done so; but the lad was so much choked, with the effort to keep from crying, that he could not have spoken. Ralph turned to the sergeant and--stretching his arms, with the natural air of a tired boy, objecting to be disturbed--said:

"Now, sir, I am ready to start. I suppose there is no occasion for us both to go, for my brother has hurt his foot. We shouldn't have come in, tonight; but it is his first time out with the woodmen, and he is not accustomed to sleeping out, in the wet."

"Yes, one is enough. He can stay," the sergeant said.

"You had better ask the landlord to show you a corner, where you can sleep on the straw, Karl," Ralph said. "It is no use waiting for me. I shall be back in an hour."

With a nod to Percy, Ralph now walked steadily to the door. The sergeant, with the men told off for the duty, accompanied him. When they reached the street, it was raining heavily.

"I wonder," Ralph said, "whether the landlord would lend me a sack, to put on my shoulders."

"Is this place far off, youngster?" the sergeant asked, peering out into the darkness.

Ralph's heart gave a jump; for he detected, in the tone, a certain hesitation as to taking the men out in such a night, upon such slight suspicion. He was, however, too shrewd to show any desire to dissuade the sergeant from it, so he replied:

"No, it is no distance to speak of; not a mile, at most. We should be there and back in half an hour, if it was light; but there is only a path among the woods and it is dark.

"I think we had better have some lanterns, for I do not think I could find my way without them, tonight; at any rate, it would take us much longer."

"There, boy, that will do," the sergeant said, laying his hand on his shoulder. "I am satisfied, now, with the truth of your story. I thought, for a bit, you had something to do with the franc tireurs who are about here, but I see I was mistaken.

"Turn in again, lads. It is no use taking you out on a useless search, such a night as this, among these forests."

Ralph laughed aloud, as they turned to go down the passage again to the corner.

"Won't father laugh," he said, "when he hears that you thought I was a franc tireur. We haven't seen any, about Colmar. I don't think you need be afraid of them, if they ain't bigger or older than I am."

By this time they had entered the room again, and Ralph saw that Percy was already talking to the landlord--with whom, indeed, he was on the point of leaving the room. He turned round, upon hearing the party come in again, and gave a slight start of pleasure.

"I am soon back, Karl, and am glad that it is so for, frankly, I too am tired; and it is not a night for a dog to be out. I will go in with you."

"Stay, landlord," the sergeant said. "Give the boys another glass, each, before they go off."

"Thank you," Ralph said. "A glass of good beer never comes amiss."

The boys stopped, while the landlord filled their glasses.

"Now," said the sergeant, raising his arm. "Here's a health, to King William."

"Here's a health, to King William," Ralph repeated. "I am sure I wish him no harm.

"And now, with your permission, I will be off."

The landlord led them to an outhouse, in which were some trusses of straw. Just as he was about to leave them, Ralph said, suddenly:

"Ah! I had nearly forgotten about the priest. You have a priest here, have you not?"

"Of course," the landlord said. "Do you take us for heathens?"

"Not at all," Ralph said, apologetically; "but father told me to call, and pay him for some masses. My eldest sister was very ill, when we came away, and father worries about her.

"Where does the priest live?"

"The last house on the left, as you go out from the farther end of the village. But anyone will show you it, in the morning.

"You don't want the light any longer?"

For the boys had, while speaking, been taking off their boots, and making a show of preparing to lie down on the straw.

"No, thank you. Good night.

"Oh, I forgot--what do you charge, a cask, for your best beer? Father wanted to know and, if the price suits, will send down a cart to fetch it."

The landlord named the price, and then said good night, and left them.

When he returned to the room where he had left the German soldiers, the sergeant asked him a question or two concerning the boys; and the landlord repeated the substance of the conversation which he had just had. This allayed the last suspicions which had remained in the sergeant's mind; and he congratulated himself, greatly, that he had not taken his men out, in such a night, upon a mere groundless suspicion.

"If the landlord repeats that yarn to the Germans, it will allay all suspicion," Ralph said, when they were left alone. "Otherwise the sergeant might have taken it into his head to come to have a look at us and, although it would not very much matter that he should discover that the birds had flown, still it would have put him on his guard, and he might have doubled the sentries, and made it much more difficult for us.

"We have had a very narrow squeak for it this time, Percy, old boy."

"Very, Ralph! I would rather go through twenty battles, again, than feel as I felt when I saw you start, and thought that I should never see you again, alive."

"Well, we have no time to lose now, Percy. Have you got your boots on again? If so, let us start at once. The major and men must be very anxious, long before this. It must be full an hour since we came."

"It has been the longest hour I ever passed, Ralph. There now, I am ready, if you are."

"We must go out very quietly, Percy. I have no doubt that they have got sentries posted all about. They know that we are in the neighborhood I wish I knew how many there are of them."

"I found out, from the landlord, that all the fifteen men we saw here were billeted upon him," Percy said. "He told me at first, when I asked him, that he could do nothing for me in the way of a bed, because there were three or four in every room. I said that a stable and a little straw would do for us, very well, and then he thought of this outhouse.

"At the same rate, there must be at least a hundred men in the village."

They now opened the door of the outhouse, went quietly out, and made their way through a garden at the back of the house towards the wood.

"Stand still a few minutes, Percy," Ralph said, in a whisper, "and let us see if we can find out where the sentries are placed. I expect that they form a cordon round the village.

"Lie down by this wall. We can see them, there, and they cannot see us."

It was well that they did so for, in another minute, they heard a tread quite close to them; and a Prussian soldier passed, within a yard of where they were lying. They could dimly see that his hood was over his head, and hear that he was humming to himself a scrap of some German air. They lay there until he had again passed the spot; and then--having found out the direction of his beat--they crawled noiselessly away and, in five minutes, had reached the edge of the forest.

They did not enter it, as it would have been impossible--in the dense darkness--to have made their way without running against trees, and snapping off boughs, which would have given the alarm. They therefore skirted the edge--knowing that, with the trees behind them, they would be invisible at the distance of a yard or two--and in ten minutes reached the place where their company was awaiting them. As they approached the spot, they gave a short, low whistle; which was the agreed sign, among the band, for knowing each other on night expeditions. It was answered at once and, in another minute, they were among their friends.

"What has happened?" Major Tempe asked. "We were getting very anxious about you. I sent Favarts to reconnoiter, ten minutes ago; and he has just returned, saying that he can hear someone pacing backwards and forwards on the road, and that he believes it to be a sentry."

"He was quite right," Ralph said; "the village is full of Germans. There must--as far as we can see--be seventy or eighty of them, at the very lowest; and there are probably a hundred. We have been prisoners, or something very like it, and have had a monstrously close shave of it.

"But I will tell you all that, when we have time. Do you still think of carrying out your plans?"

"Certainly," Major Tempe said, "that schoolmaster I am determined to have, even if we fight our way in, and shoot him in bed. Have you found out where he lives?"

"No, sir, but we have found out where the priest lives. It is this end house: the end of the village, on the left-hand side as you come out."

"Are the sentries very close together?"

"They are pretty close, but not too close to prevent our crawling between them, unobserved, on such a night as this."

Major Tempe hesitated for a while.

"It would be too hazardous," he said. "We know nothing of the ground over which we should have to crawl, and it would be hardly possible for thirty men--with our accouterments, and firearms--to crawl along without snapping sticks, or striking rifles against a stone and giving the alarm.

"No, the sentry at the entrance of the village must be silenced."

So saying, the commandant turned to the men who were standing round, and explained briefly the purport of the whispered conversation which he had had with Ralph. He then chose two active young men, and told them to take off their cloaks, belts, and accouterments of all kinds; and to leave them, with their rifles, with the men who were to remain at the spot at which they then were--to cover their retreat, if necessary. They were to take nothing with them but their sword bayonets--which were not to be used, except in case of necessity--and a coil of light rope. Definite instructions were given them as to the manner in which their attack was to be made.

They then took off their boots, and set off noiselessly upon their enterprise. They went on rapidly, until they were within plain hearing of the footsteps of the sentinel; and then very cautiously and, crouching almost to the ground, so as not to bring their bodies on a level with his eye, they crept up foot by foot to the end of his beat. Here they waited a short time, while he passed and repassed them, unthinking of the deadly foe who, had they stretched out their hands, could have touched his cloak as he went past them.

At last, the second time he passed them on his way towards the village, they rose together behind him. In an instant one had garroted him--with a choking grip, that almost strangled him, and prevented him uttering the slightest sound--while the other grasped his rifle by the lock, so as to prevent the possibility of its being fired. In another instant, the rifle was torn from the grasp of the almost stupefied man; cords were passed tightly round his arms and legs; a handkerchief was thrust into his mouth, and fastened there by a cord going across the mouth and tied behind the head and, before the bewildered man fairly knew what had happened, he was lying bound and gagged by the roadside.

One of the franc tireurs now ran back, to tell the commandant that the men could advance; while the other--selected specially because he understood a little German--put on the spiked helmet of the captured sentry, and began to walk up and down, in readiness to repeat the cry of "All well," should it be passed round.

The whole company were now moved up. Ten men were left at the point where the sentry was posted, to cover a retreat; or to assist the sentry, in case of any party coming out to relieve guard, and so discovering the change which had taken place. The others, led by the commandant, proceeded forward until opposite the priest's house, in which lights were still burning; for it was not, as yet, ten o'clock.

Major Tempe, accompanied only by two men--and by Ralph Barclay, to interpret, if necessary--now went cautiously up to the house. The light was in a room on the ground floor. To this Major Tempe advanced and, looking in, saw the priest sitting reading, alone. He tapped very gently at the window; and the priest, looking up, gave a start upon seeing an armed man looking in at the window.

Major Tempe put his finger to his lips, to enforce the necessity for silence, and made signs to him to open the window. After a moment's hesitation the priest rose from his seat, came to the window, and unfastened it; taking great precautions against noise.

"Are you French?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Yes; a commandant of franc tireurs."

"Hush, then, for your life," the priest said, earnestly. "The village is full of Prussians. The officer, with a soldier as his servant, is upstairs. He arrived in a state of fever; and is, tonight, quite ill. The soldier is up with him. I believe the sergeant, who is at the inn, is in command for to-night. A soldier was dispatched, this evening, to ask for another officer to be sent out.

"What can I do for you?"

"I only want you to tell me in which house the schoolmaster lives. He is a traitor, and has betrayed us to the Prussians. It is owing to him that they are here."

"He has a bad name, in the village," the priest said; "and we had applied to have him removed. He lives in the third house from here, on the same side of the road."

"Has he any Germans quartered upon him?"

"Twenty or thirty men," the priest said. "The schoolroom is full of them."

"Do you know which is his room?" Major Tempe asked. "It would be a great thing, if we could get at him without alarming the enemy. I have thirty men here, but I do not want to have a fight in the village, if I can help it."

"I know his house," the priest said. "The schoolroom is at the side of the house, and his sitting room and kitchen on the ground floor of the house itself. There are three bedrooms over. His room is in front of the house, to the right as you face it."

"Thank you," Major Tempe said. "Have you a ladder?"

"There is one lying on the ground by the wall, to the left. I hope you do not intend to shed blood?"

"No," Major Tempe said, grimly. "I think that I can promise that there will be no blood shed--that is to say, unless we are attacked by the Prussians.

"Good night, and thank you. I need not say that--for your own sake--you will not mention, in the morning, having seen us."

The commandant now rejoined his party, and they advanced to the house indicated. He then chose ten men to accompany him; ordering the rest to remain at a distance of twenty yards, with their rifles cocked, and in readiness for instant action. The ladder was then brought forward by the men selected, and placed against the window.

Major Tempe had, before starting, provided himself--from the carpenter of the village--with an auger, a small and fine saw, a bottle of oil, and a thin strip of straight iron. He now mounted the ladder and, after carefully examining the window--which was of the make which we call, in England, latticed--he inserted the strip of iron, and tried to force back the fastening. This he failed in doing, being afraid to use much force lest the fastening should give suddenly, with a crash. He had, however, ascertained the exact position of the fastening.

Having, before mounting, carefully oiled the auger and saw, he now applied the former; and made a hole through the framework at the junction of the two sides of the window, just above the fastening. Introducing the saw into this hole, he noiselessly cut entirely round the fastening, with a semi-circular sweep, to the junction of the window below it; and as he did so, the window swung partially open, by its own weight. He now descended the ladder again, took off his boots; and ordered two of the men to do the same, and to put aside all arms, and accouterments, that could strike against anything and make a noise.

Then, taking a coil of strong rope in his hand, and followed by the two men, he again mounted the ladder. The instructions to the men were that one was to enter at once, with him; the other to remain where he was, until he received the signal. The major entered the room noiselessly, and dropped at once on to his hands and knees; and was, a minute after, joined by his follower. He now crawled forward--groping his way with the greatest caution, so as to make no noise--until he found the bed. Then, rising to his feet, he threw himself upon the sleeping man and, in a moment, had him tightly by the throat with one hand, while the other was placed firmly on his mouth.

Paralyzed by the suddenness of the attack, and with his arms tightly kept down by the bedclothes, and the weight of his assailant, the schoolmaster was unable to struggle.

"Now, light the light," Major Tempe said, quietly.

His follower at once struck one of the noiseless German matches--which are used almost exclusively, in these parts of France--and lighted a lamp which was standing upon the table. He then came up to the bed, and assisted the major to securely gag and bind the prisoner--whose looks, when he saw into whose hands he had fallen, betokened the wildest terror.

"Search his pockets," Major Tempe said. "We may find something of importance."

In the breast pocket of his coat was a pocket book; and in it among the papers was a letter, from the colonel commanding at Saverne--which had evidently been brought to him by the officer of the detachment, that morning--telling him to come down to Saverne, on the following evening, to guide the troops to the village in which the franc tireurs were stationed. The letter also enclosed ten hundred-thaler notes [a thaler is about equal to two shillings].

"They are part of our blood money," the major said, grimly. "Bring them away, they are the fair spoil of war.

"Tell Barre to come in."

The man on the ladder now joined them; and together they quietly lifted the schoolmaster, and carried him to the window. They then fastened a rope round the prisoner's body, lifted him out on to the ladder, and lowered him gradually down to the men below.

They now blew out the light, and descended the ladder. The two men who had waited at its foot raised the prisoner on their shoulders, and carried him off to their comrades; while the commandant and the other two men hastily put on their boots, seized their arms and accouterments and, in two minutes, the whole party were marching quietly down the village. No incident, whatever, marked their retreat. The sentry had been undisturbed, during their absence; and in a few minutes the whole party were out of the village, without the slightest alarm having been raised.

They followed the road by which they had come, for about a mile; and then turned off a side path in the forest, to the left. They followed this for a short distance, only, into the forest; and then, when they arrived at a small, open space, a halt was ordered. The prisoner was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, by the two franc tireurs who carried him on their shoulders, and a fire was speedily lighted.

Major Tempe then ordered the prisoner to be unbound and ungagged and, with a guard upon either side of him, to be placed in front of the company--drawn up in a semi-circle by the fire. The prisoner was a man of about fifty-five, with a sallow, cunning face. He could scarcely stand and, indeed, would have sunk on his knees, in his abject terror, had not the guards by his side held him by the arms.

"Men," Major Tempe said, "undoubted as the guilt of the prisoner appeared to be, we had got no absolute proof; and a mistake might have been possible, as to the name of the village whose schoolmaster had betrayed us. This letter found in his coat pocket, and this German money--the price of our blood--leave no further doubt possible."

And here the major read the Prussian colonel's letter.

"Are you still of opinion that he merits death?"

"Yes, yes," the men exclaimed, unanimously.

"Prisoner," Major Tempe said, "you have heard your sentence. You are a convicted traitor--convicted of having betrayed your country, convicted of having sold the blood of your countrymen. I give you five minutes to ask that pardon, of God, which you cannot obtain from man."

The miserable wretch gave a cry of terror, and fell on his knees; and would have crawled towards his judge, to beg for mercy, had not his guard restrained him. For the next five minutes, the forest rang with alternate cries, entreaties, threats, and curses--so horrible that the four boys, and several of the younger men, put their hands to their ears and walked away, so as not to see or hear the terrible punishment. At the end of that time there was a brief struggle, and then a deep silence; and the body of the traitor swung from a branch of one of the trees, with a paper pinned on his breast:

"So perish all traitors."

"Louis Duburg," Major Tempe said, "take this paper, with 'Those who seek a traitor will find him here,' and fasten it to a tree; so that it may be seen at the point where this path turned from the road."

Louis took it, and ran off. In a quarter of an hour, when he returned, he found the company drawn up in readiness to march. He fell in at once, and the troop moved off; leaving behind them the smoldering fire, and the white figure swinging near it.

Chapter 9: A Desperate Fight.

Daylight was just breaking, when Major Tempe marched with his men into Marmontier; at which place the other three companies had arrived, the night previously. It was a large village--the chief place of its canton--and the corps were most hospitably received by the inhabitants. Had they arrived the evening before, it would have been impossible to provide them all with beds; and they would have been obliged, like the majority of their comrades, to sleep on straw in the schoolroom. The inhabitants, however, were up and about, very shortly after the arrival of Major Tempe's command; and his men were soon provided for, in the beds which they had left.

Beds were now a luxury, indeed, as the corps had not slept in them since they had been quartered at Baccarat, two nights before their first encounter with the Prussians, near Blamont. It was with great unwillingness, then, that they turned out when the bugle sounded, at two o'clock in the afternoon. They partook of a hearty meal--provided by the people upon whom they were quartered--and an hour later the whole corps marched out towards Wasselonne, a small town situated on the Breuche; a little river which, winding round by Molsheim, falls into the Rhine at Strasburg. A branch line of railroad terminates at this place.

When they arrived within three miles of it, they turned off to the right--for Wasselonne had frequently been visited by the Prussians--and slept at the little village of Casswiller, at the edge of the forest of OEdenwald. Another day's short, but weary, marching over the mountains brought them to the village of Still; lying high upon the western slope of the Vosges, above Mutzig.

From this point they had a splendid view over the valley of the Rhine. From their feet, at Mutzig, the railway ran through Molsheim straight across the country to Strasburg; the beautiful spire of whose cathedral rose above the flats, at a distance of about fifteen miles. The day happened to be a quiet one, and the deep booming of the guns of the besiegers could be distinctly heard. The inhabitants reported that the German troops patrolled the whole valley, pushing sometimes down to the walls of Schlestadt, levying contributions and carrying off cattle.

The village was very poor, and was able to furnish little accommodation in the way of quarters, still less in that of food. Six of the villagers were, therefore, sent through the forest of OEdenwald to Raon; with an order to fetch over two oxen, and thirty sheep, of those left there in charge of the head man of the village. They returned in three days, Raon being only about fifteen miles east of Still.

The corps was now broken up into its four companies; who were stationed in the villages on the Vosges, and at the edge of the forest of Trieswald and Bar--the first company remaining at Still. From these villages they commanded a view over the whole plain; and could, with the aid of glasses, distinctly see any bodies of men going south from Strasburg. Each company was to act independently of the other, uniting their forces only when ordered to do so by Major Tempe; who took up his headquarters with the second company, that having the most central position. Each company was to keep a sharp watch over the country, to attack any body of the enemy not superior to themselves in force, and to cut off, if possible, any small parties pillaging in the villages of the valley, near the foot of the mountains.

The first company--under their lieutenant, De Maupas--turned their special attention to Mutzig; which was not, they learned, actually occupied by the Germans, but which was frequently visited by parties from Molsheim, where a portion of the army of the besiegers was stationed. The young Barclays, their cousins, and Tim Doyle were quartered together, in one of the largest houses in the village; and from thence a fine view over the plain was attainable.

They were not destined to remain long in inactivity. Upon the fourth day after their arrival, they saw a party of some twenty horsemen approaching Mutzig. In five minutes every man had assembled and, at once, rapidly marched down the hill; taking advantage of its irregularities, so as to follow a track in which they would be invisible from the road. Making a long detour, they gained the road about half a mile beyond Mutzig and, posting themselves among some trees by its side, awaited the return of the Uhlans.

It was upwards of two hours before they returned. They were laughing, and singing; and the boys felt a sensation of repugnance, as they raised their rifles to their shoulders, and awaited the order to fire into their unsuspecting foes. They had not, as yet, become hardened to the horrors of war. As the word was given, the rifles flashed out; and six of the horsemen fell. The rest, putting spurs to their horses, galloped furiously away. Molsheim was so close--and the enemy might come back again, largely reinforced, in so short a time--that the order was given to retreat, at once.

Reaching the hill and looking back, an hour later, they saw a dark mass coming from Molsheim; and the glasses soon made them out to be about a hundred cavalry, and as many infantry. It was dark as they entered Mutzig and--although it was not probable that they would ascend the hill, at night--sentries were thrown out, far down its sides, to give the alarm; and the men were ordered to hold themselves in readiness for an immediate retreat to the forest. It happened that none of the boys were on duty and, just as they were sitting down to dinner, Tim--who had been out to fetch some wood--came running in.

"Heavenly Mother! The brutes are setting fire to Mutzig, your honor."

The boys ran out. Below, a mass of red flame was rising; and it was evident that several houses were in flames. The sight was a grand one, for the light showed the outline of the slopes of the hills and, reflected on the roofs of the houses of the little town, made them look as if red hot. Out upon the plain, round Molsheim, were the scattered lights of innumerable camp fires while, in the distance, flickering flashes--like the play of summer lightning--told of the ceaseless rain of fire kept up upon the unhappy town of Strasburg.

"What a shame!" Percy said, indignantly; "as if the inhabitants of Mutzig could help our attacking the Uhlans.

"Look, Ralph, there are six distinct fires."

"I suppose that is one for each man we killed or wounded, Percy. You may be sure they will make them pay, too. Thirty thousand francs, I should think, at least.

"War used to be looked upon as a chivalrous proceeding. There is no romance in German warfare. They call us a nation of shopkeepers; they make war, themselves, in the spirit of a nation of petty hucksterers."

"What do you think of that, lads?" Lieutenant de Maupas said, coming up to where they were standing.

"It is shameful, sir, shameful," Ralph said.

"Yes," the officer said, gloomily. "This is to make war as the Vandals made it, not as it is made in the nineteenth century. In the Crimea, in Italy--ay, even in China--we did not make war in this way. In China we burnt the Emperor's summer palace, because his soldiers had murdered our prisoners in cold blood, but we did not burn a single village."

"No," Ralph said; "and I have read that, in Abyssinia, we never as much as took a fowl or a bundle of grass from the natives, without paying for it; and we only burned the fortress of Magdala after offering it, in succession, to the various kings of the country; and destroyed it, at last, to prevent it becoming a stronghold of the Gallas--the enemies of Abyssinia.

"Don't you think," he asked, after a pause, "we shall have fighting tomorrow, sir?"

"I think it very likely, indeed," the lieutenant said. "I have just sent off a messenger to the commandant, with a full report; and asked him to send over a reply whether he will come to our assistance, or if we are to fall back."

"Faith, and I hope that it's not falling back we'll be, till after we've had the satisfaction of spaking to them a bit," Tim Doyle put in. "Barring the little affair of today--which isn't worth mentioning--I haven't had a chance of a scrimmage since I joined the corps. It's been jist marching and counter-marching, over the most onraisonable country; nothing but up hill and down hill and through trees, with big stones breaking our poor feet into pieces, and the rain running down us fit to give us the ague.

"Sure, lieutenant, ye won't be for marching us away, till we've had a little divarshin?"

The boys all laughed at Tim's complaint, which had been delivered in English; for although he could now understand French, he never attempted to speak it, except to ask some necessary question. Percy translated it to the lieutenant.

"You will have fighting enough, before you have done, Tim. Whether you will have it tomorrow, I don't know. There are a hundred infantry--they can't use their cavalry--and we are only twenty-six men, all told. Fortunately, we have a strong line of retreat; or I should not even wait for the chance of being attacked."

"At any rate, you think that we are safe until morning, sir?"

"Yes, I think so," the lieutenant said.

"Then we will go in to our dinner," Ralph said. "Who knows where we may dine, tomorrow?"

Day was just beginning to break, when Percy Barclay started up in his bed. He listened for an instant, and heard the crack of a rifle.

"Up, Ralph; up all of you!" he shouted. "We are attacked."

The others were on their feet in an instant. None of them had thought of undressing and, as they seized their arms and equipments, the whistle of Lieutenant de Maupas sounded loud and shrill. As they issued out there was, already, a scene of bustle and confusion in the village. The franc tireurs were rushing from the doors. The villagers were also pouring out, women screaming and men swearing.

"You had better drive off your animals up into the forest, and carry off whatever you can of value, and send the women and children off, at once," De Maupas shouted, to the head man of the village. "We will give you as much time as we can but, if they are in full strength, it will not be long.

"Now, lads, forward! Don't throw away a shot. Take advantage of every possible cover, and fall back as slowly and steadily as you can. The commandant will be here, with the second company, in half an hour. I had a message from him, late last night."

The men advanced at once, at the double, and in an instant had a view of what was going on. The six men out, as sentries, were falling back rapidly towards the village; and two dark bodies of infantry were approaching, abreast of each other, but at a distance of two or three hundred yards apart. They were some five hundred yards beyond the retreating sentries; who were, themselves, a few hundred yards below the village. The enemy had, at present, made no reply whatever to the fire of the sentries.

"Advance slowly, in skirmishing order," De Maupas said. "One flank of the company oppose each column. Open fire at once, sight for seven hundred yards, take advantage of cover, and fire steadily."

A steady fire was at once opened and, although its effects could not be perceived, they were evidently sensible; for the columns immediately threw out half their strength, as skirmishers, and opened fire. In a hundred paces De Maupas halted his men, and told them to lie down behind shelter.

The enemy were now five hundred yards off, and the franc tireurs had been joined by the sentries. The numbers were four to one and, although the position was of considerable advantage to the smaller force--as well as the fact that they were lying quiet, in shelter, while their adversaries had to fire as they advanced--the odds were far too great to hope for success. Every moment, however, it was getting lighter; and the franc tireurs could see that their fire was doing considerable execution, whereas only two of their men had received slight wounds. The enemy, however, pushed on steadily; and were now little more than three hundred yards distant.

"Fall back," the lieutenant shouted; "six men, alternately, of each half company. Back fifty paces, at the double!"

At the word, twelve men retreated, at full speed, for fifty yards; the others redoubling the fire from their breechloaders, to cover the retreat. The instant that the first men had gone fifty yards, they turned, threw themselves upon the ground, and opened fire; while those in front ran back at full speed, passed them, and halted, in turn, fifty paces in the rear. The maneuver was repeated three times, and they then gained the end house of the village.

Under shelter of a low wall, another stand was made; but the superior force of the enemy enabled them to threaten to outflank them. Many of the Germans had fallen; but the rest advanced, with as much coolness and precision as if on parade.

"How beautifully these fellows do fight!" Ralph exclaimed, in admiration.

"Now, lads, we must retreat," the lieutenant said. "We have done very well. Now, across the village, and then make for the forest as hard as you can. It's not over five hundred yards. When you are once there, make a stand again."

The men turned and, in another moment, would have carried out the order when--from a house in a line with them, but about fifty yards off--a heavy fire of musketry suddenly broke out.

"Hurrah, lads, there's the commandant! Stand to your wall; we'll thrash them, yet."

Staggered by this sudden and heavy fire, the Germans paused; and then fell back, to a spot where a dip in the ground sheltered them from the fire from above. For a short time, there was a cessation of the fight. At this moment, the commandant joined the first company.

"Well done, indeed!" he exclaimed. "Gallantly done, lads! We heard the firing, and feared you would be crushed before we could get up. It is fortunate I started half an hour before daybreak. We have done the last two miles at a run.

"Have you suffered much?"

There was a general look round. Four men had fallen, in the retreat. Another lay dead, shot through the head as he fired over the wall. Four others were wounded; three seriously, while Ralph Barclay had a ball through the fleshy part of his arm.

"Fortunately," Major Tempe said, "half a dozen men from the other village volunteered to come over to help the wounded. I will send them over here, at once. They can take some doors off their hinges, and carry these three men right back into the forest, at once. We have not done yet.

"Get your men into skirmishing line, De Maupas. I will form mine to join you. Occupy the line of gardens, and walls."

Scarcely was the movement effected, when the Germans again appeared on the hillside. They had still a very great superiority in numbers; for the two companies of franc tireurs only numbered, now, forty-five men, while the Germans--who had lost upwards of twenty men--were still nearly eighty strong.

Ralph Barclay still kept his place in the ranks. Tim Doyle had bandaged up his arm; for Percy, who had at first attempted it, had nearly fainted at the sight of the blood. The Irishman was in the highest glee; and occasionally indulged in whoops of defiance, and in taunting remarks--which would not have flattered the enemy, could they have heard and understood them.

The Germans, as they emerged from their shelter, were about four hundred yards distant; and the fire at once recommenced. The franc tireurs were all lying down, and this gave them a great advantage over the Germans and, the disparity of numbers being less, the fight raged with greater obstinacy than before. Very gradually, the enemy won their way--taking advantage of every rock and inequality of ground--until they were within two hundred yards of the village. Nearer than this they could not come, for the ground was open and, in the face of the force in shelter, armed with breech loaders, it would have been madness to have attempted a rush.

For some time, the combatants remained in the same position; merely exchanging an occasional shot, when a head or a hat was exposed. At last, Major Tempe became uneasy at the prolonged inaction upon the part of the enemy.

"De Maupas," he said, "run up to the upper story of that house, and try and see what they are doing. Look all round. I don't like this long hesitation. They are greatly superior in force, and know it. I think that they must be going to try some flanking movement."

The lieutenant obeyed and, going up to the upper story of the house pointed out by his commander, peered cautiously out. As far as he could see, nothing was stirring. The Germans appeared to be lying in the little hollow in which they were sheltered. He was about to descend, when he remembered his orders to look around in all directions. He therefore went to a window at the end of the house, and looked carefully out.

As he did so he gave a start; and his heart seemed, for a moment, to stand still. Then, with a bound, he reached the door, sprang downstairs, and rushed out to where Major Tempe was standing, behind a wall.

"The cavalry are upon us," he said. "They are not five hundred yards off. They have made a great detour and are--"

Major Tempe stopped to hear no more.

"Fall back, men," he shouted. "Keep well together. The cavalry are upon us. Now, at a double to the forest, for your lives.

"Steady, steady!"

The men sprang from the position behind which they had been firing, fell in hurriedly in the street; and then went off, at a fast double, towards the forest. There were a few trees near, but no shelter sufficient to be of any use nearer than five hundred yards. Fortunately they were unimpeded by wounded, every man having been carried back into the forest, immediately he was struck. Still, it was evident that they could not gain the forest in time. They had seen the leading horsemen turn into the end of the village, not more than three hundred yards distant, as they started; and the carbine balls were already whizzing over their heads.

With the rapidity and steadiness which mark the movements of the Prussian cavalry, they formed in line as they issued from the village and, before the fugitives were halfway to the forest, a line of horsemen, fifty abreast, were in full gallop behind. Then followed another, of equal strength, fifty yards behind. The franc tireurs, with their rifles and accouterments, were already slackening their speed.

"We must form square, major. They are not a hundred and fifty yards behind," De Maupas exclaimed. "We can beat them off, easily enough."

Major Tempe shook his head, and shouted cheerily:

"Keep on to the last moment, men, well together. I will tell you when the moment is come. Hold your rifles in readiness."

In ten more seconds, he gave the word. The men were in readiness, and the square was formed as if by magic. The Uhlans were not more than eighty yards off.

"File firing," the major shouted. "Steady! Don't throw away a shot."

Now was the time for breech-loading weapons, and so deadly was the fire that the center of the Prussian line melted away before it; and the men who remained reined aside their horses, as they reached the hedge of bayonets. The flanks kept on, and united again behind the square; drawing up near the edge of the wood, a hundred and fifty yards distant.

The charge of the second line was attended with precisely similar results. The instant that they had passed, however, Major Tempe shouted to his men:

"On again for the woods. Steady! Keep square. Reserve your fire till I tell you. We must break through the cavalry. They only want to keep us. Their infantry will be here in three minutes. They are through the village, already."

The position of the franc tireurs was now critical in the extreme. The enemy's cavalry--between them and safety, only a hundred yards distant--had unslung their carbines, and opened fire. The infantry were nearly two hundred yards behind but, fortunately, dared not fire for fear of hitting their own cavalry.

At a rapid pace--for they were running for life--the little knot of franc tireurs dashed forward. One or two fell from the fire of the cavalry and, as they were fifty yards distant from the wood, there was a cry and Philippe Duburg fell to the ground. In an instant Tim Doyle--who was his next man--stopped, caught him up as if he had been a feather and, with a desperate effort, again joined the others, just as they were within twenty yards of the cavalry.

"Fire!" Major Tempe cried; and from the front, and from each side of the little square--which was but six deep, either way--the rifles flashed out.

"Level bayonets; charge!"

There was a short struggle. The second ranks poured their fire into the cavalry line. There was a clashing of bayonets against swords, and then the band ran through the broken line of cavalry. There was a rush into the brushwood; and then, from behind the shelter of the trees, the fire opened again; and the cavalry fell sullenly back, having lost upwards of thirty men in that short five minutes since they had left the village.

The German infantry halted, at a distance of two hundred yards; but they would have lost too many men, in crossing the open, to make it worth while to attack the sheltered foe--who could pick them off, to the last moment, only to withdraw deeper into the forest when they approached its edge. Accordingly they too fell back, exchanging fire with the franc tireurs until they gained the shelter of the village.

The conflict over. The men sank, exhausted, upon the ground where they stood. Major Tempe went round to each; saying a word of praise, and giving a little of the brandy--with which he had filled his canteen, before starting--with some water from their own kegs. Then he gave a sharp whistle, and the men again gathered round him.

"Once more, lads, I must thank you for your conduct," he said. "You have defended yourselves against forces, altogether, four times your own. You fairly kept at bay an infantry force of twice your own number. You have withstood a charge of cavalry, also double your own strength; and have performed the unusual feat of successfully charging cavalry. You have inflicted a very heavy loss upon the enemy. Not less than forty of the infantry must have been placed hors de combat; and fifteen or twenty of the cavalry, at the lowest estimate. Altogether, although forced to fall back, the affair is more creditable than many a brilliant victory.

"Our own loss has been heavy--as heavy, in proportion to our numbers, as that of the enemy--though, owing to an advantage of position, while engaged with the infantry, it is actually far less than theirs. Still, lads, it is very, very heavy," and the major looked round, with a saddened face, on the diminished band.

"Our only consolation is that our friends have died doing their duty, and setting a noble example. If all Frenchmen were but animated with a spirit like that which, I am proud to say, animates the franc tireurs of Dijon, there are few of the invaders who would ever recross the Rhine.

"Lieutenant Ribouville, go through the muster roll of the two companies. Our brave friend De Maupas has, alas! fallen. He was at my side when a rifle ball struck him, in the temple."

The list was now called over, and the result was a sad one. The two companies, including officers, had gone into the fight fifty-five strong. Only thirty-one answered to their names. Besides these, eight had been removed farther into the forest, severely wounded; and Philippe Duburg lay a short distance off--the surgeon being employed bandaging his leg, which a rifle ball had entered, above the knee. Fifteen, therefore, were dead or missing--which, as the Germans bayoneted all wounded franc tireurs, was the same thing. Of the thirty-one who answered to their names, nine had wounds more or less severe; and the surgeon, with his assistants, had work on his hands which would take him far into the night.

The instant that they were dismissed from parade, the boys hurried to their cousin. He was very pale from loss of blood, but was perfectly sensible. His brother sat on a bench beside him, holding his head on his knee.

Philippe smiled faintly as the boys came up.

"I am so glad you have escaped," he said, in a low voice.

They clasped his hand.

"Does it hurt you much, Philippe?"

"Not very much; not so much as I should have thought."

"Did the doctor say anything about it, Philippe?"

"Yes, he said that it had just missed the great arteries; and that he thinks it struck the bone, and has glanced up somewhere; but he can't say till he probes it, when--"

"Then your leg is not broken?"

"No, he says it is certainly not broken, but it may be splintered."

"Thank God for that, anyhow," the boys said.

"We owe his life to Tim Doyle," Louis said. "I was not next to him; and did not see him fall, or know he was hit till I saw Tim come up, with him on his shoulders--and even if I had, I could not have lifted him, and carried him off. Tim saved his life. There is no doubt about that."

As it was evident that Philippe was too weak to talk, and would be better for being quiet awhile, the boys now left him with his brother.

Looking through the trees towards the village, a dense smoke could now be seen rising in several places and, in a few minutes, the whole village was in a blaze. Moved by the sight, the unfortunate inhabitants came out from their hiding places in the forest; wringing their hands, crying, and cursing the invaders. In spite of the advice of Major Tempe, several of the women went off towards the scene of conflagration, to endeavor to save some little household treasure from the flames. In a short time one of them returned to fetch her husband, saying that the enemy had all left before they reached the village, and were already far down the hillside. Major Tempe at once sent forward the unwounded men; to assist the villagers to put out the fire, and to save property. Their efforts were, however, altogether unavailing; the Germans had scattered large quantities of petroleum, before leaving, upon the beds and such other furniture as they could not carry away, or destroy.

It was a pitiable sight to see the poor homeless people sitting about, looking at the ruins of their houses. Some cried piteously; others gazed with listless faces, but with a cold despair even more painful to see. Fortunately, they had saved all their animals but, at present, they were too much absorbed in the thoughts of what they had lost, to bestow even a thought of satisfaction on what they had saved.

Major Tempe, grieved and touched at the painful scene of which he and his men had been the cause, called the franc tireurs together; and made a proposition to them, which was at once heartily agreed to. He then called together the cure and schoolmaster and--after a few well-chosen words of regret, at the ills which he and his had involuntarily brought upon the village--he handed over to them, in the name of the whole corps, the hundred pounds in thaler notes which had been found upon the schoolmaster whom they had executed for treachery; to be distributed among the inhabitants, according to their necessities.

The offer was gratefully received, and the priest and schoolmaster at once went round and told the poor people, whose gratitude and delight were unbounded. To so poor a population, the sum seemed immense; and although it would not replace what was destroyed, it would go far towards making their abodes habitable. The village only contained about twenty houses. The walls were still standing. Timber for the roofs and floors was to be had for cutting, in the forest. Bushes for thatching could be found in abundance. The principal portion of the houses, therefore, would cost only labor, and this money would suffice to keep them alive, while engaged upon it; and enough would remain to get at least a few blankets to lay upon the straw--which would, for the time, serve for beds--together with a few other simple necessaries. The sale of a portion of the animals would do the rest and, in their gratitude to the franc tireurs, for having thus relieved their first and most pressing difficulties, the inhabitants altogether forgot the ill-feeling which they had before felt against them, as the authors of their disaster.

After burying their dead, the men set to work to assist the villagers in building temporary huts--or rather bowers--to the edge of the forest; in which, before nightfall, they had the satisfaction of seeing them installed. The few articles of bedding, blankets, etc. saved at the approach of the Prussians were spread on heaps of freshly-cut grass; and one of the oxen of the franc tireurs, which had arrived the day before, was killed and divided. Great fires were lighted and--had it not been for the bandages on the heads, and the arms in slings of several of the franc tireurs--no one coming upon the scene would have guessed how desperate a skirmish had raged here.

The next day the carts which had been sent for arrived; and the wounded were placed in them, upon heaps of straw, and sent off with one of the surgeons; with instructions to travel among the hills, until they reached a point where it would be quite safe to descend into the valley, and take the train to Dijon, at the first station at which it was open. Among them was Philippe Duburg, who was accompanied by his brother. Louis had obtained a week's leave of absence, for the purpose; and was the bearer of letters, and innumerable messages, from the boys to their parents and sisters. A few hours later, the remnants of the first and second companies marched to join their comrades.

Chapter 10: The Bridge Of The Vesouze.

The very day after the fight, news arrived which induced a sudden change of position. Upon the Sixteenth of September the Baden troops occupied Mulhouse, having entered Colmar on the preceding day. It was evident that the railway was so strongly guarded, between Strasburg and Nancy, that it was hopeless to expect to be able to interrupt it, seriously, with so small a force as that at Major Tempe's command; still less possible was it to render any assistance, whatever, to the doomed city of Strasburg. After taking counsel, therefore, with his officers, Major Tempe decided to march more to the south; so as to assist to oppose the passage of the enemy west from Colmar, or Mulhouse, through the passes of the Vosges.

The alarm was, however, but temporary for, having made requisitions as usual, the Prussians retired; and the corps returned to their old quarters. There another ten days passed; spent not in ease, but in constant marchings and counter-marchings. Whenever news arrived that any parties of Uhlans were approaching the mountains, with the object of making requisitions, the corps were instantly set in motion. Sometimes severe skirmishes were the result. Sometimes the news turned out to be untrue and, after a long day's march, and a night spent watching, the men had nothing to do but to march back again.

Upon the 28th came the news of the surrender of Strasburg, upon the preceding day, after one of the most heroic defenses in history. There was now no doubt that the Germans would, ere long, advance seriously. By this time, the total of the French forces among the Vosges mountains was considerable. Scarce a day passed without the arrival of a corps of franc tireurs and--had all these corps been animated with a spirit such as that evinced by the franc tireurs of Dijon; and had they acted in unity, with discipline and intelligence--they might have rendered immense services to France.

Unfortunately, this was very far from being the case. Very many of the men had entered the ranks only to avoid being called upon to go out with the Mobiles--or mobilized national guard. Others had only entered from the impulse of the moment. Very many were altogether unwilling to submit to any steady discipline while, in a great number of cases, the corps were completely paralyzed from the utter incapacity of their officers. Owing to these various causes, the corps of franc tireurs distinguished themselves, in a great number of cases, only by the extreme ingenuity and foresight which they displayed in keeping at a prudent distance from the enemy. Some, too, earned a bad name not only for themselves, but for the whole body of franc tireurs, by their conduct towards the villagers; helping themselves freely to what they required, and making themselves almost as much dreaded by the peasantry as even the Germans, themselves.

At the same time the villagers had, in very many cases, only themselves to blame for the rough measures adopted by the franc tireurs; for often, instead of doing all in their power for the men who had taken up arms in the cause of France, the villagers looked upon them only as strangers, out of whom the richest possible harvest was to be obtained; and charged the most exorbitant prices for all articles of necessity supplied to them. In fact, they sometimes did not hesitate to say that they would not provide them, at any price, with the provisions required; as these would be wanted to satisfy the requisition of the Germans, upon their arrival.

Perhaps in the whole world there is no class of people so completely engrossed by the thought of gain as are the French bourgeois, and rustic population. Every change of Government, every political alteration, every law passed, is regarded by them simply, and solely, from the view of how it will affect their own pockets. Thus, instead of driving away their flocks and herds, at the approach of the invaders; the people remained quietly in their houses, and shamelessly trafficked with the invaders. This apathy, faint heartedness, and want of patriotism, upon the part of the inhabitants of the small towns and villages, caused innumerable difficulties to the franc tireurs; and Major Tempe was sometimes obliged to take the law into his own hands, when the villagers absolutely refused to sell provisions, or to give quarters to his men.

In these cases he summoned the priest, the schoolmaster, and two other head men of the place, and formed a committee with them and his own officers. These fixed a fair price upon the articles required, and Major Tempe then sent round a notice to the effect that, if these articles were furnished in two hours, they would be paid for at the agreed rates; but that if not furnished, he should quarter his men upon the inhabitants, in accordance with the size of their houses, and should remain there at least a week--a threat that never failed in producing the required effect.

It was but seldom, however, that the major encountered any difficulties of this sort. The corps was, for the most part, composed of men with some money. They had now, too, sold the sheep and cattle which they had captured at Blamont; finding the inconvenience of sending for them, whenever meat was required. The proceeds of these, and of the horses captured at the same time, had given them a good sum in their regimental chest; and they were, therefore, able and willing to pay a fair price for such articles as they required. Besides this, the report of the actions of Blamont and Still had now widely circulated and--as a general thing--the people were glad to do all in their power, for a corps composed of men who really meant work, and had given good proofs of their courage and energy.

By this time, the boys had received several letters from home; and it may be readily imagined the pleasure these letters afforded them. Major Tempe's official report of the doings of his corps had been published in the Dijon papers and, from these, had been copied far and wide through France; and the people of Dijon were not a little proud of their corps. The names of the two Barclays had appeared, in the report, as specially distinguishing themselves; and their father had written, saying how pleased and gratified he was at their conduct. Mrs. Barclay and Milly had also written; but their expressions of pleasure were mingled with many hopes that the boys would not expose themselves, unnecessarily.

The band had dwindled much, in the month since they left Dijon. Upwards of thirty had been killed, or disabled, in the fights of Blamont and Still. Half as many more had been killed or wounded in smaller skirmishes; and ten or twelve had gone home, or into hospital, completely knocked up with the hard work and exposure. Only about sixty men, therefore, remained.

Schlestadt and Neu Brisach were now invested by the Germans and, after waiting for a few days, to ascertain the course that they were likely to take, Major Tempe determined (as General Cambriels was forming an army, down by Besancon) to defend the upper passes of the Vosges and--as it was rumored that a second German army was likely to advance south, from Nancy--that he would recross the Vosges, and aid in the defense against this second army of invaders.

Three days' fatiguing marches brought them to Epinal; where the boys, in accordance with their promise, went straight to the house of the gentleman who had so hospitably served them, at their last visit. Their friends were delighted to see them, and expressed great regret that one of the party was missing. The boys were, however, able to say that their last letter from Dijon had given good accounts of Philippe Duburg, who was now considered out of danger. There was, however, no hope of his being able to rejoin them; as the surgeon considered it probable that his leg would be a very long time, before it would be sufficiently healed to allow him to use it.

Their host had read the account in the papers of the doings of the franc tireurs; and his wife laughingly made a further apology to the Barclays, and their cousin, for her remark at their first visit about boys.

"My girls have talked about nothing else but your doings, ever since we had the news of your attack upon the Uhlans, near Blamont," she said. "One would think, from the interest they take in the corps, that the whole future of France depended upon the franc tireurs of Dijon."

The young Barclays laughed, and Percy muttered something under his breath; while Louis Duburg replied, seriously, that he hoped the franc tireurs of Dijon would always do their best to deserve the kind thoughts of mademoiselles--at which piece of politeness Percy muttered, "Bosh!"

Epinal had, as yet, escaped; but it was feared that, ere long, the enemy would advance. The town looked deserted, for all the young men had left with the Mobiles--or mobilized national guard--and all men under forty were drilling, in readiness to march at a moment's notice. No serious movement of the enemy, south of Luneville, was as yet signalized.

After two days' rest, the corps again marched north; their destination being kept a profound secret, even from the men. So anxious, apparently, was Major Tempe that, this time, their object should not be foiled by treachery; that after the first day's march he left the main road and, having secured the services of a peasant, as a guide, he made two long days' marches through forests, and over mountains--avoiding even small villages. Four led horses accompanied the march; one laden with the gun cotton, and the other three carrying provisions, so that they might be independent of the local supply. Each night they bivouacked in the forests but, as the weather was now fine--although the nights were cold--this was no hardship, whatever.

Upon the morning of the fourth day from their leaving Epinal, Major Tempe told his men that he had learned, at Epinal, that the line was no longer so closely guarded as before--the Germans being confident, now, of the impotence of the French to harm them--and that they were now in the forest of Moudan, within three miles of the railway between Luneville and Rechicourt, on the line to Strasburg. His intention was to reconnoiter that day and--if success should be found possible--to attempt, at daybreak next morning, to blow up the railway bridge over the Vesouze.

The news was received with great satisfaction, as the corps were burning to distinguish themselves; and in no way could they do such service as to cut the line of communication--although, as the Germans were no longer dependent upon a single line, the advantage would not be of so signal a nature as it would have been, could they have cut it at the time when they first made the attempt. The Barclays were naturally selected to reconnoiter and, as their change of clothes had been always--by Major Tempe's orders--carried on the baggage horse, they had no difficulty upon that score.

Their expedition was uneventful. At the village nearest to the bridge, they went in and bought some cheese and other articles and--after gaining all the information they were able, without exciting attention--they made their way, through broken ground, to a point near enough to the bridge to enable them to reconnoiter it, undiscovered.

A sentry was posted at each end. At a cottage hard by were ten others, while there were twenty in the village they had just left. There were also sentries down the line; but these were far enough apart to render it certain that they could not muster in time to interfere, seriously, with the enterprise. With this information, they returned to the forest.

A council of war was held; and it was decided that the news was satisfactory, and that the attack should take place at daybreak. Each man was instructed in the work he would have to perform. Lieutenant Houdin, with thirty men, was to surprise the German party in the village. The rest--having made a detour to avoid the village--were to be in readiness to attack the posts near the bridge, immediately a gun was fired in the village. The attack was to be made at daybreak. From the bridge, to the nearest point where the forest was thick enough to afford a safe shelter, was a distance of about two miles.

As soon as it became dark, the camp fires were allowed to bum low; and shortly afterwards the whole corps, with the exception of the sentries, were sound asleep. At four o'clock they were roused, and marched silently off in the appointed direction. By five o'clock each party was at its post and, for half an hour, they lay in expectancy. The Barclays were with Major Tempe's party, near the bridge. Louis Duburg, and Tim, were with the party at the village.

The attack upon the village was to take place at half-past five; and never did moments appear so slow, to the boys, as those which passed as they awaited the signal. At last the silence was broken by the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by three or four others.

"There goes the Prussian sentry, and there is our reply," Major Tempe said. "Now, lads, forward!"

As he spoke, the sentry on the bridge fired his rifle; immediately, this was repeated by the next sentry on the line, and the signal was taken up by each sentry, until the sound died in the distance. As it had done so, the franc tireurs had made a rush forwards. They were met by a straggling discharge from the Germans as, half asleep, they hurried out from the guard room. This was answered by the fire of the franc tireurs, who surrounded them. Five fell; and the others, surprised and panic stricken, threw down their arms. They were instantly secured, and the bridge was at once seized.

The firing still continued in the village; but in another five minutes it ceased and, shortly afterwards, Louis Duburg ran up with the tidings that the village was taken. The Germans, surprised in their beds, had offered but a slight resistance. Four were killed, and sixteen taken prisoners; one franc tireur, only, was slightly wounded.

"Take two men with you," Major Tempe said, "and escort those five prisoners to the village. Give them over to Lieutenant Houdin; and tell him to send them, with the prisoners he has taken, under charge of six men to the forest. Let their hands be tied behind their backs, for we cannot spare a larger escort. Tell him to be sure that the escort are loaded, and have fixed bayonets. Directly he has sent off the prisoners let him join me here, with the rest of his force."

Lieutenant Ribouville now set to work to inspect the bridge; and ordered the men--who were provided with the necessary implements--to set to, and dig a hole down to the crown of the principal arch. It was harder work than they had expected. The roadway was solid, the ballast pressed down very tightly, and the crown of the arch covered, to a considerable depth, with concrete. Only a few men could work at once and, after a half-hour's desperate labor, the hole was nothing like far enough advanced to ensure the total destruction of the bridge, upon the charge being fired. In the meantime the Prussian sentries were arriving from up and down the line and, although not in sufficient force to attack, had opened fire from a distance.

"Don't you think that will do, Ribouville?" Major Tempe asked.

"No, sir," the other replied. "It might blow a hole through the top of the arch, but I hardly think that it would do so. Its force would be spent upwards."

At this moment Ralph--who had done his spell of work, and had been down to the stream, to get a drink of water--came running up.

"If you please, Lieutenant Ribouville, there is a hole right through the pier, just above the water's edge. It seems to have been left to let any water that gets into the pier, from above, make its escape. I should think that would do to hold the charge."

"The very thing," Lieutenant Ribouville said, delightedly. "What a fool I was, not to have looked to see if such a hole existed!

"Stop work, men, and carry the barrels down to the edge of the water."

The stream was not above waist deep; and the engineer officer immediately waded into it, and examined the hole. He at once pronounced it to be admirably suited to the purpose. It did not--as Ralph had supposed--go straight through; but there were two holes, one upon each side of the pier, nearly at the same level, and each extending into the center of the pier. The holes were about four inches square.

The barrels of gun cotton were now hastily opened on the bank, and men waded out with the contents. Lieutenant Ribouville upon one side, and Ralph upon the other, took the cotton and thrust it, with long sticks, into the ends of the hole. In five minutes the contents of the two barrels were safely lodged, the fuse inserted, and the operation of tamping--or ramming--in dry sand, earth, and stones commenced.

"Make haste!" Major Tempe shouted. "Their numbers are increasing fast. There are some fifteen or twenty, on either side."

A brisk fire of rifles was now going on. The day had fairly broken; and the franc tireurs, sheltered behind the parapet of the bridge, on the bank of the river, were exchanging a lively fire with the enemy. Three-quarters of an hour had passed since the first shot was fired.

Suddenly a distant boom was heard, followed in a few seconds by a slight whizzing noise, which grew rapidly into a loud scream and, in another moment, there was an explosion close to the bridge. The men all left off their work, for an instant.

"And what may that be, Mister Percy? A more unpleasant sound I niver heard, since I was a baby."

"I quite agree with you, Tim, as to its unpleasantness. It is a shell. The artillery are coming up from Luneville. The fire of the sentries would take the alarm, in a couple of minutes; give them another fifteen to get ready, and half an hour to get within range.

"Here comes another."

"Are you ready, Ribouville?" the commandant shouted. "They have cavalry, as well as artillery. We must be off, or we shall get caught in a trap."

"I am ready," was the answer.

"Barclay, strike a match, and put it to the end of your fuse, till it begins to fizz.

"Have you lit it?"

"Yes, sir," Ralph said, a moment later.

"So have I," the lieutenant said. "They will burn about three minutes.

"Now for a run!"

In a couple of minutes the franc tireurs were retreating, at the double; and they had not gone a hundred yards when they heard the sound of two tremendous explosions, following closely one upon another. Looking back, they saw the pier had fallen in fragments; and that the bridge lay, a heap of ruins, in the stream.

"Hurrah, lads!" shouted the commandant. "You have done your work well. Those who get out of this with a whole skin may well be proud of their day's work.

"Don't mind the shells," he continued, as two more of the missiles burst, in quick succession, within a short distance of them. "They make an ugly noise; but they won't hurt us, at this distance."

The German artillerymen had apparently arrived at the same conclusion, for they now ceased to fire; and the retreating corps were only exposed to an occasional shot from the infantry, who had followed them from the bridge.

"The artillery and cavalry will be up, before we reach the wood," Percy said to his brother, as they trotted along, side by side.

"They may come up," Ralph said, "but they can do us no harm, on the broken ground; and will catch a Tartar, if they don't mind."

The ground was indeed unfavorable for cavalry, and artillery. It was broken up with the spurs of the hill. Here and there great masses of rock cropped out of the ground, while patches of forest extended over a considerable portion of the ground. In one of these, standing upon rising and broken ground, Major Tempe halted his men; and opened so heavy a fire upon the enemy's cavalry, when the column appeared, that they were at once halted; and although, when the artillery arrived, a few shells were fired into the wood, the franc tireurs had already retired, and gained the forest without further molestation. Upon calling the roll, it was discovered that six men, only, were missing. These had fallen--either killed or wounded--from the fire of the enemy's infantry, during the time that the operation at the bridge were being carried out.

There was great rejoicing at the success of their enterprise, the effect of which would certainly be to block the traffic along that line, for at least a week. Their satisfaction was, however, somewhat damped by the sight of several dense columns of smoke in the plain; showing that the Germans had, as usual, wreaked their vengeance upon the innocent villagers. The feeling of disgust was changed to fury when some of the peasants--who had fled into the woods, upon the destruction of their abodes--reported that the Germans, having found that three of the franc tireurs were only wounded, had dragged them along to the entrance to the village; and had hung them there upon some trees, by the roadside. Had it not been for Major Tempe's assurance, that their comrades should be avenged, the franc tireurs would at once have killed their prisoners.

In the evening the men were formed up, the prisoners ranged in line, and twelve were taken by lot; and these, with the officer taken with them--when night fell--were bound and marched off, under a guard of thirty men. Neither of the boys formed part of the escort, which was an immense relief to them for, although they were as indignant as the rest, at the murder of their wounded comrades by the Germans; and quite agreed in the justice of reprisal, still, they were greatly relieved when they found that they would not have to be present at the execution.

Two hours later Major Tempe returned, with the escort. The officer, and eleven of his men, had been hung on trees by the roadside, at a distance of half a mile, only, from the village; the twelfth man had been released, as bearer of a note from Major Tempe to the German commanding officer saying that, as a reprisal for the murder of the three wounded franc tireurs, he had hung twelve Germans; and that, in future, he would always hang four prisoners for every one of his men who might be murdered, contrary to the rules of war.

This act of retributive justice performed, the corps retreated to join the army of the Vosges, under General Cambriels. The news of the destruction of the bridge across the Vesouze had preceded them; and when, after three days' heavy marching, they reached the village which formed the headquarters of the general, they were received with loud cheers by the crowds of Mobiles who thronged its little streets. It was out of the question to find quarters; and the major therefore ordered the men to bivouac in the open, while he reported himself to General Cambriels.

The commandant of the franc tireurs was personally known to General Cambriels, having at one time served for some years under his command; and he was most warmly received by the veteran, one of the bravest and most popular of the French generals. As general of the district, he had received all Major Tempe's reports; and was therefore acquainted with the actions of the corps.

"Ah, major!" he said, after the first greetings, "if I had only a few thousand men, animated with the spirit and courage of your fellows, the Germans would never get through the Vosges. As it is I shall, of course, do my best; but what can one do with an army of plow boys, led by officers who know nothing of their duty, against troops like the Germans?

"As for my franc tireurs, they are in many cases worse than useless. They have no discipline, whatever. They embroil me with the peasantry. They are always complaining. The whole of them, together, have not done as much real service as your small band. They shoot down Uhlans, when they catch them in very small parties; but have no notion, whatever, of real fighting.

"However, I cannot thank you too warmly. Your name will appear in the Gazette, tomorrow, as colonel; and I must ask you to extend the sphere of your duties. We want officers, terribly; and I will brigade four or five of these corps of franc tireurs under your orders, so as to make up a force of a thousand men. You will have full authority over them, to enforce any discipline you may choose. I want you to make a body to act as an advanced guard of skirmishers to my army of Mobiles. I have a few line troops, but I want them as a nucleus for the force.

"What do you say?"

"Personally, general, I should greatly prefer remaining with my own little corps, upon every man of whom I can rely. At the same time, I should not wish for a moment to oppose my own likings, or dislikings, to the general good of the service. Many of these corps of franc tireurs are composed of excellent materials and, if well led and disciplined, would do anything. I can only say I will do my best."

"Thank you, Tempe. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"I should like to see a step given to the three officers serving under me," the major said. "They have all served in the regular army, and all have equally well done their duty."

"It shall be done; and two of them shall be posted to other corps, while one takes the command of your own," the general said. "Do you wish commissions for any of the men?"

Major Tempe named three of the men, and then added:

"The two members of the corps who have most distinguished themselves I have not mentioned, general, because they are too young to place over the heads of the others; at the same time, their services certainly deserve recognition. I mentioned them, in the dispatches I sent to you, as having done immense service by going down, in disguise, into the midst of the Germans. In fact, at Saverne they saved the corps from destruction. They are two young English lads, named Barclay."

"I remember distinctly," General Cambriels said. "They speak French fluently, I suppose, as well as German?"

"Both languages like natives," the major answered.

"And can they ride?"

"Yes, admirably," Major Tempe said. "I knew them before the war, and they are excellent horsemen."

"Then they are the very fellows for me," General Cambriels said. "I will give them commissions in the provisional army, at once; and put them upon my own staff. They would be of great value to me.

"You will spare them, I hope?"

"I shall be extremely sorry to do so, general; but for their own sakes, and for the good of the service, I will of course do so."

"Thanks, colonel. I shall put the franc tireurs of Dijon in general orders, tomorrow, as having performed good service to the country; and please to thank them, in my name, for their services."

"Thank you very much, general. It will give me more pleasure than even the step that you have been kind enough to give to myself."

"Good evening, colonel. We must have a long chat together, one of these days.

"The chief of my staff will give you the names of the corps to be placed under your orders. The matter was settled this morning, and I have picked out the best of those here. Orders have been sent for them to assemble at Raoul--a village, a mile from here--in the morning; with a notification that they are placed under your command.

"Goodbye."

Chapter 11: A Fight In The Vosges.

Upon Colonel Tempe's rejoining the men--who were already busy preparing their suppers--he ordered the assembly to be sounded and, when they were formed up, he formally thanked them, in the name of the general, for the service that they had rendered; adding that they would appear in general orders, upon the following day.

The men replied with a cheer of "Vive la France!"

Their commander then informed them that he, himself, had received a step in rank and would, in future, command them with several other corps; that Lieutenant Ribouville would, in future, be their special commander, with the rank of captain; that the other two lieutenants would be promoted; and that three of their number would receive commissions and, while one of them remained under Captain Ribouville, the others would--with the newly-made captains--be attached to other corps. The two Barclays would receive commissions as officers, on the staff of General Cambriels, himself.

When Colonel Tempe finished speaking, the boys could hardly believe their ears; and looked at each other, to inquire if they heard aright. There could be no mistake about it; for Colonel Tempe called them forward and, shaking hands with them, congratulated them on the promotion which, he said, they had well earned. The men gave a hearty cheer; for the young English lads were general favorites, for their good temper and willingness to oblige.

Directly the men were dismissed, the colonel again called the lads to him.

"I am sorry to lose you," he said, "but of course it is for your good. Come with me, at once, to General Cambriels. I will introduce you, and you had better ask for four days' leave. You can get the railway in four hours' ride from here. You will have no difficulty in finding a place in some of the commissariat cities going to fetch stores. If you start tonight, you can catch a train before morning, and be in Dijon quite early. A couple of days will be sufficient to get your uniforms made, and to buy horses.

"Your cousin will go with you. I gave him leave, last night, to start upon our arrival here. He is not so strong as you are; and the surgeon says that he must have rest, and quiet. He is quite worn out.

"Now, pile your rifles--you will not want them any more--and come with me. I have said good night to the general, but he will excuse me."

Still bewildered, the boys did as they were ordered. As they were piling their rifles, they heard a loud blubbering. Looking round, they saw Tim Doyle, weeping most copiously.

"What is the matter, Tim?"

"Matter! Your honor, ain't yer going to lave us? What am I going to do, at all?"

The boys hurried away, without reply--for Colonel Tempe was waiting for them--and, on the way to headquarters, mentioned Tim's grief at parting with them.

The general received the lads most kindly and, at once, granted them four days' leave to go to Dijon, to procure uniform.

Colonel Tempe then said:

"You do not want orderlies, do you, general?"

"I do, indeed," the general answered. "I have about a dozen cavalry men, of different regiments, who form my escort and act as orderlies; but they are my entire force of cavalry."

"I have an Irishman in my corps, general, who only joined to be near these young fellows. He was brought up among horses; and you have only to put him in a hussar uniform, and he would make a capital orderly, and would act as servant to your new staff officers."

"By all means," the general said; "send him over, in the morning. We will make a hussar of him, in half an hour; we have got a few uniforms in store."

What a meeting that was, near Dijon! The boys, upon reaching the station, had found a train on the point of starting; and it was seven in the morning when they reached the town. The shops open early, in French country towns; and although their tailor had not as yet taken his shutters down, he was up and about, and willingly measured them for their new uniforms--promising that they should have them, without fail, the next afternoon. They then walked up to the cottage; and dropped in just as the party, there, were sitting down to breakfast.

There was a loud exclamation from Captain Barclay, and a scream of delight from their mother, and Milly; and it was a good ten minutes before they were sitting round the table, talking coherently. It was but six weeks since they had left, but it seemed like years; and there was as much to tell, and to talk about, as if they had just returned, after an absence of half a lifetime, in India.

"How long have you got leave for?" was one of the first questions.

"Only four days," Percy said. "The corps has now joined the army of the Vosges, and will act regularly with it. A move forward will take place, in a few days, so that we could not ask for longer."

"Only four days!" Mrs. Barclay and Milly repeated, aghast.

"It is not much, mamma," Ralph put in, "but it is better than nothing. You see, you did not expect us at all."

"Quite so," Captain Barclay said, cheerfully. "It is a clear gain, and we waste the time in regretting that it is not longer. It is a great delight to have you back again, even for a few hours. You both look wonderfully well, and fully a year older than when you left. Roughing it, and exposure, evidently suits you.

"Has Louis come back with you?"

"Yes, papa, he has come back to stay, for some time. He is completely done up, and the surgeon has ordered rest and quiet, for a while.

"How is Philippe?"

"He is getting on well; and will walk, the doctor hopes, in another fortnight, or three weeks; but I have not seen him for--although your uncle comes in, as usual, for a chat with me--Madame Duburg has never forgiven me for having, as she says, influenced him in allowing the boys to go; and of course, since this wound of Philippe's, she has been more angry than ever."

The boys laughed. They understood their aunt's ways.

"Tim has not been hurt, I hope?" Milly asked.

"Oh no; Tim is as well as ever, and the life and soul of the corps."

As breakfast went on, the boys gradually related the changes that were taking place: Major Tempe's promotion to be colonel, and the fact that he was placed in command of several corps of franc tireurs, who were hereafter to act together. They said no word, however, about their own promotion; having agreed to keep that matter secret, until the uniforms were completed. They had also asked their cousin to say nothing about it, at home; as otherwise their uncle would have been sure to have come in to congratulate them, and the secret would have been at an end, at once.

An hour later, Monsieur Duburg came in to see them. After the first talk, he said to Captain Barclay:

"The way in which your boys have stood the fatigue is a proof, in itself, how much the prosperity of a nation depends upon the training of its boys. England is strong because her boys are all accustomed, from their childhood, to active exercise and outdoor, violent games. In case of a war, like this which we are going through, almost every man could turn soldier, and go through the fatigues of a campaign; and what is more, could make light of--not to say enjoy--them.

"Here, upon the contrary, our young fellows do nothing and, in an emergency like the present, want both spirit and strength to make soldiers. Almost all the boys who went from here in Tempe's corps have returned, completely worn out. Even Louis is a wreck; although, thanks to the companionship of your boys, he has supported it better, and longer, than the majority of them. Had he began, as a child, to take pleasure in strong exercise; no doubt he could have stood it as well as Ralph and Percy, who look absolutely benefited by it. Unfortunately, I allowed my wife's silly objection to prevail; until the last three years, when I insisted that they should do as they liked.

"As I have said before, Barclay, I say again: I congratulate you on your boys. You have a right to be proud of them. I wish the race of young Frenchmen were only like them."

Great indeed was the astonishment--upon the afternoon of the following day--when Ralph and Percy walked into the sitting room, dressed as staff officers; feeling a little awkward with their swords, but flushed with an honorable pleasure and pride--for their epaulets had been gained by no family interests, no private influence. They were worn as the reward of good service. Captain Barclay wrung the boys' hands, silently. Their mother cried with delight, and Milly danced round the boys like a small possessed one.

"It is not for the absolute rank itself, boys, that I am pleased," their father said, when they had related the whole circumstances; "for you have no idea of remaining in the French service and, consequently, the rank will be of no use to you, after the end of the war. Still, it is a thing all your lives to be proud of--that you won your commission in the French army, by good service."

"What I am thinking of most," Mrs. Barclay said, "is that, now they are officers in the regular army, they will run no risk of being shot, if they are taken prisoners."

"We don't mean to be taken prisoners, mamma. Still, as you say, it is certainly an advantage in favor of the regular uniform."

"And what is to become of Tim?" Milly asked.

"Oh, Tim is going to become a hussar, and act as one of the general's orderlies; and be our servant, when he has nothing else to do. You see, now we are officers, we have a right to servants."

"I am very glad Tim is going with you," Mrs. Barclay said. "My brother tells us that he saved Philippe's life, and it seems a comfort to know that he is with you."

The next morning Captain Barclay went down with them to the town, and purchased a couple of capital horses which, by great good fortune, were on sale.

Upon the morning of the fourth day of their visit, the boys took leave of their father and mother, and left to join the headquarters of General Cambriels. The parting was far less trying than it had been, the first time they went away. The boys were not, now, going out to an unknown danger. Although the risk that a staff officer runs is, absolutely, somewhat greater than that incurred by a regimental officer; still, it is slight in comparison with the risk run by a franc tireur, employed in harassing an enemy, and in cutting his communications--especially when capture means death. Those who remained behind were encouraged partly by this thought, but still more by the really irrational one that, as the boys had gone away and come back safe, once, they would probably do so again.

The evening of the same day, the Barclays reported themselves for duty to the general and, next morning, began work. Their duty was hard, though simple. By day they were constantly on duty--that is to say, either riding over the country, or waiting near the general's quarters in readiness for a start or--more seldom--writing, and drawing up reports in the office. By night they took it in turns with the other staff officers to be on duty--that is to say, to lie down to sleep in uniform, with the horse saddled at the door, in readiness to start at an instant's notice.

Tim's duties as an orderly were not heavy, and were generally over by five o'clock; after which he acted as servant to the boys. It was impossible, under the circumstances, for the staff to mess together, as usual. There was neither a room available nor, indeed, any of the appliances. Among Tim's other duties, therefore, was that of cooking. They had also another orderly allotted to them, and he devoted himself to the care of the horses; Tim undertaking all other work.

The boys liked their new duties much. The work was hard, but pleasant. Their fellow officers were pleasant companions, and their general most kind, and genial.

A week after they had joined, General Cambriels advanced into the Vosges to oppose the Prussians, who were marching south. The progress of the army was slow, for they had to carry what supplies they required with them. Colonel Tempe kept, with his command, a few hours' march ahead; and one or other of the boys was frequently dispatched with orders, etc. to obtain reports from him.

After three days' marching, they neared the enemy. All was now watchfulness, and excitement. The franc tireurs were already engaged in skirmishing and, early one morning, Ralph received orders to ride forward and reconnoiter the enemy's position. Passing through the posts of franc tireurs, he rode cautiously along the road; with his hand on the butt of his revolver, and his horse well in hand--ready to turn and ride for his life, on an instant's notice.

Presently, as the road wound through a narrow gorge, lined with trees, he heard a voice say, close in his ear, "Stop!"

He reined in his horse, and drew his pistol. The leaves parted; and a man of some sixty years of age, armed with an old double-barreled fowling piece, stepped out.

"The Germans are just beyond," he said. "I expect them every moment."

"And what are you doing here?" Ralph asked.

"What am I doing?" repeated the peasant. "I am waiting to shoot some of them."

"But they will hang you, to a certainty, if they catch you."

"Let them," the old man said, quietly; "they will do me no more harm than they have done me. I had a nice farm, near Metz. I lived there with my wife and daughter, and my three boys. Someone fired at the Prussians from a wood near. No one was hit, but that made no difference. The black-hearted scoundrels came to my farm; shot my three boys, before their mother's eyes; ill treated her, so that she died next day and, when I returned--for I was away, at the time--I found a heap of ashes, where my house had stood; the dead bodies of my three boys; my wife dying, and my daughter sitting by, screaming with laughter--mad--quite mad!

"I took her away to a friend's house; and stayed with her till she died, too, a fortnight after. Then I bought this gun, and some powder and lead, with my last money; and went out to kill Prussians. I have killed thirteen already and, please God," and the peasant lifted his hat, devoutly, "I will kill two more, today."

"How is it that you have escaped so long?" Ralph asked, in surprise.

"I never fire at infantry," the peasant said. "It was Uhlans that did it, and it's only Uhlans I fire at. I put myself on a rock, or a hillside, where they can't come--or in a thick wood--and I content myself with my two shots, and then go. I don't want to be killed, yet. I have set my mind on having fifty--just ten for each of mine--and when I've shot the last of the fifty, the sooner they finish me, the better.

"You'd better not go any farther, sir. The valley widens out, round the corner; and there are Prussians in the nearest village."

"Thank you," Ralph said, "but my orders are to reconnoiter them, myself, and I must do so. I am well mounted, and I don't think that they will catch me, if I get a couple of hundred yards' start. There are franc tireurs in the village, a mile back."

Ralph now rode carefully forward, while the peasant went back into his hiding place by the wood. As he had said, the gorge widened into a broad valley, a few hundred yards farther on. Upon emerging from the gorge, Ralph at once saw a village--almost hidden among trees--at a distance of less than a quarter of a mile. After what he had heard, he dared not ride on farther. He therefore drew his horse aside from the road, among some trees; dismounted, and made his way carefully up the rocky side of the hill, to a point from which he could command a view down the whole valley.

When he gained this spot, he looked cautiously round. Below, beyond the village, he could see large numbers of men; could make out lines of cavalry horses, and rows of artillery. A considerable movement was going on, and Ralph had no doubt that they were about to advance. In his interest in what he saw, he probably exposed his figure somewhat; and caught the eye of some sharp-sighted sentry, in the village.

The first intimation of his danger was given him by seeing some twenty Uhlans dart suddenly out of the trees, in which the village lay, at the top of their speed while, almost at the same moment, eight or ten rifles flashed, and the balls whizzed round him in most unpleasant propinquity. Ralph turned in an instant; and bounded down the rock with a speed and recklessness of which, at any other moment, he would have been incapable. Fierce as was the pace at which the Uhlans were galloping, they were still a hundred yards distant when Ralph leaped upon his horse, and galloped out in front of them.

There was a rapid discharge of their carbines, but men at full gallop make but poor shooting. Ralph felt he was untouched but, by the convulsive spring which his horse gave, he knew the animal was wounded. For a couple of hundred yards, there was but little difference in his speed; and then Ralph--to his dismay--felt him flag, and knew that the wound had been a severe one. Another hundred yards, and the animal staggered; and would have fallen, had not Ralph held him up well, with knee and bridle.

The Uhlans saw it; for they gave a shout, and a pistol bullet whizzed close to his head. Ralph looked round. An officer, twenty yards ahead of his men, was only about forty yards in his rear. In his hand he held a revolver, which he had just discharged.

"Surrender!" he shouted, "or you are a dead man!"

Ralph saw that his pursuers were too close to enable him to carry out his intention of dismounting, and taking to the wood--which, here, began to approach thickly close to the road--and was on the point of throwing up his arm, in token of surrender; when his horse fell heavily, with him, at the moment when the Prussian again fired. Almost simultaneously with the crack of the pistol came the report of a gun; and the German officer fell off his horse, shot through the heart.

Ralph leaped to his feet, and dashed up the bank in among the trees; just as another shot was fired, with a like fatal result, into the advancing Uhlans. The rest--believing that they had fallen into an ambush--instantly turned their horses' heads, and galloped back the road they had come.

Ralph's first impulse was to rush down into the road, and catch the officer's horse; which had galloped on a short distance when its master fell, and was now returning, to follow its companions. As he did so, the old peasant appeared, from the wood.

"Thank you," Ralph said warmly. "You have saved my life or, at any rate, have saved me from a German prison."

The peasant paid no attention to him; but stooped down to examine, carefully, whether the Germans were both dead.

"Two more," he said, with a grim smile. "That makes fifteen. Three apiece."

Then he picked up the officer's revolver, took the cartridge belonging to it from the pouch and, with a wave of the hand to Ralph, strode back into the wood.

Ralph removed the holsters from the saddle of his own horse--which had fallen dead--placed them on the horse of the German officer and then, mounting it, rode off at full speed, to inform General Cambriels of the results of his investigation.

"Hallo, Barclay!" one of his fellow officers said, as he rode up to the headquarters, "what have you been up to? Doing a little barter, with a German hussar? You seem to have got the best of him, too; for your own horse was a good one, but this is a good deal better, unless I am mistaken.

"How has it come about?"

Quite a crowd of idlers had collected round, while the officer was speaking; struck, like him, with the singularity of the sight of a French staff officer upon a horse with German trappings. Ralph did not wish to enter into explanations, there; so merely replied, in the same jesting strain, that it had been a fair exchange--the small difference in the value of the horses being paid for, with a small piece of lead. Then, throwing his reins to his orderly--who came running up--he went in to report, to the general, the evident forward movements of the Germans.

"Are they as strong as we have heard?" the general asked.

"Fully, I should say, sir. I had no means of judging the infantry, but they seemed in large force. They were certainly strong in cavalry, and I saw some eight or ten batteries of artillery."

"Let the next for duty ride, with all speed, to Tempe; and tell him to hold the upper end of this valley. Send Herve's battery forward to assist him. Have the general assembly sounded."

Ralph left to obey these orders, while the general gave the colonel of his staff the instructions for the disposition of his forces.

The army of the Vosges--pompous as was its name--consisted, at this time, of only some ten thousand men; all Mobiles or franc tireurs, with the exception of a battalion of line, and a battalion of Zouaves. The Mobiles were almost undisciplined, having only been out a month; and were, for the most part, armed only with the old muzzle loader. Many were clothed only in the gray trousers, with a red stripe, which forms part of the mobile's uniform; and in a blue blouse. Great numbers of them were almost shoeless; having been taken straight from the plow, or workshop, and having received no shoes since they joined. Half disciplined, half armed, half clothed, they were too evidently no match for the Germans.

The fact was patent to their general, and his officers. Still, his instructions were to make a stand, at all hazards, in the Vosges; and he now prepared to obey the orders--not hoping for victory, but trusting in the natural courage of his men to enable him to draw them off without serious disaster. His greatest weakness was his artillery, of which he had only two batteries; against eight or ten of the Germans--whose forces were, even numerically, superior to his own.

In half an hour, the dispositions were made. The valley was wide, at this point; and there were some five or six villages nestled in it. It was pretty thickly wooded and, two miles behind, narrowed again considerably. Just as the troops had gained their appointed places, a faint sound of heavy musketry fire was heard, in the gorge ahead; mingled, in a few minutes, with the deep boom of cannon.

The general, surrounded by his staff, moved forward towards the spot. From the road at the entrance to the narrow part of the valley, nothing could be seen; but the cracking of rifles among the trees and rocks on either side, the bursting of shells and the whistling of bullets were incessant. The general and his staff accordingly dismounted, handed their horses to the men of the escort, and mounted the side of the hill.

After a sharp climb, they reached a point from whence they could see right down the long narrow valley. On beyond, the trees--except near the road--were thin; the steep sides of the hills being covered with great blocks of stone, and thick brushwood. Among these--all down one side, and up the other--at a distance of some five hundred yards from the post taken up by the general, a succession of quick puffs of smoke told where Colonel Tempe's franc tireurs were placed; while among the trees below there came up great wreaths of smoke from the battery, which was supporting them by firing at the Germans.

These formed a long line, up and down the sides of the valley, at three or four hundred yards distance from the French lines. Two German batteries were down in the road, a few hundred yards to the rear of their skirmishers; and these were sending shells thickly up among the rocks, where the franc tireurs were lying hid; while two other batteries--which the Germans had managed to put a short way up on the mountain sides, still farther in the rear--were raining shell, with deadly precision, upon the French batteries in the road.

A prettier piece of warfare it would have been difficult to imagine--the lofty mountain sides; the long lines of little puffs of smoke, among the brushwood and rocks; the white smoke arising from the trees, in the bottom; the quick, dull bursts of the shells--as a spectacle, it was most striking. The noise was prodigious. The steep sides of the mountain echoed each report of the guns into a prolonged roar, like the rumble of thunder. The rattle of the musketry never ceased for an instant, and loud and distinct above the din rose the menacing scream of the shells.

"This is grand, indeed, Ralph!" Percy said, after a moment's silence.

"Splendid!" Ralph said, "but it is evident we cannot hold the gorge. Their skirmishers are three to our one, and their shells must be doing terrible damage."

"Barclay," General Cambriels said, "go down to the battery, and bring me back word how they are getting on."

The scene quite lost its beauty to Percy, now, as he saw Ralph scramble rapidly down the hillside in the direction of the trees; among which the French battery was placed, and over and among which the shells were bursting, every second. It seemed like entering a fiery furnace.

It was a terribly long ten minutes before Ralph was seen, climbing up the hillside again; and Percy's heart gave a jump of delight, when he first caught sight of his figure. As Ralph came near, his brother saw that he was very pale, and had a handkerchief bound round one arm. This was already soaked with blood. He kept on steadily, however, until he reached the general; who had, upon seeing he was wounded, advanced to meet him.

"One gun is dismounted, sir, and half the men are killed or wounded."

"Go down, Harcourt, and tell Herve to fall back at once; and to take position in the clump of trees, a quarter of a mile down the valley, so as to sweep the entrance.

"Laon, go to the right, and you, Dubois, to the left. Order the franc tireurs to retreat along the hillside and, when they get to the end of the gorge, to form in the plain, and fall back to the first village.

"You are wounded, Barclay. Not seriously, I hope?" he said, kindly, as the officers hurried away on their respective missions.

"A splinter of a shell, sir," Ralph said, faintly. "I don't think it has touched the bone, but it has cut the flesh badly."

Ralph was just able to say this, when his head swam; and he would have fallen, had not Percy caught him in his arms, with a little cry.

"He has only fainted from loss of blood," the general said. "Two or three handkerchiefs, gentlemen.

"Now, major, bind them round his arm.

"Now take off his sash, and bind it as tightly as you can, over them. That's right.

"Now carry him down the rocks, to the horses. We have no time to lose."

Two of the officers at once put their arms under Ralph's shoulders, while Percy took his feet; and they hastened down to the horses. As they did so, Ralph opened his eyes.

"I am all right, now," he said, faintly.

"Lie quiet," the major said, kindly. "It is only loss of blood. There is no real harm done.

"There, here are the horses."

Ralph was placed, sitting, on the ground; a little brandy and water was given to him and, as the blood was oozing but slowly through the bandage, he felt sufficiently restored to sit on his horse.

"Doyle, you go with Lieutenant Barclay," the colonel of the staff said. "Ride slowly, and keep close beside him; so as to catch him, if you see him totter. You will find the surgeons ready at the general's quarters.

"Halt, stand aside for a moment. Here comes the artillery."

"Well done, lads, well done!" the general said, as the diminished battery rattled past, at full gallop.

Then he himself, with his staff, put spurs to his horse and went off at full speed; while Tim followed at a walk, riding by the side of Ralph. The flow of blood had now stopped, and Ralph was able to sit his horse until he reached the house which had served as the general's headquarters, in the morning. Here one of the staff surgeons had fitted up a temporary ambulance; and Ralph's bandages were soon taken off, and his coat removed. Tim turned sick at the sight of the ugly gash in his young master's arm, and was obliged to go out into the air.

The artillery were already at work, and their fire told that the franc tireurs had retired from the gorge, and that the Germans were entering the wider valley.

"You have had a narrow escape," the surgeon said, after examining Ralph's arm, "a quarter of an inch lower, and it would have cut the main artery; and you would have bled to death in five minutes. As it is, there is no great harm done. It is a deepish flesh wound but, with your youth and constitution, it will heal up in a very short time. I will draw the edges together, with a needle and thread: put a few straps of plaster on, and a bandage; and then you had better get into an ambulance wagon and go to the rear, at once."

"Can't I go into the field again, now?" Ralph asked; "I feel as if I could ride again, now."

"No, you can do nothing of the sort," the surgeon said. "You have lost a lot of blood; and if you were to ride now, it might set off the wound bleeding again, and you might be a dead man before you could be brought back here. Keep quiet, and do as you are ordered, and in a week you may be in the saddle again."

"It seems very hard," Ralph began.

"Not at all hard," the surgeon said. "You will see plenty more fighting, before this war is over.

"This is a hard case, if you like; you have every reason to be thankful."

As he spoke, he pointed to a young mobile who was brought in, his chest literally torn open with a shell.

"I can do nothing for him," the surgeon said, after a brief inspection of his wound; "he has not half an hour to live, and will probably not recover consciousness. If he does, give him some weak brandy, and water."

Wounded men were now being brought in fast, and Ralph went out and sat down by the door.

"Fasten my horse up here, Tim. The ambulance will be full of poor fellows who will want them more than I shall. If I see that we are being driven back, I shall mount and ride quietly back.

"No, there is nothing more you can do for me. Go and join Percy."

The fight was now raging furiously. The Germans, covered by the fire of their artillery, had debouched from the pass and were steadily pressing forward. They had already carried the village nearest to them. This the French had set fire to, before retreating, to prevent its serving as a shelter for the enemy. The Mobiles stood their ground, for the most part well, under the heavy fire of shot and shell; but their muzzle loaders were no match for the Germans' needle guns, and the enemy were pressing steadily forward. Just as Tim Doyle rode up to the staff, the Germans had taken another village.

"That village must be retaken," the general said. "Barclay, ride and order the Zouaves to carry it, with the bayonet."

Percy galloped off to where the Zouaves, lying behind a ridge in the ground, were keeping up a heavy fire in answer to the storm of shot and shell which fell around them. He rode up to the officer in command.

"The Zouaves are to retake the village, with the bayonet," he said.

The colonel gave the order, but the fire was so heavy that the men would not face it. Again and again the officer reiterated the order; standing exposed on the bank, in front of his men, to give them confidence. It was in vain, and the colonel looked towards Percy with an air of despair. Percy turned his horse, and galloped back to the general.

"The colonel has done all he can, sir, but the men won't advance."

"The fire is very heavy," the general said, "but we must have the village back again."

And he rode off, himself, to the battalion of Zouaves. The shot and shell were flying around him, but he sat on his horse as immovable as if at a review.

"My lads," he said, in a loud, clear tone, "generally the difficulty has been to prevent the Zouaves rushing to an attack. Don't let it be said that a French general had to repeat, to French Zouaves, an order to charge before they obeyed him."

In an instant the Zouaves were on their feet and, with a cheer, went at the village. The Germans in possession fired rapidly, as the French approached, and then hastily evacuated it; the Zouaves taking possession, and holding it, under a tremendous fire.

All the afternoon the battle raged, villages being taken and retaken, several times. The Germans, however, were gradually gaining ground. Some of the regiments of Mobiles had quite lost all order and discipline, and their officers in vain tried to persuade them to hold the position in which they were placed. Two of the staff officers were killed, three others wounded.

Percy had escaped, almost by a miracle. Over and over again, he had carried the general's orders across ground swept by the enemy's shot and shell. A horse had been killed under him, but he had not received even a scratch; and now, mounted upon the horse of one of the officers, who was killed, he was returning from carrying an order across a very open piece of ground, at full gallop. Suddenly he came upon a sight which--hurried as he was, and exposed as was the position--caused him instantly to draw his rein, and come to a full stop.

There, in the open field, were two children: the one a boy, of six or seven years old; the other a little flaxen-haired, blue-eyed girl, of five. They were quietly picking flowers.

"What are you doing here?" Percy asked, in astonishment.

He spoke in French and, receiving no answer, repeated the question in German.

"What are you doing here?"

"If you please, sir," the boy answered, "I have been out in the wood, with Lizzie, to pick flowers; and when I came back there was a great fire in the house, and a great noise all round, and I couldn't find father and mother; and so we came out, to look for them."

Percy did not know what to do. It was too pitiful to leave the poor little creatures where they were; and yet, he could not carry them away. He had no doubt that their parents were hid in the woods.

"Look here," he said; "if I take Lizzie upon my horse, will you run along after me?"

"No, no," the little girl said, vehemently.

There was no time for parley.

"Look here, do you see those soldiers lying down in a ditch?" Percy asked, pointing to a line of Mobiles, not fifty yards in front.

The children nodded.

"Now look here, the best thing you can possibly do is to play at being soldiers. It is capital fun. You lie down quite flat in that ditch, and throw little stones over the bank. Don't you go away. Don't get up, whatever you do; and if you are good children, and play nicely, I will send father and mother to you, if I can find them. If they don't come, you go on playing at soldiers till all this noise stops; and then, when it is quite quiet, you go home, and wait there till father and mother come back."

The children were delighted with the idea, and threw themselves flat in the bottom of the ditch; and Percy went on again, at full gallop. The French were now being driven back, towards the point where the valley narrowed again; and many of the Mobiles were in full flight. General Cambriels, therefore, withdrew his artillery to a point where they could cover the movements; and then ordered a rapid retreat--ten regiments of line, and the Zouaves, acting as rear guard.

It was already getting dark, and the movements were carried out with but slight loss. The Germans, contented with their success, attempted no movement in pursuit.

Chapter 12: The Surprise.

After the check in the Vosges, General Cambriels found it impossible to restore sufficient order, among the Mobiles, to enable him to show face again to the enemy. He was, besides, in want of many articles of urgent necessity. Half his force were shoeless; and the thin blouses which were--as has been said--all the covering that many of the Mobiles had, were ill calculated to resist the bitter cold which was already setting in. Ammunition, too, as well as food, was short.

The general determined, therefore, upon falling back upon Besancon, and reorganizing his forces there. A wound in his head, too, which was insufficiently healed when he took the command, had now broken out again; and his surgeon ordered absolute repose, for a while.

Upon the day of the fight, Ralph had ridden slowly to the rear, when he saw that the fight was going against the French. Hardened as he was by his work, and with an excellent constitution, his wound never for a moment assumed a troublesome aspect; but at the end of a week he was able--keeping it, of course, in a sling--to mount his horse, and report himself ready for duty. The headquarters were now at Besancon; and Ralph could, had he applied for it, have obtained leave to go to Dijon; but he had not done so, as he had been so lately at home, and he thought that the sight of his arm in a sling would be likely to make his mother more nervous, and anxious on their account, than before.

The Germans were still at some distance from Besancon, being watched by Colonel Tempe and his franc tireurs, and by the irregular forces. A considerable army was now fast gathering at Besancon, and the regimental and superior staff officers were hard at work at the organization As aides-de-camp, the boys had little to do; and therefore requested leave, for two or three days, to go up to their old friends, the franc tireurs of Dijon. The general at once granted the required permission; adding, with a smile:

"Don't forget you are officers now, lads, and get into any hare-brained adventures, you know; and be sure you are back on Thursday, as I expect General Michel--my successor--to arrive on Friday; and I shall have to give you, as part of my belongings."

"We are sure to be back, general."

And so they set off; taking, as usual, Tim Doyle with them, as orderly and servant.

"Faith, and I am glad enough to be out in the open again, Mister Ralph," Tim said, as they left Besancon behind. "After living out in the woods, for six weeks; there does not seem room to breathe, in a crowded town."

"It's jolly to be out again, Tim; but I don't know that I mind a town again, for a few days."

"Ah, it's all very well for the likes of yees, Mister Ralph--with your officer's uniform, and your arm in a sling, and the girls all looking at you as a hero--but for me it's different, entirely. Out in the open I feel that--except when there's anything to do for your honors--I am my own master, and can plase myself. Here in the town I am a common hussar; and my arm is just weary with saluting to all the fellows, with a sword by their side, that I meet in the street.

"Then there's no chance of any fighting, as long as we're shut up in the walls of a town; and what's the use of being decked up in uniform, except to fight? Is there any chance of just the least scrimmage in the world, while we are back again with the boys?" he asked, persuasively.

The boys laughed.

"Not much, Tim; but we shall be pretty close to the enemy, and something may turn up, at any moment. But surely you've had enough, in the last six weeks?"

"Pretty well, Mister Percy--pretty well; but you see, the last affair didn't count."

"Oh, didn't it count!" Ralph said, looking at his arm. "I think it counted for two or three fights and, if you were not hit, I am sure you were fired at often enough to satisfy the most desperate lover of fighting, Tim."

"I was fired at often enough, I daresay, Mister Ralph; and I can't say that I liked it, entirely. It isn't so mighty pleasant--sitting like a stiff statue behind the general, with the shells falling about you like peas, and not allowed the divarshin of a single shot back, in return.

"'Shoot away,' says I, 'as hard as you like; but let's shoot back, in return.'"

The boys laughed, and the day passed pleasantly as they rode, and talked. The dusk had already fallen when they reached a party of franc tireurs. It was not their own corps, nor could the officer in command tell exactly where they could find them.

"We are scattered over a considerable extent of country," he said; "and the colonel, alone, could tell you how we are all placed. I expect that he will be here, tonight; and your best plan will be to stay here, till he comes. We have not much to offer you, but such as it is, it is at your service."

After a moment's consultation, the boys agreed to accept the offer; as they had palpably more chance of meeting Colonel Tempe, there, than in a journey through the woods, at night; and in another ten minutes their horses were tied to trees, and they were sitting by a blazing fire, with the officers of franc tireurs. The village consisted of only three or four houses and, as there were fifty men in the party upon which they had come, they bivouacked under the trees, hard by.

"How far off are the Germans?" Ralph asked, when dinner was over; and they lay by the fire, smoking cigars.

"Ten miles or so," the officer answered, carelessly.

"No chance of their coming this way, I hope," Ralph laughed. "We were very nearly caught near Saverne, once."

"So I heard," the officer said, "but I am rather skeptical as to these night surprises. In nine cases out of ten--mind, I don't mean for a moment that it was so in your case--but in nine cases out of ten, these rumors of night attacks are all moonshine."

"Perhaps so," Ralph said, a little gravely--for he had already noticed that the discipline was very different, among these men, than that to which he had been accustomed among the franc tireurs of Dijon; "perhaps so, but we can hardly be too careful.

"How do you all like Colonel Tempe?"

"The colonel would be an excellent fellow, were he not our colonel," the officer laughed. "He is a most unconscionable man. For ever marching, and drilling, and disciplining. If he had his way, he would make us like a regiment of line; as if there could be any good in carrying out all that sort of thing, with franc tireurs. He had about half of us together, for three or four days; and I give you my word it was as bad as slavery. Drill, drill, drill, from morning till night. I was heartily glad, I can tell you, when I got away with this detachment."

Ralph saw that his new acquaintance was one of that innumerable class who conceived that drill and discipline were absurdities, and that it was only necessary for a Frenchman to shoulder a gun for him to be a soldier; so he easily avoided argument, by turning the subject. For a couple of hours they chatted; and then, as the fire was burning low, and the men had already laid down to sleep, Ralph suggested that they should do the same.

"I will walk round the sentries first, with you, if you like," he said.

"Sentries!" the other said, with a laugh; "there is my sentry," and he pointed to a man standing, ten paces off, leaning against a tree. "The men have marched all day--they only came in an hour before you did--and I am not going to waste their strength by putting half of them out to watch the forest.

"No, no, I am no advocate for harassing my men."

"Good night, then," Ralph said, briefly, and he wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down.

"We are not accustomed to this sort of thing, Percy," he whispered to his brother, in English, "and I don't like it. No wonder our franc tireurs do so badly, if this is a sample of their discipline."

"I don't like it either, Ralph. The Prussians are advancing; and if that fellow last heard of them as ten miles off, they are as likely as not to be only two. I shan't be sorry when morning comes."

"Nor I either, Percy. However, here we are, and we have no authority over this fellow; so we must make the best of it, and hope that--for once--folly will not have its just reward."

So saying, the boys remained silent for the night. But although silent, neither of them slept much--Ralph especially, whose arm was still very sore, and at times painful, hardly closed his eyes. He told himself it was absurd, but he could not help listening, with painful attention.

Had the night been a quiet one, he need not have strained his ears; for as he knew, from the many hours he had passed at night upon guard, the hush is so intense--in these great forests--that one can hear the fall of a mountain stream, miles away; and the snapping of a twig, or almost the falling of a leaf, will catch the ear. The night, however, was windy; and the rustle of the pine forest would have deadened all sound, except anything sharp, and near.

The sentry did not appear similarly impressed with the necessity for any extraordinary attention. He was principally occupied in struggling against cold, and drowsiness. He walked up and down, he stamped his foot, hummed snatches of songs, yawned with great vigor, and so managed to keep awake for two hours; when he roused the next for duty, and lay down with a grunt of relief.

At last, after keeping awake for hours, Ralph dozed off. How long he slept, he knew not; but he was roused into full wakefulness by a touch on the shoulder, and by hearing Tim Doyle whisper:

"Hist, Mister Ralph, I've my doubts that there is something wrong. I couldn't sleep, in this camp without watch or outposts; and for the last quarter of an hour, I fancy I've been hearing noises. I don't know which way they are coming, but it seems to me they are all round us. I may be wrong, sir, but as sure as the piper--"

"Hush, Tim!" Ralph said to the Irishman, who had crawled noiselessly along, and had lain down by his side.

"Percy, are you awake?"

"Yes, I woke at Tim's whisper. Listen."

They did listen; and distinctly, above the sighing of the wind, they could hear a rustling, cracking noise. Day was just breaking, but the light was not sufficiently strong to show objects with any distinctness, among the trees.

"By Jove, we are surrounded!" Percy said; and was just going to alarm the camp when the sentry, startled into wakefulness, challenged and fired.

The franc tireurs woke, and leaped to their feet. Percy and Tim were about to do the same, when Ralph held them down.

"Lie still," he said, "for your lives."

His words were not out of his lips, when a tremendous volley rang out all round them; and half the franc tireurs fell.

"Now!" Ralph said, leaping up, "make a rush for a house.

"To the houses, all of you," he shouted, loudly. "It is our only chance. We shall be shot down, here, like sheep."

The officer of the franc tireurs had already atoned for his carelessness, by his life; and the men obeyed Ralph's call and, amidst a heavy fire, rushed across the fifty yards of open space to the houses. The door was burst in, with the rush.

Ralph had not stopped at the first house but, followed by his brother and Tim Doyle, had run farther on; and entered the last house in the village.

"Why did you not go in with the others, Ralph? We have no chance of defending ourselves, here. We have only our revolvers."

"We have no chance of defending ourselves anywhere, Percy," Ralph said. "There must be a couple of hundred of them, at least; and not above fifteen or twenty, at most, of the franc tireurs gained the houses. Resistance is utterly useless; and yet, had I been with those poor fellows, I could not have told them to surrender, when they would probably be shot, five minutes afterwards. We should be simply throwing away our lives, without doing the least good."

There was a heavy firing now heard and, a moment after, half a dozen shots were fired through the window. Then there was a rush of soldiers towards the door, which Ralph had purposely left open.

"We surrender," Ralph shouted, in German, coming forward to meet them. "We are French officers."

"Don't fire," a voice said, and then a young officer came forward.

"You are not franc tireurs?" he asked, for the light was still insufficient to enable him to distinguish uniforms.

"We are officers of the army, upon General Cambriels' staff. This man is an orderly.

"Here are our swords. We surrender, as prisoners of war."

The German officer bowed.

"Keep your swords, for the present, gentlemen. I am not in command."

At this moment, another officer came up.

"Who have we here, Von Hersen? Why do you make prisoners?"

"They are two staff officers, major."

"Hem," said the major, doubtfully.

"Well, if you are an officer," he continued, "order your men to cease their resistance."

The franc tireurs, most of whom had taken refuge in the same cottage, were still defending themselves desperately; and were keeping up a heavy fire, from the windows.

"I will order them to surrender, at once," Ralph said, quietly; "if you give me your word that they shall be treated as prisoners of war."

"I will do nothing of the sort, sir," the German answered.

"Then I shall certainly not advise them to surrender," Ralph said, firmly. "I have no authority, whatever, over them; but if I give advice, it would be that they should sell their lives as dearly as possible."

The officer swore a deep German oath, and strode off. For five more minutes the fight continued round the cottage, many of the Germans falling; then a rush was made, there was a fierce contest inside the house--shouts, shrieks, cries for mercy--and then all was still.

The young Barclays and Tim were now told to sit down near a tree, at a short distance off; with two sentries, with loaded rifles, standing over them. The German soldiers took from the houses what few articles they fancied, and then set fire to them; sitting down and eating their breakfast as the flames shot up. At a short distance from where the Barclays were sitting was a group of some eight or ten franc tireurs, and six or seven peasants, guarded by some soldiers.

Near them the German major and two lieutenants were talking. One of the young men appeared to take little interest in the conversation; but the other was evidently urging some point, with great earnestness; and the major was equally plainly refusing his request, for he stamped his foot angrily, and shook his head.

"What a type that major is, of the brutal species of German," Ralph said. "One used to meet them, sometimes. Their officers are either particularly nice fellows, mere machines, or great brutes; apparently we have a specimen of each of them, here."

The officers passed near enough for the Barclays to catch what they were saying.

The young lieutenant was very pale.

"For the last time, major, I implore you."

"For the last time, Lieutenant von Hersen," the major said, brutally, "I order you to do your duty and, by Heavens, if you speak another word, I will put you in arrest!"

The young lieutenant turned silently away, called up twenty men, and ordered them to place the franc tireurs and the peasants against a wall.

"This is horrible, Ralph," Percy said. "That scoundrel is going to shoot them, in cold blood."

"I protest against this execution," Ralph said, in a loud tone, advancing towards the major, "as a cold-blooded murder, and a violation of all the rights of war."

"Hold your tongue, sir," the German major said, turning to him furiously, "or, by Heavens, I will put you up there, too!"

"You dare not," Ralph said, firmly. "Outrage, as you do, every law of civilization and humanity; you dare not shoot an officer of the army, in cold blood."

The major turned black with passion.

"By Heavens!" he exclaimed.

But the officer who had not--hitherto--interposed, threw himself before him.

"Pardon me, major," he said, respectfully, "but the Frenchman is right. It would bring discredit upon the whole army to touch these prisoners of war.

"In the other matter, I have nothing to say. The order has been published that franc tireurs, and peasants sheltering them, shall be shot; and it is not for me to discuss orders, but to obey them--but this is a matter affecting all our honors."

The major stood, for a moment, irresolute; but he knew well that the German military authorities would punish, probably with death, the atrocity which he meditated; and he said hoarsely, to some of the men near:

"Tie their arms behind their backs, and take them farther into the wood."

Ralph, his brother, and Tim Doyle were hurried into the wood by their guards but--strict as is the discipline of the German army--they could see that they disapproved, in the highest degree, of the conduct of their commanding officer.

They were still near enough to see what was passing in the village. Not a man of the franc tireurs begged his life, but stood upright against the wall. Two of the peasants imitated their example, as did a boy of not over thirteen years of age. Two other lads of the same age, and a peasant, fell on their knees and prayed piteously for life.

The young officer turned round towards the major in one, now mute, appeal. It was in vain.

"Put your rifles within a foot of their heads," the lieutenant said. "Fire!"

When the smoke cleared away, the soldiers were standing alone; and the peasants and franc tireurs lay, in a confused mass, on the ground.

The lieutenant walked up to the major with a steady step, but with a face as pale as ashes.

"I have done my duty, Major Kolbach; your orders are obeyed."

Then, without another word, he drew out his revolver, put it rapidly to his temple, and blew out his brains [an historical fact].

Brutal as Major Kolbach was, he started back in horror as the young lieutenant fell dead at his feet; while a cry of surprise and consternation broke from the men. The major did not say a word, but turned away and paced up and down, with disturbed steps; while the other lieutenant bent over the body of his comrade and, seeing that he was dead, in a hushed voice ordered the men who had run up to dig a grave, under the trees, and bring him there.

When this was done he ordered the men to fall in--placing the Barclays, and Tim in their midst--and then went up to the major and saluted, saying coldly that the men were ready to march. The major nodded, signed to the orderly who was holding his horse to approach, vaulted into the saddle, and rode along the road back toward the main body of the army. The lieutenant gave the word, and the column marched off; leaving behind it the still smoking houses, and the still warm bodies of some sixty men.

There was a general gloom over the faces of the men; and no one could suppose, from their air, that they were returning from a successful expedition, in which they had annihilated a body of enemy fifty strong, with the loss of only five or six of their own men. Discipline was, however, too strict for a word of blame, or even of comment to be spoken; and not a sound was heard but the heavy, measured tramp as the troops marched back through the forests. The major rode on, moodily, some forty or fifty yards ahead of the main body.

They had not gone half a mile before there was a shot fired in the wood, close to the road. The major gave a start, and nearly fell from his horse; then recovered himself, and turned to ride back to the column, when there was another shot, and he fell off his horse, heavily, to the ground.

The column had instinctively halted, and the lieutenant gave the word, "Load."

A shout of triumph was heard in the wood, "Thirty-one!" and then all was still.

"That's the old fellow who saved my life, ten days ago, Percy," Ralph said; "and by Jove! much obliged to him as I was, then, I do think that I am more grateful now."

Finding that the shots were not repeated, some twenty or thirty skirmishers were sent into the woods; but returned, in ten minutes, without finding any trace of the man who had shot the major.

The lieutenant now took the command. There was a continuation of the halt, for ten minutes, while the major was hastily buried by the roadside; a rough cross being put up to mark the spot, and a deep cross cut made in the two nearest trees so that, even if the cross were overthrown, the place of the burial might be found afterwards, if necessary. Then the corps marched on again.

The first use which the lieutenant made of his authority--even before giving directions for the burial--was to order the cords of the prisoners to be cut. Then the corps continued its march and, by the brightened faces of the men, it could be seen easily enough how unpopular their late commander had been; and that they cherished but slight animosity against the slayer. In a short time they struck up one of their marching songs and--prisoners as they were--the Barclays could not but admire the steady, martial bearing of the men, as they strode along, making the woods echo with the deep chorus.

In three hours' march they reached the village which the troops had left, the evening before, to surprise the franc tireurs; having, as Ralph had learned from the lieutenant in command, received information from a spy of their arrival at the village, late at night; and having started at once, under his guidance.

Here a considerable German force was assembled. The prisoners were not unkindly treated; but Tim Doyle was, of course, separated from them. Some astonishment was expressed at their youth; but it was assumed that they had been pupils at Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic, many of whom received commissions owing to the impossibility of finding officers for the immense new levies. Several of the officers came in to chat with them and, as these had been also engaged in the fights, ten days before, there were many questions to ask, upon either side.

The boys learned that they would be sent on, next day; would be marched to Luneville, and sent thence by train.

"They are a fine set of fellows," Ralph said, when their last visitor had left them. "Good officers, unquestionably; and when they are nice, capital fellows. I can't make out why they should be so brutal, as soldiers; for they are undoubtedly a kindly race."

"No doubt," Percy said, but he was thinking of other matters, and not paying much attention to his brother.

"Do you think we have any chance of making our escape, Ralph?"

"Oh, we shall escape, fast enough," Ralph answered, confidently. "With our knowledge of German, and looking so young, there can be no great difficulty about it, when we once get to the end of our journey; but it's no use our thinking about it, at present. We shall be a good deal too closely looked after. I only hope they will send us to Mayence, or Coblentz; and not to one of the fortresses at the other end of Germany.

"Mind, we must not give our parole."

The next day, when they were summoned to start, they found that there were fifty or sixty other prisoners who had been brought in, from other directions. Some belonged to line regiments; but the greater portion, by far, were Mobiles who, in the retreat of General Cambriels, had been cut off or left behind and, after hiding in the woods for some days, were being gradually found and brought in. The Barclays were the only officers. They therefore took their places at the head of the prisoners; who formed, four deep--with an escort of Uhlans--and set off on their march.

It was four days' march. The weather was cold and clear, and the Barclays were but little fatigued when they marched into Luneville. The greater part of the prisoners were, however, in a pitiable condition. Some were so footsore that they could hardly put one foot before the other. Others tottered with fatigue, and the men of the escort frequently used the flats of their swords, to compel them to keep together. As they marched through the streets of Luneville, the people in the streets uncovered; and the women waved their hands to them, and pressed forward and offered them fruit and bread, in spite of the orders of the escort.

They were taken straight to the railway station, where they were put into a shed. Ralph and Percy had gained the goodwill of the sergeant in command of the escort, by the manner in which they had aided him by interpreting to the rest of the prisoners, and by doing their best to cheer them up, and take things smooth; and they now asked him to request the officer in command, at the railway station, to allow them to walk about until the train started, on parole. The request was--upon the favorable report of the sergeant--granted at once; and they were told that no train would go off until next morning, and that they might sleep in the town, if they chose.

Thanking the officer for the permission, they went out of the station; when a tall, big-bearded German sergeant stopped before them.

"Donner wetter!" he exclaimed, "so here you are, again!"

The boys gave a little start; for they recognized, at once, the sergeant who had so closely questioned them in the cabaret, upon the night when they had carried off and hung the schoolmaster. Ralph saw, at once, the importance of conciliating the man; as a report from him of the circumstances might render their position a most unpleasant one and--even in the event of nothing worse coming of it--would almost ensure their captivity in some prison upon the farther side of Prussia, instead of at one of the frontier fortresses.

"Ah, sergeant, how are you?" he said, gaily. "It is our fate, you see, to be made prisoners. You were very nearly taking us, and now here we are."

"A nice trick you played me," the sergeant said, surlily, "with your woodcutters, and your lame brother, and your sick sister, and your cask of beer. I got a nice reprimand over that affair."

"Come, sergeant," Ralph said, laughing, "let bygones be bygones. All is fair in war, you know, and we did not touch a single hair of any of your men's heads. All we wanted was the schoolmaster. It would not do you any good to talk about it, now, and it might do us harm. It's quite bad enough for us, as it is."

"You're nice boys, you are," the sergeant said, with his face relaxing into a smile. "To think of my being taken in, by two lads like you. Well, you did it well--monstrously well, I will say--for you never flinched an eyelash.

"So you are officers, after all. I never suspected anything about it, till three hours afterwards, when we went to relieve the sentry; and found him lying there, tied up like a bundle. We couldn't think, even then, what it meant, for you had made no attack; and it wasn't till morning that we found that the old schoolmaster had been fetched out of bed, and carried off on the heads of twenty men.

"Well, it was well done, and I bear you no malice."

"That's right, sergeant. Now come and have a jug of beer with us; you know, we had one with you, before. Don't you remember, we drank to the health of King William? If you like, you shall return the pledge, by drinking to Napoleon."

The sergeant laughed.

"I'll do that," he said. "You said, if you remember, when I proposed the king, that you did not wish to hear of his death; and I can say the same for your Napoleon. Especially," he added with a chuckle, "as he's our prisoner."

The boys went into a cabaret near, and drank a glass of beer with the sergeant; and then--saying "Goodbye," very heartily--left him, and went into the town; well pleased to have got so well out of a scrape which might have been a very unpleasant one.

They slept at a hotel, and were down at the station at the appointed time. It was a long journey--thirty-six hours--to Mayence. But the boys were too pleased--when they saw the line that the train was following--to have cared, had it been twice as far. The difficulties of escape from the western fortresses would have been immense; whereas, at Mayence, they were comparatively close to the frontier. At Mayence, too, the position of the prisoners was comfortable. They were allowed to live anywhere in the town, and to take their meals when they chose. They were obliged, twice a day, to answer at the muster roll; and were not, of course, allowed to go outside the fortifications.

The one drawback, to the position of the French officers, was the utterly insufficient sum which the Prussian Government allowed them for board and lodging--only forty-five francs a month; that is to say, fifteen pence a day. It is needless to say that the officers who had nothing else to depend upon literally starved, upon this pittance; which was the more inexcusable that the French Government allowed more than twice this sum to the German officers who were taken prisoners.

Upon this head, however, the boys had no discomfort. They had plenty of money in their pockets, for present uses; and they knew that they could obtain further supplies by writing home, via Switzerland. They were, therefore, unaffectedly glad when the train came to a stop at the station of Mayence, and the order was given for all to alight.

Chapter 13: The Escape.

The first thing that the Barclays did, after reporting themselves, was to settle themselves in a lodging--no very easy thing to find, for the town was crowded with troops, and prisoners. However, as they were able to pay a higher sum than the great majority of French officers, in their position, they had no very great difficulty in finding a place to suit them. The rooms were purposely taken in a large house, with a staircase common to a number of families living on different floors; so that anyone going in or out would be less likely to be noticed than in a smaller house. They were also careful in choosing rooms so placed that they could go in and out of the door on to the staircase, without being noticed by the people with whom they lodged.

Ralph's arm was now extremely painful, the long march having inflamed the wound. He had, therefore, on reporting himself, begged that a surgeon might attend him; and had also asked, as a great favor, that his servant--the hussar Doyle--might be allowed to remain with him; stating that, in that case, he would pay for his lodgings and provide him with food. As the prison in which the private soldiers were confined was, at the time, crowded; the request was complied with.

For the next week Ralph suffered greatly with his arm, and had to keep his room. After that the inflammation subsided; and in another fortnight he was able to dispense, for the first time since he received his wound, with a sling. In the meantime he had made the acquaintance of the people with whom he lodged; who were very kind to their wounded lodger, and whose hearts he completely won by being able to chat to them in their native tongue, like one of themselves. The family consisted of a father, who was away all day at the railway station, where he was a clerk; the mother, a garrulous old woman; and a daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of about Ralph's age, who assisted her mother to wait upon them. She had a lover, away as a soldier in the army besieging Paris; and the thought that he might be wounded, or taken prisoner, made her very pitiful to the young officers.

Ralph Barclay had--for some days--been intending to sound her as to her willingness to aid them when she, herself, began it one day. She had cleared away their dinner, and was standing--as she often did--talking with them, when she lowered her voice, so as not to be overheard by her mother in the next room:

"I wonder you don't try to get away. Lots of French officers have done so."

"That is just what we are thinking of, Christine. We have only been waiting till my arm was out of a sling, and we want you to help us."

"How can I help you?" the girl asked.

"In the first place, you can buy us clothes. It would excite suspicion if we were to buy them, ourselves. Percy and I were thinking of going as girls--not pretty girls, of course, like you, Christine--but great, rough peasant girls."

Christine laughed, and colored

"You would be too tall," she said.

"We should be rather tall," Ralph said, ruefully. "We have grown so horribly, in the last few months. Still, some women are as tall as we are."

"Yes, some women are," Christine said, "but men look after them and say, 'What big, gawky women!' and you don't want to be looked after. If people did so, they would see that you didn't walk one bit like a woman, and that your shoulders were very wide, and your arms very strong, and--

"Oh no! It wouldn't do at all. I must think it over.

"I suppose you want that great blue-coated bear to go?" and she nodded at Tim Doyle who--not being able to speak a word of her language--was always indulging in the most absurd pantomime of love and devotion; causing screams of laughter to the merry German girl.

"Yes, Tim must go too, Christine."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the girl. "Fancy him as a woman."

"What is she saying about me, Mister Percy?"

"She says you would make a very pretty woman, Tim."

"Tare and ages, Mister Percy," Tim said, taking it quite seriously, "how could I do it, at all? I'd have to shave off all my beautiful beard and mustaches and, even then, I doubt if you would mistake me for a woman."

The boys screamed with laughter, and translated the Irishman's speech to Christine; who laughed so that her mother came into the room.

"Look here, children," she said, smiling, "I don't want to know what you are talking about. If anything of any sort happens, I may be asked questions; and I don't want to have to tell stories. I can't help hearing, if you leave the door open, and laugh so--indeed, all the neighborhood might hear it; so please shut the door, in future."

So saying, she again went back to her work in the next room.

"Goodbye, I'm going, too," Christine said. "I will think it over, by tomorrow morning, and tell you what you are to do."

The next morning, the boys were very anxious to hear Christine's proposals; for although they had quite made up their minds to try their own plan, if hers was not feasible, still they felt that, with her knowledge of the country, she was likely, at any rate, to give them good advice.

Until she had cleared away breakfast, Christine said nothing. Then she took out her knitting, and sat against the window.

"Now," she began, "I will tell you what I have thought of. It would be easy enough, if it was not for him. He's so big, and so red, and he doesn't speak German.

"Oh dear, he's very tiresome!" and she shook her head at Tim; who smiled, laid his hand on his breast, and endeavored to look affecting.

Christine laughed.

"The only thing I can think of, for him, is that he shall go out as a Jew peddler; with one of their broad hats, and a tray of little trinkets. He might pass, if none of the soldiers took it into their heads to buy."

The proposition was translated to Tim Doyle.

"Is it me, your honor--me, Tim Doyle, a good Catholic, and come of honest people--that's to turn myself into a haythin Jew?" the Irishman burst out, with great indignation. "It was bad enough that I should be made into a woman, but a haythin Jew! I put it to your honors, it's nayther sinsible nor dacent."

The boys went off in screams of laughter. Christine laughed for a moment, too, when they translated Tim's speech to her; and then looked indignant that the proposition, which had cost her so much thought, should be so scornfully rejected.

Tim saw the look, and at once went on, persuasively:

"Sure now, darlint Miss Christine, don't be angry wid me, out of your bright blue eyes! But is it raisonable--is it natural to ask a Christian man to make a haythin Jew of himself? Would you like it, yourself?"

When the boys could stop laughing, they translated Tim's appeal.

"Did you ever see such an absurd man?" she said, laughing. "As if it could make any difference to his religion. Tell him I am a good Catholic, too, but I should not mind dressing up as a Jewess."

"Sure, thin, darlint," Tim exclaimed, when her speech was translated, "I will go as a Jew, directly, if you'll go with me and be my Jewess."

Christine laughed, blushed, shook her head and said, "Nonsense!" upon hearing Tim's proposition.

"But seriously, Christine," Ralph said, "the objection which you mention to the Jew pedlar's disguise is important. Full as the streets are of soldiers looking about, he could hardly hope to go from here through the streets, and out at the gate, without someone asking him about the contents of his box."

Christine allowed--a little pettishly, at the failure of her plan--that it certainly was likely.

"The real difficulty is to get outside the gate," Ralph said, thoughtfully. "After that, I should have no fear."

"What are you thinking of doing, then?" Christine asked.

"I was thinking of dressing Percy, and myself, in the clothes of young peasants; and putting Tim into something of the same sort, with a great bandage round his face. Then I should say that we were two lads, from some place near the frontier, who had come here to meet our uncle; who had had his jaw shattered, in battle. That would explain Tim's not being able to talk at all; and as to looks, he is red enough for a German, anywhere."

"Yes," Christine said, "that would do, very well; but of course, you would be liable to be asked for papers."

"Of course," Ralph said, "but we must risk something."

"I have an idea," Christine said, suddenly, clapping her hands. "I have some cousins living at Wiesbaden. These are three boys, and I am sure they would do anything for me. I will go out to Wiesbaden, tomorrow, and ask them to lend me their papers, just for one day. Wiesbaden is not your way, at all; but for that very reason you would get out more easily there, and be less likely to be suspected, or followed. You could cross the Rhine somewhere near Saint Goar.

"I shall have to tell some sad stories to my cousins, and coax them a great deal. Still, I daresay I shall succeed; and then you can go boldly across the bridge, and into the railway station, and take a ticket for Wiesbaden. You can have an envelope, ready directed, and put the papers into the post there."

"The very thing, Christine. You are a darling!" Ralph exclaimed, catching her by the waist and kissing her, before she had time to think of resistance.

"I shan't do anything at all for you," Christine said, laughing and blushing, "if you misbehave in that way."

"I couldn't help it, Christine--not even if your mother had been looking on.

"And now, about our clothes."

"I couldn't buy them," Christine said. "I never could go into a shop and buy men's clothes."

The thing was so evident that, for a moment, the boys' looks fell. Then Christine said, coloring very much:

"There is a box, in my room, of Karl's things. He is my cousin, you know; and he was working as a gardener, here, till he had to go out in the Landwehr--so, of course, he left his things here, for us to take care of. He is about your size. I will take out one suit--it won't hurt it--and you can put it on, and go out into the town, and buy the things for all three of you."

"Capital!" the boys exclaimed. "It couldn't be better."

Ten minutes afterwards, Ralph went down the stairs and out into the street, dressed as a German laborer in his best suit. He was a little uneasy, at first; but no one noticed him, and he was soon in a shop, haggling over the price of a peasant's coat--as if the matter of a thaler, one way or other, was a thing of vital importance to him. He bought the three suits at three different shops--as he thought that it would look suspicious, if he were to get them all at the same--and in an hour was back again. An hour afterwards, Christine started for Wiesbaden.

The Barclays had reason to congratulate themselves that they had not longer deferred their preparations for escape; for when presenting themselves, as usual, that afternoon at the roll call, they were told that they must hold themselves in readiness to leave for one of the eastern fortresses, upon the following evening; as another large batch of prisoners, from Metz, was expected to arrive upon the following day.

In the evening, Christine returned from Wiesbaden; which is distant only a quarter of an hour, by rail, from Mayence.

"I have got them," she said, "but if you only knew the trouble I have had! What a bother boys are, to be sure!"

"Especially cousins--eh, Christine?"

"Especially cousins," Christine said, demurely.

After thanking her very warmly for her kindness, the Barclays started out, and bought a variety of things which they thought might be useful. They also bought a pretty gold watch and chain, to give to Christine as a parting present.

The next morning they answered, as usual, to their early roll call; and then, returning at once to their lodgings, changed their clothes for those which Ralph had purchased. It was agreed that they should not say goodbye to Christine's mother; in order that, whatever she might suspect, she might be able to say that she knew nothing of any idea, on the part of her lodgers, to make their escape. Then Christine herself came in, to say goodbye; and went half wild with delight, at the present. Then she said goodbye, kissed the boys--without any affectation of objecting to it--and then went to a window, to watch if they went safely down the street.

The boys had no uneasiness, whatever, upon their own account--for they had before passed so easily, among the Prussian troops, that they felt quite confident in their disguise--but they were uncomfortable as to Tim, whose inability to answer questions would have at once betrayed them, had anyone addressed him. They had not ventured to bandage up his face, as if wounded; as he would have naturally, in that case, had a military pass. As the best thing they could think of, they had shoved a large lump of cotton into one of his cheeks--which gave him the appearance of having a swelled face--and had instructed him to frequently put his hand up to it, as if in great pain. Tim had plenty of shrewdness, and acted his part admirably.

They passed across the bridge of boats, without question; and into the railway station, which is just opposite its end. Here soldiers and other officials swarmed; but the three walked along carelessly, the two boys chatting together in German, Tim walking with his hand up to his face, and giving an occasional stamp of pain. He sat down with Percy on a seat in the station, while Ralph went to the little window where tickets were being delivered. There were a good many people waiting and, when it came to Ralph's turn, and he put the papers in at the window, and asked for three third-class tickets to Wiesbaden, the clerk scarcely glanced at them; but handed the tickets over, without a question.

They then went into the third-class waiting room, and sat down. There were a good many peasants, and others there; and when the doors opened for them to go on to the platform, and enter the carriages, they saw it was hopeless to try and get a carriage to themselves. They did, therefore, the best they could; putting Tim next to the window, while Percy sat next to, and Ralph opposite to him. The rest of the compartment was filled with country people.

"He seems in great pain," a good-natured peasant woman said, to Ralph; as Tim rocked himself backwards and forwards, in his anguish.

"Yes, he is very bad," Ralph said.

"Toothache?" asked the woman.

"Worse than that," Ralph said, gravely, "an abscess in the jaw. He has just been to the hospital."

"Poor fellow!" the woman said. "Why does he not poultice it?

"I should advise you to poultice," she said, addressing Tim.

Tim gave a grunt--which might have meant anything--and Ralph said, in a whisper:

"Don't talk to him. Poor uncle, he is so bad tempered, now, it puts him in a rage if anyone speaks to him; because it hurts him so, to answer. At ordinary times, he is very good tempered; but now, oh!" and Ralph made a little pantomime, to express the extreme badness of Tim's temper.

"You are not of Wiesbaden, are you?" the woman asked. "I do not know you by sight."

"No," Ralph said; "we are from Holzhausen, a village some eight miles upon the other side of Wiesbaden."

"Ah!" the woman said, "I have a sister living there; surely you must know her. She is the wife of Klopstock, the carpenter."

"Surely," Ralph said, "she is my neighbor; everyone knows her. She is very like you."

"Well now, you are the first person who has ever said that," the woman said, surprised. "I am so short, and she is so tall."

"Yes, she is tall--very tall," Ralph said, very gravely; "but there is something about the expression of your eyes which reminds me of Mrs. Klopstock.

"Yes, the more I look at you, the more I see it," and Ralph looked so earnestly, at the woman, that Percy had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself going off into a shout of laughter.

"I wonder I have never seen you, at Holzhausen," Ralph continued.

"Well," the woman said, "it is years since I have been there. You see, it is a long way, and my sister often comes into Wiesbaden, and I see her; but in truth, her husband and I don't get on very well together. You know his temper is--" and she lifted up her hands.

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said. "His temper is, as you say, terrible. Between ourselves, it is so well known that we have a saying, 'As bad tempered as Klopstock the carpenter.' One can't say more than that--

"But we are at Wiesbaden. Good morning."

"Good morning. I hope your uncle's tooth will be better, ere long."

"I hope so, indeed, for all our sakes," Ralph said. "He is as bad as Klopstock, at present."

So saying, they got out of the train and walked into the town. When they had separated from the crowd, Percy could restrain himself no longer, and went off into a scream of laughter.

"What is it, Mister Percy?" Tim asked, opening his lips for the first time since they had left the house.

"Oh, Tim, if you had but heard!" Percy said, when he recovered his voice. "Do you know you are as bad tempered as Klopstock, the carpenter?"

"Sure, I never heard tell of him, Mister Percy; and if I have been bad tempered, I haven't said much about it; and if the carpenter had a wad of cotton as big as a cricket ball in one cheek, as I have, it's small blame to him if he was out of temper."

Both the boys laughed, this time; and then Ralph explained the whole matter to Tim, who laughed more heartily than either of them.

"Which way shall we go, Ralph?"

"I looked at the map, the last thing before starting, Percy; and I noticed that the road went out past the gambling place. I dare not take out the map again, to look at the plan of the town--it would look too suspicious--so let us wander about, till we find the place. It has large grounds, so we cannot miss it."

They were not long in finding the place they were looking for. There was no mistaking it; with its long arcades leading up to the handsome conversation rooms, its piece of water, and its beautifully laid-out grounds.

"I should like to go in, and have a look at it," Percy said. "I can hear the band playing, now."

"So should I," Ralph said, "but time is too precious. They will find out at the muster, this afternoon, that we are missing and, as we answered this morning, they will know that we cannot have got far. We had better put as many miles between us as we can.

"First of all, though, let us put those papers Christine got us into the envelope, and drop them into that post box. We should not do badly, either, to buy three dark-colored blankets before we start. It is terribly cold; and we shall want them, at night."

They therefore turned up into the town again; and then Ralph separated from the others, and went in and bought the blankets. Ten minutes later they were walking along, at a steady pace, from the town. Each carried a stick. The boys carried theirs upon their shoulder; with a bundle, containing a change of clothes and other articles, slung upon it. Tim carried his bundle in one hand, and walked using his stick in the other. When a short distance out of the town, they stopped in a retired place; and put some strips of plaster upon Tim's cheeks, and wrapped up his face with a white bandage. It was, as he said, "mighty uncomfortable," but as he was now able to dispense with the ball of cotton in his mouth, he did not so much mind it.

The day was bitterly cold, for it was now the beginning of the second week of November; but the party strode on, full of the consciousness of freedom. They met but few people, upon their way; and merely exchanged a brief good day with those they did meet. They had brought some bread and cold meat with them, from Mayence; and therefore had no need to go into any shops, at the villages they passed.

They did not dare to sleep in a house, as it was certain that some official would inquire for their papers; and therefore, when it became dark, they turned off from the road and made for a wood, at a short distance from it. Here they ate their supper, laid a blanket on the ground, put the bundles down for pillows, and lay down close together, putting the other two blankets over them.

"It's mighty cold," Tim said, "but we might be worse."

"It's better than a prison in Pomerania, by a long way," Ralph answered. "By the look of the sky, and the dropping of the wind, I think we shall have snow before morning."

At daybreak, next morning, they were up; but it was some little time before they could start, so stiffened were their limbs with the cold. Ralph's prognostication as to the weather had turned out right, and a white coating of snow lay over the country. They now set off and walked, for an hour, when they arrived at a large village. Here it was agreed they should go in, and buy something to eat. They entered the ale house, and called for bread, cheese, and beer.

The landlord brought it and, as they expected, entered into conversation with them. After the first remarks--on the sharpness of the weather--Ralph produced a tin of portable soup, and asked the landlord if he would have it heated, for their uncle.

"He cannot, as you see, eat solid food," Ralph said; "He had his jaw broken by a shell, at Woerth."

"Poor fellow!" the landlord said, hastening away with the soup.

"Are you going far?" he asked, on his return.

"To Saint Goar," Ralph said.

"But why does he walk?" the landlord asked. "He could have been sent home, by train."

"Of course he could," Ralph said. "We walked over to see him, and intended to have walked back again; but when the time came for us to start, he said he would come, too. The surgeon said he was not fit to go. Uncle had made up his mind to be off and, as the surgeon would not give him an order, he started to walk. He says it does not hurt him so much as the jolting of the train, and we shall be home to breakfast."

An hour later they arrived at Saint Goarshaus. They were now quite out of the track which prisoners escaping from Mayence would be likely to take, and had not the slightest difficulty in getting a boat to cross the Rhine.

"How beautiful the river is, here," Percy said.

"Yes it is, indeed," Ralph answered. "I believe that this is considered one of the most lovely spots on the whole river. I can't say that I think that that railway, opposite, improves it."

They landed at Saint Goar, and tramped gaily on to Castellan, and slept in a barn near that village.

The next morning they were off before daybreak and, eight miles farther, crossed the Moselle at Zell. They left the road before they arrived at Alf; for they were now approaching the great road between Coblentz and the south, and might come upon bodies of troops upon the march, or halting; and might be asked troublesome questions. They therefore struck upon a country lane and, keeping among the hills, crossed the main road between Bertrich and Wittlech; and slept in a copse, near Dudeldf. They had walked five-and-thirty miles, and were so dead beat that even the cold did not keep them awake.

Next morning they got a fresh supply of bread and cheese, at a tiny village between Dudeldf and Bittburg and, leaving the latter place to the left, made straight for the frontier, across the hills. The road to the frontier ran through Bittburg; but they were afraid of keeping to it, as there were sure to be troops at the frontier. Several times they lost their way; but the pocket compass and map, which they had brought with them, stood them in good stead and, late in the evening, they arrived at the stream which forms the frontier. It was, fortunately, very low; for the cold had frozen up its sources. They had, therefore, little difficulty in crossing and, tired as they were, gave a cheer upon finding themselves in Luxembourg.

They tramped along merrily, until they came to a cottage; where they boldly entered, and were received with the greatest kindness, and hospitality. The Luxembourg people at once feared and hated Prussia, and were delighted to do anything in their power for the escaped prisoners. The peasant made a blazing fire, and some hot coffee; and the tired travelers felt what a blessing it was to sit down without listening, every moment, for the step of an enemy.

The peasants told them, however, that they were not yet altogether safe for that, owing to the complaints of Prussia, both the Dutch and Belgian Governments were arresting, and detaining, escaped prisoners passing through their territories. After some discussion the boys agreed that, next morning, they should dress themselves in the change of clothes they had brought--which were ordinary shooting suits--and should leave their other clothes behind; and then walk as far as Spa, twenty miles to the north. They would excite no suspicion in the minds of anyone who saw them arrive; as they would merely be taken for three Englishmen, staying at one of the numerous hotels there, returning from a walk. Their feet however were so much swollen, the next morning, that they were glad to remain another day quiet in the cottage; and the following day they started, and walked gaily into Spa.

After strolling about the place, some time, they went to the railway station at the time the evening train started for Brussels; asked for tickets--in very English French--and, at eleven o'clock at night, entered Brussels. Here their troubles were over. A good night's rest, in a good hotel, completely set them up again and, the next morning, they left by train for Dunkirk.

There they reported themselves to the French officer in command; and received permission to go on board a Government steamer which was to leave, the next morning, for Cherbourg.

Chapter 14: A Perilous Expedition.

Upon the eleventh of November the boys arrived at Tours. They had started for that place, as the national headquarters, the moment they arrived at Cherbourg. At Tours men's hopes were high for, a week before, Aurelles de Paladine had driven back Von der Tann, and reoccupied Orleans. Every hour fresh troops were arriving, and passing forwards. The town was literally thronged with soldiers, of all sorts: batteries of artillery, regiments of cavalry, squadrons of Arab Spahis--looking strangely out of place in their white robes, and unmoved countenance, in this scene of European warfare--franc tireurs, in every possible variety of absurd and unsuitable uniform.

In all this din and confusion, the young Barclays felt quite bewildered. The first thing was, evidently, to get new uniforms; then to report themselves. There was no difficulty about the former matter, for every tailor in Tours had, for the time being, turned military outfitter and, by dint of offering to pay extra, their uniforms were promised for the next morning. That matter settled, they determined to go at once to the Prefecture, and report themselves.

As they turned out of the crowded Rue Royal, they received two hearty slaps on the shoulder, which almost knocked them down; while a hearty voice exclaimed:

"My dear boys, I am glad to see you!"

They looked round and--to their astonishment and delight--saw Colonel Tempe. For a minute or two, the hand shakings and greetings were so hearty that no questions could be asked.

"I thought a German prison would not hold you long, boys," the colonel said. "I saw your father, as I came through Dijon; and I said to him that I should be surprised if you did not turn up soon, especially when I heard from him that you were at Mayence, only two days' tramp from the frontier."

"But what are you doing here, colonel?"

"Just at present, I am working at headquarters. Between ourselves, the army of the east is coming round to join Aurelles. Our poor fellows were pretty nearly used up, and I found that I could do little real good with the other corps. So I gave up the command; and was sent here to confer with Gambetta, and he has kept me.

"Now, what are you going to do?"

"We were going to report ourselves, colonel."

"No use going today--too late. Come and dine with me, at the Bordeaux. Have you got rooms?"

"Not yet, colonel."

"Then I can tell you you won't get them, at all. The place is crowded--not a bed to be had, for love or money. I've got rooms, by the greatest good luck. One of you can have the sofa; the other an armchair, or the hearth rug, whichever suits you best."

"Thank you, very much; we shall do capitally," the boys said.

"And now, have you any news from Paris?"

"We have no late news from Paris but, worse still, the news gets very slowly and irregularly into Paris. The pigeons seem to get bewildered with the snow, or else the Prussians shoot them."

"But surely, with such an immense circle to guard, there could be no great difficulty in a messenger finding his way in?"

"There is a difficulty, and a very great one," Colonel Tempe said; "for of all who have tried, only one or two have succeeded. Now come along, or we shall be late for dinner."

It was a curious medley at the table d'hote, at the Hotel de Bordeaux. Generals, with their breasts covered with orders, and simple franc tireurs; officers, of every arm of the service; ministers and members of the late Corps Legislatif; an American gentleman, with his family; English newspaper correspondents; army contractors; and families, refugees from Paris. After dinner they went to a cafe--literally crowded with officers--and thence to Colonel Tempe's rooms, where they sat down quietly, to chat over what had taken place since the last visit.

"But where is your Irishman? Your father told me he was with you. I suppose you could not get him out."

"Oh yes, Tim's here," Ralph said, laughing, "but he ran across a couple of Irishmen belonging to the foreign legion and--as he would have been in our way, and we did not know where we were going to sleep--we gave him leave till to-morrow morning, when he is to meet us in front of the railway station."

"By the way, boys, I suppose you know you have each got a step?"

"No," the boys cried. "Really?"

"Yes, really," the colonel said. "That good fellow, Cambriels, sent in a strong report in your favor upon resigning his command; rehearsing what you did with us, and requesting that the step might be at once given to you. As a matter of course it was, in the next Gazette."

"Of course, we feel pleased, colonel; but it seems absurd, so young as we are. Why, if we go on like this, in another six months we may be majors."

"In ordinary times it would be absurd, lads; and it would not be possible for you to hold the grade you do now--still less higher ones--unless you understood thoroughly your duty. At the present moment, everything is exceptional. A man who, perhaps, only served a few months in the army, years ago, is made a general, and sent to organize a camp of new levies. Of course, he could not command these troops in the field, could not even drill them on the parade ground. But that is of no matter. He has a talent for organization, and therefore is selected to organize the camp and, to enable him to do so efficiently, he receives the nominal rank of general.

"In ordinary times a man could not get promoted--three or even four times, in as many weeks--over the heads of hundreds of others, without causing an immense amount of jealousy; without, in fact, upsetting the whole traditions of the army.

"Now, it is altogether different. The officers of the regular army are almost all prisoners. Everyone is new, everyone is unaccustomed to his work; and men who show themselves to be good men can be rewarded and promoted with exceptional rapidity, without exciting any feeling of jealousy, whatever. Besides which, the whole thing is provisional. When the war is over, everyone will either go back into private life or, if they continue to serve, will be gazetted into the regular army, according to some scale or other to be hereafter determined upon. Some inconveniences no doubt will arise, but they will hardly be serious.

"I was offered a general's rank, a month ago; but I declined it, as it would have entailed either my undertaking duties for which I am unfit; or setting to, to organize young levies, and giving up active service.

"No, if you go on as you have hitherto done, boys, you may be colonels in another six months; for when a name is recommended for promotion for good service, by a general, you may well suppose there is no question asked as to his age. Of course, no general would recommend you as captains to command companies in a regiment, because you are altogether ignorant of a captain's duty; but you are quite capable of filling the duties of captain, on the staff, as those duties require only clear headedness, pluck, attention, and common sense.

"What I should like to win, even more than a company--were I in your place--would be a commander's cross in the legion of honor. I had the cross, years ago; but I only had the commander's cross a fortnight ago, for the Bridge of Vesouze."

"Ah, yes," Ralph said, "that would be worth winning, but that is hopeless."

Colonel Tempe was silent. Ralph and Percy looked at him.

"You mean," Ralph said, after a pause, "that there is a chance of our winning it."

"Well, boys," Colonel Tempe said, "I don't know that I am right in leading you into danger, but I do think that you might win it. I was mentioning your names, only yesterday, to Gambetta. A dispatch had just come in from Paris, grumbling at receiving no news from the country; and Gambetta was lamenting over the impossibility of arranging for simultaneous movements, owing to the breakdown of the pigeons, and the failure of the messengers; when I said:

"'There were two young English fellows with us, in the Vosges--they were on Cambriels' staff last, and are now prisoners--who if they were here would, I believe, get in if anyone could. They went down, over and over again, among the Germans; and I could lay any money that they would succeed.'

"'How did they get taken prisoners?' Gambetta asked, as sharp as a knife.

"'By no fault of their own,' I answered. 'They went out on leave, to see me; and slept with a party of franc tireurs--where they of course had no authority, as to sentries--and the party was surprised, at night, and completely cut up. They were taken prisoners, but I do not expect that they will remain so for long.'

"Gambetta did not say anything, then; but when I left him, an hour afterwards, he remarked:

"'If you hear of those young fellows you were speaking of having returned, send them to me, Tempe.'"

Ralph looked at Percy, and checked the offer to go which he saw was on his brother's lips.

"I think it might be done, colonel," he said, quietly; "but it is a serious matter, and we will think it over, before we give an opinion."

Ralph then changed the subject, and they talked over the events which had happened in the Vosges, the strategy and maneuvers of General Michel, the arrival of Garibaldi, the doings of the franc tireurs, etc.

"By the way," the colonel said, "there was a telegram in, this evening--just as I left the office--that the Germans occupied Dijon, yesterday."

"You don't say so!" the boys said, jumping from their seats. "Was there any fighting?"

"Yes, some Mobiles and franc tireurs made a very plucky defense, outside the town. Owing to some gross mismanagement, the great bulk of the troops had been withdrawn, only the day before. After two or three hours' fighting, our men fell back; the Prussians, as usual, shelled the town; and the authorities surrendered."

"The fighting could not have been our side of the town," Ralph said, thoughtfully.

"No, just the other side," Colonel Tempe said. "As my wife is still at home, and our place is not many hundred yards from yours, that was the first thing I thought of."

"I wonder if papa was in the fight?" Percy said, anxiously.

"I should think it probable, boys, that my old friend would have gone out; but I do not think that you need be uneasy about it for, from what the telegram said, our loss was small. The troops fell back into the town, and retreated unmolested through it. So your father would, no doubt, have changed his things in the town, and have walked quietly back again.

"He had volunteered into the national guard, when I came last through Dijon; and was hard at work, drilling them. Of course, he had his old rank of captain."

At ten o'clock the boys said that they would go for a stroll, before lying down for the night. They were out upwards of an hour; and returned, at the end of that time, with serious but resolved faces. The colonel was out, when they returned; and found them stretched on the sofa and hearth rug, when he came in. They gave him a sleepy good night, and no other word was exchanged.

In the morning, they were up at eight o'clock. Colonel Tempe was already dressed, and they went out together to get their coffee and milk. As they were taking it, Ralph told him that they had made up their minds to make the attempt to enter Paris, with dispatches; but that they saw but one way to do so; and that, unless they could be furnished with the necessary papers, they should abandon all idea of the enterprise.

Ten minutes later, they entered the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe went in at once to see Gambetta, while the boys remained in the anteroom. In ten minutes their friend came out again, and beckoned to them to come into the next room.

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," he said.

The boys bowed; and examined, with attentive curiosity, the man who was, at that time, the absolute ruler of France. A dark man; with a short black beard, keen eyes, and a look of self reliance and energy. A man who committed endless mistakes, but who was the life and soul of the French resistance. A man to whom--had he lived in olden times--the Romans would have erected a statue because, in her deepest misfortunes, he never despaired of the Republic.

He looked keenly at the young men.

"Colonel Tempe tells me that you have rendered very great service, by going among the enemy in disguise; and that you are willing to make an attempt to carry dispatches into Paris."

"We are ready to try," Ralph said, respectfully; "but after talking it over in every way, we can see but one disguise which would enable us to penetrate the enemy's lines, near enough to the ground between the two armies to render an attempt possible; and even that disguise will be useless, unless we can procure certain papers."

"What is your plan?" Monsieur Gambetta asked.

"We intend to go as German Jews," Ralph said. "The Prussians strip all the clocks, pictures, and furniture of any value from the villas they occupy, and send them back to Germany. There are a number of Jews who follow the army; and either buy these stolen goods from them, or undertake to convey them back to Germany at a certain price. Several of these Jews--with their wagons full of clocks, and other articles--have been captured by our franc tireurs or troops and, no doubt, papers of some kind have been found upon them. These papers would naturally be sent here. If we could be provided with them we could, I have little doubt, penetrate their lines."

"An excellent idea," the minister said. "I have no doubt that we have such papers."

And he struck a small hand bell on the table. An attendant entered.

"Tell Captain Verre I wish to speak to him."

"Captain Verre," he said, when that officer entered, "there were some papers came last week, from General Faidherbe, relative to those wagons--laden with clocks, ladies' dresses, and so on--that were captured near Mezieres. Just look through them, and see if there were any German permits for the bearers to pass freely, for the purpose of trading. If so, let me have them at once."

The officer at once left the room.

"Supposing--as I have no doubt--that we can give you the papers, what is your course?"

"Speed is, naturally, an essential," Ralph said. "We shall disguise ourselves at once and, upon receipt of the dispatches, start from here to Orleans by train; with two good horses--which can, of course, be furnished us. We shall ride through the forest of Orleans, and so to Montargis; cross the Loing there, and make straight for Melun--keeping always through by-lanes. As far as we know, there are no large bodies of the enemy along that line.

"When we get near the town, we shall leave our horses with some village Maire, or give them to a farmer, and walk into the place boldly. You will furnish us with a note to the Maire of Melun, as well as a circular to all French authorities, to give us any help; and we shall get him to assist us at once to buy a wagon, and two strong horses. With these we shall drive round, direct, to Versailles. Our pass will admit us into the town, without difficulty; and then we shall naturally be guided by circumstances. We must be furnished with a considerable sum of money, to make purchases of plunder."

"An admirable plan," said the minister, warmly, "and one that deserves--even should it not obtain--success.

"I need not speak to you of reward because, as gentlemen, I know that you make the attempt from the love of honor Colonel Tempe has before spoken to me of you, and you were highly commended by General Cambriels. Your names will, therefore, be in the next Gazette for the cross of the legion of honor; and if you succeed, you will come back captains and commanders of the Legion. I may mention--although I know that it will not add to your motive to succeed--that you will be entitled to the reward, of fifty thousand francs, which has been offered to anyone who will carry in dispatches to Paris."

At this moment the officer entered.

"Here are the papers the Jews with the captured wagons carried," he said. "They are signed by the general at Frankfort, and countersigned by at least a dozen military authorities. There are three of them."

The minister glanced at them.

"They will do well," he said. "Will you be ready to start tomorrow morning?"

"Quite ready," Ralph said.

"Very well. Then if you will be here at half-past five, the dispatches will be ready; written, of course, so as to fold up in the smallest possible compass.

"Captain Verre, will you see that two of the best horses in my stable are put into boxes, in the train that leaves at six tomorrow morning."

The boys now rose to leave.

"Good morning," the minister said. "All the letters of recommendation, the dispatches, and the money will be ready when you come, in the morning."

The boys, on going out, held a long consultation over their disguises. Examining the papers, they found that one was for two persons of the same name--Isaac Kraph and Aaron Kraph--father and son; the father, as described in the pass, forty-five years old, the son eighteen. This pass they determined to use.

The task of changing Percy into a Jew boy, of eighteen, was evidently an easy one. His clear complexion was the only difficulty, and this could be readily disguised. Ralph's disguise was a more difficult one; and there was a considerable debate as to whether he had better go as a red Jew, or a dark Jew. The latter was finally determined upon as, otherwise, the contrast between the supposed father and son would be too striking.

They then went to their tailor, and found their uniforms ready. They at once put them on, as the peculiarity of the purchases they intended to make was so great that, had they been in their civilian dress, it was certain that they would have been regarded with suspicion; and would have, perhaps, had difficulty in obtaining what they wanted.

Their first visit was to a hairdresser's shop. Rather to the astonishment of the proprietor, they told him that they wished to speak to him in a private room; and still more to his astonishment, when the door was closed, they told him that they wanted their hair dyed quite black. The hairdresser could hardly believe his ears. The boys had both brown, wavy hair--Percy's being the lightest--and that two young officers of the staff should, at such a time, desire to dye their hair struck the man almost dumb with astonishment.

Ralph smiled.

"No wonder you are surprised, but we have an important mission to carry out, and it is essential that we should be completely disguised. We are going as spies into Von der Tann's camp. This, of course, is in the strictest confidence."

The hairdresser was at once struck with the importance of the occasion.

"You want an instantaneous dye?" he asked.

"Certainly," Ralph said, "and one that will last, at any rate, for a week."

There was no difficulty whatever in complying with the request and, in ten minutes, the boys' heads were raven in their blackness.

"Now," Ralph said, "I want my brother's hair--which is fortunately very long--to be completely frizzled; and I want a pair of the tongs you do it with, so as to be able to do it for ourselves."

This also was easy enough.

"Now," Ralph went on, "for myself, I want my hair to be very long; to come down over my ears on to my collar, all the way round."

"But the only way to do that is to have a wig specially made for you."

"Not at all," Ralph said. "I could not put on a wig, even if you had one just as I want it, ready. The parting always shows, if it is narrowly looked at. I want some long flat bands of hair, like those you use for chignons. It must be black, to match my hair as it is now; but put a few streaks of gray into it. I must have a band of this hair, long enough to go round the head, from just above one ear to just above the other. If you part my hair, just at the place where the band is to go; brush the hair up; put the band of artificial hair on, with shoemaker's wax, or something else to hold tight; then brush the hair back again over the band, it would be absolutely impossible to see it was not all natural. Then cut the long hair so as to lie on my coat collar, frizzle it and the natural hair, and I will defy the keenest-eyed Prussian to see anything wrong about it."

As soon as the hairdresser understood exactly what Ralph wanted, he entered heartily into his plans; and several of the short flat bands of black hair, used for chignons, were sewn on to a band. This was fastened on to Ralph's head, in the way he had suggested; the long tresses were cut to the required length; the tongs were used on them, and on the natural hair; and plenty of oil put on and, in an hour, his headdress was perfect--an immense bush of frizzly hair. The cloth was taken from round his neck and, as he looked at himself in the glass, he joined heartily in Percy's shout of laughter.

"But, Ralph, how are you to go out in your uniform, and that head of hair?"

"Dear me," Ralph said, "I had quite forgotten that. Go to the tailor's, Percy, and tell them to send the suit I changed there in here, directly."

Percy went off for the clothes, and Ralph then went on:

"Now I want a black or grayish beard, whiskers, and mustache."

"I have not got such a thing," the hairdresser said, "but I know a man who keeps them. I will get it for you, in a quarter of an hour."

In a few minutes Percy returned, with a boy with Ralph's clothes. In a short time they were ready to start.

"You do look a strange object, Ralph."

"Never mind, Percy, there are plenty of strange objects here. No one will notice me."

Then saying that they would call in again in half an hour, for the beard, they went to a chemist's; from whom--after some talk--they obtained a mixture to give a slightly brown tinge to their faces.

They now dived into the back streets of the town, found a second-hand clothes shop, and speedily got the articles they required. Ralph had a long greatcoat, with a fur collar; and a pair of high boots, coming up to his knees and to be worn over the trousers. A black fur cap completed his costume. Percy had a black cap, made of rough cloth, with a peak and with flaps to come down over the ears; an old greatcoat, with fur round the pockets and collar; a bright-colored handkerchief, to go two or three times round the neck; and high boots like those of Ralph.

They then returned to the hairdresser, and Ralph insisted that the beard and mustache should be fastened on not only in the ordinary manner--with springs--but with cobbler's wax.

"My life," he said, "might depend upon the things not slipping, at any moment."

They now went home. The moment that they entered their rooms, Ralph exclaimed:

"Why, we have forgotten all about Tim!"

"So we have," Percy said. "He was to have met us in front of the railway station at nine o'clock and, of course, he has no idea where to find us. I will go there. Very likely the poor fellow is waiting still."

Percy hurried off; and found Tim, as he had expected, sitting upon the steps going up to the railway station. He jumped up, with a cry of joy, upon seeing Percy.

"The Vargin be praised, Mister Percy! I began to think that you must have been sent off somewhere, without time to warn me; and I couldn't, for the life of me, make out what to do."

"We have not gone, Tim," Percy said, not wishing to hurt the attached fellow's feelings, by telling him that he had been forgotten; "but we are starting tomorrow. I will tell you all about it, when we get in. We have been to see Monsieur Gambetta, this morning and, do you know, we met Colonel Tempe last night, and are stopping in his rooms."

So saying, he walked along at a quick pace towards their lodgings; Tim occasionally glancing a puzzled look at him. By the time they reached the room, Ralph had stained his face and hands, and was busy dressing in his disguise. His back was to the door, when they entered; but he had heard the Irishman's voice on the stair.

"Well, Tim, how are you?" he said, turning round.

"Holy Vargin!" ejaculated Tim, dropping into a chair, and crossing himself with great fervor "Sure, I'm bewitched. Here's an ould gentleman, wid a wonderful head of hair, has been staleing Mister Ralph's voice."

The two boys went off in a shout of laughter at Tim's genuine terror.

"Sure, I'm bewitched, entirely," he went on. "He laughs for all the world like Mister Ralph. Did ye iver see the like?

"What is it all, Mister Percy dear?"

Percy had by this time taken off his cap; and Tim, as he looked him fairly in the face, gave another start.

"By the mother of Moses!" he exclaimed, in terror, "we're all bewitched. Mister Ralph's turned into an ould man, with a furze bush of hair; and Mister Percy's beautiful hair has all turned black, and shriveled itself up. Am I turning, myself, I wonder?" and he looked into the glass, to see if any change had taken place in his own abundant crop of red hair.

The boys were laughing so that they could not speak for some time, and Tim sat gazing at them in speechless bewilderment. At last Percy, by a great effort, recovered himself; and explained to him the whole circumstances of the case. The Irishman's astonishment ceased now, but his dismay was as great as ever.

"Then is it alone you're going?" he said, at last. "Are you going into danger again, without taking me with you? You'd never do that, surely, Mister Ralph?"

"I am very sorry, Tim, to be separated from you," Ralph said; "but it is quite impossible for you to go with us. If you understood French and German as well as we do, the case would be different; but as it is, the thing is absolutely impossible. You know how great a trouble it was to disguise you, before; and it would treble our anxieties and difficulties. Not only that; but even if, in the face of every possible danger, we got you into Paris with us, there would be great difficulty in getting you out. Gambetta will give orders for us to be allowed to come out, in the first balloon; but it is by no means easy to get places in balloons, and it is unlikely in the extreme that we should be able to bring you out with us. So there you would be, shut up in Paris and separated from us, for months.

"No, no, Tim, the matter is altogether impossible. You stay quietly here and, in ten days or a fortnight--if all goes well--we shall be back again with you."

"And is it in a balloon you're thinking of coming out, Mister Ralph; flying like a bird through the air? Och, wirra, wirra! I'll never see yees again."

"Nonsense, Tim, there's no danger in a balloon. If getting in were no more dangerous than getting out, there would not be much peril in the matter."

"Ah, Mister Ralph dear, how can you be risking your life, and the life of your brother in that way? Shooting at a Prussian, or getting shot at, is all well enough; or going among them with your hair all puffed out, and your face painted brown, and the hair growing all over your face before its time, I say nothing against; but flying through the air, in a balloon, is just tempting the good Providence. I know what it will be. You'll be just touching against a cloud, and tumbling out, and breaking yourselves into smithereens; and nothing to take home to your dear father and mother, not to mention Miss Milly," and Tim fairly blubbered with grief, at the thought.

The boys had great difficulty in pacifying the attached fellow; at last, with a face expressive of mournful resignation, he agreed to remain with Colonel Tempe until they returned; or until their prolonged absence rendered it likely that they would not return at all--Tim evidently making up his mind that the latter contingency would happen. In that case, as Tim--now his corps had ceased to exist--need no longer serve, he expressed his determination to return to Dijon; and to stay with Captain Barclay until the end of the war--as he should not, he said, have the heart to fight any more, when his masters were both killed.

While the conversation had been going on, the boys had continued their toilettes. The preparation which they had obtained gave them an olive complexion; and their transformation was now so complete that the boys would have passed each other unknown, even had they looked steadily at each other. Ralph, especially, was utterly unlike himself.

They now told Tim to go out and get his breakfast, and to return in two hours' time; and then started themselves, rounding their shoulders, and so narrowing their chests as much as possible. Ralph stopped at an optician's, bought a pair of slightly-colored spectacles, and put them on.

It was now twelve o'clock--the preparations having taken them three hours--and they went to the cafe where they were to meet Colonel Tempe, to breakfast. He was already there, and they walked up to the table where he was sitting.

"These seats are engaged," Colonel Tempe said, shortly.

The Barclays sat down at the next table; and called, in a foreign accent, for two glasses of beer. Then they spoke together, for some little time, about a journey from Saint Malo which they had just made; and Ralph then turned to Colonel Tempe, still speaking French with a strong foreign accent.

"Pardon me, colonel," he said, "we have just arrived from England. We have a very large quantity of army shoes, and I should feel under a great obligation if you could inform me who is the proper person to whom to apply."

Colonel Tempe at once informed them, adding:

"If your shoes are good ones, and the price fair, and you can deliver them soon, you will not have to wait long; for they are greatly wanted."

"We have also some harness, for artillery horses," Ralph added.

"I do not know about that," the colonel said; "but you will obtain all information from the officer I have mentioned."

"Thank you very much," Ralph said, and returned to his seat.

Colonel Tempe looked at his watch, a little impatiently. Ralph, after a minute or two, again approached him.

"Don't you think we may as well have breakfast, colonel?" he said, in his natural voice.

The colonel looked at him, in speechless surprise.

"So the disguises are pretty good?" Ralph said, smiling.

"Impossible!" the colonel exclaimed. "Do my eyes or my ears deceive me? Can it really be--?"

"It's us, sure enough, colonel; and now, I suppose we may as well sit down."

So saying, the boys took their seats at the table; but Colonel Tempe still looked from one to the other, in astonishment.

"Wonderful!" he at last said, "wonderful! Even now I know who it is, I do not see the faintest possible resemblance.

"Percy is, of course, less altered than you are, Ralph, because he is still young looking; but even now I should not recognize him. As for you, with that wonderful head of hair, and that beard, you look fifty; and as unlike yourself as possible. Upon my word, if it were anywhere else but here in Tours--where there are all sorts of oddities--I should be ashamed, as a colonel in the army, to sit down to table with you."

"You are a little ashamed, as it is," Ralph laughed. "We had not intended to come out in our new character, so soon; but when my hair was once done, you see, it was impossible to go about in uniform."

"But what in the world have you done with your hair?" the colonel said, examining him closely; for Ralph had taken off his fur cap and laid it beside him. "You have not got a wig on; and yet, all that frizzly bunch cannot be your own."

Ralph explained how it was managed, and added:

"And now, colonel, that you have recovered from your surprise, let us have breakfast."

Breakfast was ordered, to which the boys did full justice; but Colonel Tempe was still getting on but slowly, for he could not take his eyes off Ralph's face.

"Will all that frizzle keep in?" he asked, presently.

"Yes; the man said that the false hair--which is the greater portion of it--will keep as well for a week; and we have got a small curling iron, so we can beautify ourselves up when we like."

"Well, boys, I have no doubt, now, that you will be able to get as far as Versailles; as to getting through, that's another matter--but if anyone can, you will, I am convinced."

"I have not much doubt about it, colonel," Ralph said. "I seem to see my way quite clearly into Paris. Much more clearly, indeed, than I do to getting out again."

"Oh, it does not matter about getting out again, boys. You can stop quietly in there, until the end of the siege."

"That is just what we don't want to do," Percy said. "Would you kindly ask them to put into the dispatches a request that we may be sent out again, by the first balloon that comes? We have no fancy, either of us, for eating rats and cats; which I suppose is what it will come to, before it is over."

"I will see to it, boys," the colonel said, smiling; "but really, I should advise your staying there. You have done all--and more than--your share of work."

The boys shook their heads; and it was arranged that, if they got in, they should come out again in a balloon.

The next morning, the boys were up at half-past four and, at half-past five, were at the Prefecture. Colonel Tempe sent in his name to the minister, and they were at once admitted. Gambetta was at his writing table.

"Good morning, Colonel Tempe," he said, cordially; and then added, in some surprise, "who are these men you have with you, and where are your young Englishmen? I hope they will not be late."

"These are they," the colonel said, smiling.

"They are who?" Gambetta said, puzzled. "I do not understand you, colonel."

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay," Colonel Tempe said.

The minister looked from the colonel to the two boys, and back again.

"Do you mean to say--?" he began, incredulously.

"Yes, sir, it is us," Ralph said; "and I do not think there is much fear of our being recognized."

"So little that I do not recognize you, now.

"There is no mistake, colonel?" he said, gravely; "no mystification? You give me your pledge, and assurance, that these are the officers who have volunteered for this duty? Remember, any mistake might be fatal."

"These are certainly the Barclays, sir. I give you my word."

"It is a marvelous disguise," Gambetta said, his doubts now laid at rest; "and does them immense credit.

"There are the dispatches, gentlemen. They are done up in these two quills, and sealed. They are of the utmost importance; and must not, at any hazard, fall into the hands of the enemy. The dispatches are in duplicate so that, in case one only gets in, the purpose is served.

"This is a circular letter, to all maires and other French authorities, ordering them to give you every possible assistance.

"This is a special note, to the Maire of Melun.

"Here is a letter to General Aurelles, at Orleans. If he is not in when you arrive, the chief of his staff will do. He is ordered to send a staff officer with you, through the lines, as far as you require him. The horses are in the train.

"Now, goodbye. I wish you a very good future, for you are gallant young fellows."

So saying, he shook them warmly by the hand; and they hurried off to the train.

Chapter 15: The Expedition.

A special telegram had been sent forward from Tours to station master at Orleans, to request him to order the two horses, sent forward in the train, to be got out of their boxes without any loss of time; and to do anything else which the owners of the horses required. Accordingly, as the train was waiting outside the station, the guard came round and asked at each carriage for the owners of the horses. He appeared a little surprised, when two Jews answered the inquiry; as he had expected that they were officers of high rank, and importance.

"The compliments of the stationmaster," he said, "and is there anything he can do with the horses?"

"Yes," Ralph said. "Give my compliments to the station master; and say that I shall be much obliged if he will get them out of the horse boxes, without loss of time, and send them on at once to the headquarters of General Aurelles. We will go on at once, in a vehicle."

Five minutes afterwards the train drew up at the platform, and the guard ran up.

"This way, gentlemen. A carriage is engaged."

Upon arriving at headquarters they found that--owing to the forethought of Colonel Tempe--they were expected for, upon sending in their names, they were at once admitted; although several officers, of all grades, were waiting in the anteroom.

The colonel of the staff gave a movement of surprise.

"There is some mistake here," he said, to the orderly who had shown them in; "I ordered the Lieutenants Barclay to be admitted."

"These are the gentlemen who gave me the card, colonel," the orderly answered.

"It is so," Ralph said. "If you will favor us with a moment alone, we will explain the matter to you."

The colonel led the way into a small cabinet, adjoining.

"We are bearers of dispatches, for General Trochu," Ralph said; "and have disguised ourselves, to endeavor to pass through the German lines."

"Oh, is that it?" the colonel said. "I must really apologize; but no one," he said, smiling, "could recognize you, in that disguise, to be French officers. Before we speak further, I must ask you for some proof that you are what you state yourselves to be; for at present I have only your cards."

"Here is our letter from Monsieur Gambetta to General Aurelles," Ralph said. "It is directed to be opened by you, should he be absent."

"That is all right," the colonel said, when he had read it. "My surprise at your appearance was natural, for the telegram we received this morning only said:

"'The two Lieutenants Barclay will arrive, by six o'clock train. Their business is most important. Have a well-mounted officer of staff ready to accompany them through lines.'

"I thought, of course, that you had orders to report on position of troops; and felt, I admit, rather angry that Gambetta should wish to send subaltern officers to inspect matters concerning which he has full reports.

"You wish, of course, to go on at once?"

"Our horses will be here in five minutes," Ralph said, "and we wish to get as far as possible, tonight. We mean to cross the Loing at Montargis, and get as far as we can, tonight; so as to arrive either at Meaux, or Melun, tomorrow evening. We should, of course, prefer Melun, as being much the shortest route towards Versailles. We shall, of necessity, be guided by the position of the Germans."

"You have not breakfasted, of course?" the colonel said. "I was just going to sit down, when you came in; for I go out to the front at ten, and it is half-past nine, now. You will have no chance of getting anything, before you arrive at Montargis.

"I can introduce you to the officer who will accompany you."

The boys readily accepted the invitation, and at once followed the colonel into another room; where breakfast was laid, and several officers of the staff were waiting for the arrival of the colonel, to begin. There was a general look of surprise, when he entered with two strange-looking Jews; which was not a little increased when he said:

"Gentlemen, the Lieutenants Barclay. You look surprised; but your astonishment will cease when I tell you that they are upon an important mission, and do not look like themselves. And now to table, for they have to start in ten minutes.

"Captain Duprat, let me make you specially acquainted with these gentlemen. They are bound for Montargis, and you will see them through our outposts."

In another quarter of an hour, the boys were issuing from the streets of Orleans; and were soon going along, at a hand gallop, by the road along the banks of the Loire; while to the north stretched the flat and densely-wooded country known as the Forest of Orleans. As far as Chateauneuf they kept near the river. Here they halted half an hour, to give breathing time to their horses; then started again, and rode fast to Bellegarde. Here was the last post of regular troops, but Cathlineau's franc tireurs were scattered throughout the country, as far as Montargis; and it would have been more difficult for the Barclays to have passed through them than through the regular troops, as they had less respect for passes.

After another halt, they again started; and Captain Duprat accompanied them as far as Montargis, where there was a small body of franc tireurs. Captain Duprat's orders were to sleep at Montargis, and then return to Chateauneuf the next day.

The boys felt rather stiff and tired, as they rode into Montargis; for they had not been on horseback since the day when they were taken prisoners, in the Vosges, and they had ridden forty miles since breakfast. They would, however, have willingly pushed on another twenty miles; but their horses had even a longer day's work before them, on the morrow.

Being accompanied by a staff officer, no questions whatever were asked them and, after a good dinner at the hotel, they went to the Maire, to inquire whether he could tell them as to the advanced posts of the Germans. This functionary--like such functionaries in general--could give them but slight information but, as far as he knew, there were no German troops on the right bank of the Loing, south of its junction with the Yonne. Beyond the Yonne they were scattered pretty thickly, everywhere.

At daybreak the next morning, they started. Captain Duprat turned his horse's head westward again, while the Barclays rode north. Their pace was rapid; as they never drew rein, except at villages, to ask whether the Prussians had been heard of. They heard of parties at Lorrez, and Cheroy; but as they kept through by-lanes, and as the country was thickly wooded, the risk was--at present--small. They had with them an excellent map, which enabled them to follow the smallest footpaths.

At eleven o'clock, they stopped at the little hamlet of Montarlet. There they breakfasted, and gave the horses an hour's rest while they consulted with the Maire. He was a miller, and turned out a shrewd fellow; entering into the matter with great warmth. He advised them to ford the Yonne between Montereau and its junction with the Loing; to keep to the woods for ten miles, and then to turn to the left, and to cross the Seine--at one of the numerous fords there--into the Forest of Fontainebleau; and they would then find themselves between that town and Melun, and could ride boldly into Melun, as if they had come from Fontainebleau.

"I know every foot of the country," he said, "and will guide you, till you are safely across the Seine. If we should, by any chance, fall upon a patrol of the enemy, it will be simple enough to say that I am a miller of Montarlet; and that you have shown me your permission to travel about, through the German line; and have asked me to guide you, by the shortest way, to Melun."

They had every reason to be thankful to their guide, for they found that there were a great many scattered parties of Uhlans about. By dint of making detours through woods, however, they succeeded in striking the Seine, at Fontaine le Port, without once meeting them.

This village was, however, occupied by some half-dozen cavalry; and it was impossible to pass the river, unseen by them. The Barclays thanked, very warmly, their friend the Maire, and promised to mention his conduct, upon their return to Tours; and then, saying goodbye to him, rode into the village alone. The sergeant of Uhlans came to the door of the principal cabaret, and looked out.

"Good day," Ralph said, in German, reining up his horse. "Is it here that I cross the river, for Fontainebleau? They told me, at Le Chatelet, that it was shorter than going round by the main road."

"Yes, you are right here," the sergeant said. "Have you passes?"

"Oh yes," Ralph said, laughing. "It would have been no easy matter to get from Frankfort here, without them."

So saying, he pulled out the Prussian permit.

"That is right," the sergeant said. "Your horses look very done."

"We have ridden from Coulommiers through Rozoy, and Normant."

"It would have been an easier road to have gone from Normant through Melun," the sergeant said. And he took out a map, and examined it. "No, I see le Chatelet is a more direct line."

"We have time to wait an hour," Ralph said, turning to Percy; "and it will be better for our beasts. See that they are rubbed down, and fed."

The sergeant gave a peremptory shout, and the master of the wine shop ran out. The sergeant pointed to the horses.

"Do you speak French?" he asked Ralph.

"No," Ralph said, "but my son does.

"Aaron, tell him to rub them down, and feed them well; and see to it, yourself. These dogs are capable of cheating even a horse."

Ralph then entered the cabaret, and called for some bread and cheese and a bottle of the best wine, with three glasses. The Prussian sergeant sat down with them, and talked of Germany for an hour. Then they started again, crossed the river and, an hour and a half later, entered Melun. Here, as they came in by the road from Fontainebleau--which was held in force by the Germans--no question was asked.

They rode their tired horses through the streets, until they saw a quiet hotel. Riding into the yard, they told the hostler to put up their horses, and to clean and feed them well; enforcing their request with a five-franc piece. They then entered the hotel, and found that they could have beds; as the number of German officers quartered upon this house was smaller than usual, owing to the greater portion of the troops having been pushed on, to reinforce Von der Tann.

It was now half-past five, and was already dusk. They therefore went at once to the Maire; to whom they presented Gambetta's letter, and requested his assistance in purchasing a van, with a pair of good strong horses, at once.

"It will be next to impossible to get horses," the Maire said, "but I will do my best. I have two carriage horses, of good breed; but I fear, if I were to let you have them, the Prussians might remark it."

"We have two first-rate animals," Ralph said, "from Gambetta's own stables. They have carried us a hundred miles, since breakfast time yesterday. They are likely to be at least as good as yours are, only they want a few days' rest. Will you exchange?"

"Certainly," the Maire said, at once. "If any inquiries were to be made about it, I need make no secret of that transaction.

"As for the covered cart, I will send round at once to those of my neighbors who have one; and as you are ready to pay for it, and as the Prussians are requisitioning them without payment, you can rely upon having one tomorrow morning, ready for your start. I will send a note round to you, tonight, to tell you where it is, at present."

"We had better go now to the German commandant's office, and get our passes countersigned. When that is done, we shall be all right for Versailles."

"Yes, I should advise you to do that," the Maire said. "You will not have much difficulty. They are civil enough about passes, and matters of that kind. Will you mention you have seen me?"

"Not unless any question is asked about horses; in which case we should of course mention that--hearing you had a pair of horses, and ours requiring rest--we had changed with you."

They now went boldly to the orderly room. An officer was on duty.

"Will you please to visa this for Versailles?" Ralph said, in German.

The officer took it, glanced at it, and at them.

"The last visa I see was at Meaux, a fortnight since."

"We have been traveling on horseback, since," Ralph said; "and have had no occasion to have it visaed, as it has always passed us without trouble. As we are now going to Versailles, with a wagon, we thought it better to have the pass visaed here."

"Where have you come from, now?"

"From Fontainebleau," Ralph said. "We have been down to Pithiviers, and I sent off four wagon loads of things from there, for the frontier."

"Your best way is through Corbeil, and Longjumeau," the officer said, handing back the paper.

"Thank you, sir," Ralph replied, "that is the way we are intending to go."

In the evening, the Maire himself came in to look at the horses; and told them that he had obtained a good light-covered wagon, with springs, which had been used for the removal of furniture. The price was a thousand francs.

"If you like," he said, "to come round with me now; my servant shall take the horses round there, put them in, and bring the wagon here; and he can then take your horses back with him to my stables.

"Please to write me a paper--signed by the name on your German pass--saying that you have bought my horses of me, and have sold me yours. Put down any figures you like as having passed between us. You are upon a very perilous expedition and, in case of anything happening to you, it would be well for me that nothing, beyond a mere business transaction, could be traced between us."

At seven o'clock the next morning they started. The distance was only thirty miles, but the roads were terribly slippery from the deep snow, now trampled flat by the immense traffic of the army. It was five in the afternoon when they reached the first sentries, at the entrance to Versailles. The pass was sufficient, and they went on uninterrupted. Percy drove, and Ralph sat beside him.

The town swarmed with officers and soldiers, of all ranks. No one paid them any attention, and they drove through the Place d'Armes and on to the marketplace; where they knew there were many inns, frequented by the market people. Here--as they expected--they found it impossible to get a bed; but they had no difficulty in obtaining permission for the wagon to stand in a yard, and were lucky enough to get stable room for the horses. They went into the town and bought four blankets; and as, at starting, they had filled the wagon two feet deep with straw, they had--in spite of the cold weather--every hope of passing a comfortable night.

Dinner was the next thing and, that over, they strolled about until nine o'clock. It was a singular sight, this army of invaders comfortably quartered in the ancient capital of France. The palace, the statues in front of it, everything told of the glories of France; every park around, every little palace was infinitely associated with its sovereigns; and here, in the midst of these memorials, the German invaders stalked carelessly, drank in the cafes, or feasted in the hotels, as if the place had belonged to them from time immemorial. Afar off, in the quiet of the evening, could be heard the distant boom of the guns round the beleaguered city.

There were several things which the Barclays wanted to get; but they had no difficulty with them, as the shops were all open, as usual. The population had a depressed look. All classes were suffering much, with the exception of the shopkeepers, whose business was as brisk as ever--save only those tradesmen who dealt in articles of female attire, for which there was no demand, whatever. The ladies of Versailles went as little as possible into the streets; and when they did so, all dressed themselves in black, or other somber colors.

By nine o'clock the shops were all closed; and the Barclays returned to their wagon, with their purchases in their hands.

"It's awfully cold, Ralph!" Percy said, as they rolled themselves in their blankets, and covered themselves over with straw.

"It is, Percy; but it will be a deal colder, in the river."

Percy gave a shudder at the thought.

"Don't you think, Ralph, that there is any possibility of entering on either of the other sides?"

"Not the slightest, Percy. It must be across the river, or not at all. The sentries will not be anything like so thick, upon that side."

Had anyone looked into the wagon, at eight o'clock next morning, he would have been surprised at the occupation upon which the boys were engaged. Each was sewing a piece of thin waterproof cloth upon a pair of white woolen gloves; so that the fingers, when outspread, had the appearance of the webbed foot of a frog.

"That ought to help us," Ralph said, when they finished. "For a really long swim, I daresay they would be very fatiguing; but it is cold, not fatigue, we have to fear, and speed is therefore everything."

At nine o'clock, Ralph went to the office of the general in command. There were a number of other persons waiting for permits, and Ralph waited his turn to go in to the officer engaged in signing them.

"I am from Frankfort, as my papers show," he said, handing the officer his pass. "I wish for a pass to go, with my horse and cart, to Bellevue. There are, I hear, many officers desirous of selling, or sending home, articles they have saved."

Saved, it may be mentioned, was the word employed in the German army for stolen--which has an ugly sound.

The officer signed the paper.

"You must not go by the Sevres route," he said. "You must turn off at Viroflay, and go by Chaville."

Half an hour later they started in the wagon At the gates of Versailles-- a mile from the town--they were stopped by sentries; but allowed to pass on production of the order, with the necessary stamp.

"Everything is going on well, thus far," Ralph said, as they turned off from the main road, at Viroflay. "It looks like snow, too, which would exactly suit us."

Viroflay was crowded with Prussian troops. An officer stopped them, as they passed.

"Where are you going to?"

"We are going to Bellevue," Ralph said. "We are purchasers of any curiosities or souvenirs of the war--such as pictures, or clocks--and we also undertake to deliver, in Germany, any article which may be entrusted to our charge. We have our passes and papers, in regular order."

"Wait a minute," the officer said. "Draw up at that villa there."

The wagon drew up to the villa, the officer walking in front. He motioned to Ralph to dismount, and to follow him into the house; leaving Percy in charge of the wagon Five or six officers were sitting in what had been the drawing room of the villa.

"Who have you got here?" one of them asked, as Ralph's conductor entered.

"A worthy Hebrew," the other laughed, "who will either purchase, or carry home, articles saved."

There was a general movement of interest. The furniture of the room was a wreck, the papers were hanging in strips, a broken chair was blazing upon the fire; several family portraits on the wall were pierced with holes, having evidently served the purpose of targets, for pistol shooting.

Ralph's conductor left the room for a moment, and returned with a very handsome drawing room clock; worth, Ralph knew, at least fifteen hundred francs.

"How much will you give for that?"

Ralph examined it critically.

"Four hundred francs," he said.

"Nonsense! It cost five times that."

"About four times," Ralph said, "when it was new. It is not new, now, and it has to be taken to Germany. If you prefer it, I will carry it to Frankfort; and send it on thence by rail, at ten percent upon its value."

"Yes, I will agree to that," the officer said. "How much will that be?"

"I am content to take it at your own valuation," Ralph said. "The value you set upon the clock was two thousand francs."

There was a laugh among the other officers.

"He has you there, major."

"Not at all," the officer said. "He shall take it at the valuation he placed upon it--four hundred francs."

"Pardon me," Ralph said, "I did not value it at that sum, I only offered to give that sum for it; besides which, that was an estimate of the value I set upon it at Viroflay, not the value I should set upon it at Frankfort.

"I will say one thousand francs; that is, I will undertake it at a hundred, if you will get it put into a case of some sort."

The other officers now offered various objects, either for sale or transport--pictures, vases, clocks, and even pianos. Ralph haggled over the price of each article, in a way which would have done honor to his appearance. At last--having arranged all their matters--he said that he was going on to Bellevue; but would call and complete the purchases, and receive the goods entrusted to him, either that night or the next morning.

"If any of you gentleman would kindly give me your card, to give to the officer of the regiment at Bellevue, saying that you have found me fair in my dealing, I should feel very grateful," Ralph said, humbly.

The officer laughed, but one of them took out his card, and wrote upon it:

"Dear Von Koch, this man is--for a Hebrew--tolerably fair in his ideas."

"That is for the major of the regiment, at Bellevue," he said; and Ralph bowed, as if he had received a recommendation of the warmest kind.

"I was beginning to be alarmed, Ralph," Percy said, when his brother again took his place in the wagon.

"I have been haggling over prices," Ralph said. "Fortunately, we are not pressed for time."

They had another stop, of some duration, at Chaville; and it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon before they came down to the back of Bellevue. Here they were stopped and, upon Ralph producing his pass, an officer came up.

"You cannot go any farther," he said. "You are close to Bellevue, now; but if you were to take this wagon into the main road, you would draw Valerien's fire upon us, at once.

"You will find most of the officers there," pointing to a large house, near.

"I have this card, for Major Von Koch," Ralph said. "I am here to buy, or carry home on commission, goods of all kinds."

The officer went with Ralph; and the scene at Viroflay was repeated, but upon a much larger scale. Viroflay is a small village, containing only a few large villas; Bellevue is composed almost entirely of handsome residences, owned by Parisians. The quantity of articles "saved" was proportionately large.

After examining and bargaining for a large number of valuable articles of furniture, pictures and clocks; Ralph left, with some of the officers, to view other articles in the villas upon the side of Bellevue, looking down upon the river. Percy had taken the horses out of the wagon, and accompanied his brother, ostensibly to carry back any articles purchased.

At one of the villas Ralph expressed a great desire to go out into the garden, to look over Paris; and the officer with him--being in an excellent humor, at the disposal of some articles at much higher prices than he had expected to receive; and at having the proceeds, in German bank notes, in his pockets--went out himself, and pointed out all the various objects of interest.

The fog of a winter's evening was already shutting in the view, but the boys could see the principal buildings of Paris. The towers of Notre Dame, the domes of the Pantheon and Invalides, the heights of Montmartre and Vilette, and the forts of Issy and Vanves were distinctly visible. The boys' eyes turned, however, more to the river at their feet, and the intervening ground, than upon the objects--however interesting--of distant Paris.

"Do not show yourself," the officer said. "If we were caught sight of, from Issy or Point du Jour--or from that gunboat, below--we should have a rain of shells about us, in no time. You can look out from among the trees; but do not get beyond their shelter, or you will be seen, instantly."

The house in whose garden they were standing stood upon the brow of the hill. Behind was a little wood, and gardens sloping pretty-steeply down. Then along by the water was a street, with houses upon either side. The river was, here, divided by an island; the lower end of which, however, scarcely extended low enough to be opposite to the spot upon which the boys were standing.

"Bless me," Ralph said, "it must be very dangerous, living down there. Why, that gunboat could blow the place into the air."

"That she could," the officer said, "and consequently, none of our men live there. We have sentries along the river bank, and a few others scattered about; but none of the troops are quartered there, nor even in this line of villas where we now are. If we were to show a light at night, in any window here, we should have a shell in in a couple of minutes. We have no fear, whatever, of a sortie in this direction; and have plenty of force behind."

Ralph and Percy lingered, upon one excuse or another; asking questions as long as they could, and making the best use of their time, to gain a fair idea of the ground that they would have to cross. They had with them, in the wagon, a map of Bellevue and Meudon upon a large scale, with every house marked upon it.

"It is going to be a dark night," the officer said, as they hurried away, "and we shall have snow before midnight."

Another hour or two was spent in purchasing various articles, taken from the French villas. Darkness had come on, and Ralph told the officers that he should not return until the next morning to Versailles; and that if the articles to be entrusted to his care for delivery were put in rough cases--of which there were plenty, which had come full of stores--and brought by ten o'clock in the morning, carefully directed, it would be in sufficient time.

"Will you give us leave to sleep in one of the villas, upon the farther side of the road?" Ralph asked the officer in command. "My boy has never seen a shot fired, in earnest; and I should like him to be able to say he had watched the fire of the forts, round Paris."

"If you sleep there," the colonel said, "you must not light a fire, or show a light, or you would bring the fire of a hundred guns upon us."

"I will be very careful, sir," Ralph answered. "Will you kindly let an orderly go with us, to pass us through the sentries? For, as it's dark now, they would not let us pass."

The colonel gave the order, and an orderly went with them. They stopped at the wagon, and each took out a large bundle.

"We shall want our blankets, tonight," Ralph said. "It is bitterly cold.

"Would you like a glass of brandy, to help keep it out, my man?"

The soldier smiled an assent, drank off a glass of brandy, and then accompanied them to the villa. Short as was the distance, they were challenged twice, and the sign and counter-sign had to be exchanged. They reached the deserted villa, threw down the bundles in a corner; and then the orderly said good night, and left them to themselves.

Chapter 16: A Desperate Attempt.

"So far, so good, Percy!" Ralph said, when they heard the street door slam, as the orderly left. "Hitherto we have had the most extraordinary good fortune and, as it's going to snow--for I felt a few flakes, as we came along--I look upon it as good as done."

"It will take away from us risk of being hit, but I don't see that it will make much difference in our risk of being drowned," Percy said. "I own, Ralph, I am a great deal more afraid of that, than of the other."

"But it does, Percy. It makes all the difference in the world. We had agreed that we would put on life belts; but that we would blow the smallest quantity of air possible into them, so that they might give us some slight assistance, and yet not be too buoyant to prevent us from diving. Now we can blow them up with wind, so as to prevent the possibility of our being drowned. Once in the water, and we are safe from everything except a stray bullet. In a snowstorm, on such a dark night as this, they could not see our heads five yards off."

"But what is worse, Ralph, we shall not be able to see five yards, either; and should have no idea where we were swimming."

"I had not thought of that, Percy. Yes, that would be very serious," and Ralph thought, for some time. "It seems a risk, this, Percy; but I can see no plan, except to draw their fire."

"How do you mean?" Percy asked, puzzled.

"You see, Percy, our idea before was to get down to the shore, to put our dummy into the water, and to let it float down a hundred yards--the length of its string--and then to start ourselves, holding the other end of the string, in hopes that--if the sentries are really sharply on the lookout--they would see the dummy, instead of us, as it will be a much more conspicuous object; especially as we intended to do as much diving as we could, and our movements forward would jerk the dummy's string, and make him bob, like a man swimming. If they once caught sight of it, they would be too busy firing at it to look about for anyone else.

"Well now, I think that instead of giving up the dummy altogether--as we might have done, now that the snow has come on--we must let it float gently down, for seventy or eighty yards; and then throw a stone into the water by it, so as to draw the attention of the sentry. Or--if the sentries are pretty far apart--one of us might make a great splash in the water, when the dummy is floating; and then run back before the sentry gets up, and get into the water quietly, higher up. Their fire will act as a guide to us."

"We had better start soon, Ralph. It may take us an hour, or even two, to get down to the water; for we must go along like ghosts, so as not to alarm the sentries; and we shall have walls to get over, and all sorts of difficulties."

"All right, Percy. I do not see the use of waiting. We shall not get any warmer, by stopping here. It's like having a tooth out. One's got to do it, and the sooner it's done, the better.

"Now for our bundles."

They went downstairs into a cellar--where the light could not be seen from outside--struck a light, and lit a candle. The first thing taken out of the bundle was the dummy--a net, rather larger than a man's head, tightly filled with corks; with a cord, a hundred yards in length, attached. Next were two complete suits, made of white calico; with caps, with long flaps of the same material. Next were two large rolls of India rubber webbing, about six inches wide, which they had brought from Tours with them.

"I can't think that that will be any good, Ralph."

"It will, indeed, Percy. The water will, of course, soak through; but what gets in will remain in, and the heat of the body will warm it, a good deal. I can assure you, it will be a great deal warmer than having the icy water flowing past you."

Both boys now took off their coats and waistcoats, put on a warm flannel jersey over their flannel shirts, and then wound the bandages of India rubber round each other's bodies. They began under the arms; drawing the webbing tight, as they wound it round, so that its natural elasticity caused each turn to press tightly upon the turn above, which it overlapped. This bandage was continued down to the lower part of the body. Then they put on the life belts. Over them they put their suits of white calico, white shoes with India rubber soles, the white caps, and swimming gloves.

They then put the "dummy" in a pillow case, which they had bought for it at Versailles. Before putting on their caps, they fastened the quills with the dispatches in their hair. In a belt, underneath their jackets, each carried a heavy revolver.

"This India rubber stuff regularly squeezes me, Ralph."

"All the better, Percy. You will feel the benefit of it, when you are in the water, believe me."

The boys now knelt down together, and asked for protection through the peril which they were about to encounter. A few minutes later they rose, grasped each other's hand; and then--blowing out the light--groped their way upstairs, opened a window which led into the garden, and stepped out.

The wind was blowing strongly. Snowflakes were being whisked hither and thither, like spray from a wave. Had it not been for the gleam from the snow-covered ground, it would have been impossible to see ten paces, here. As it was, it was intensely dark.

"It's lucky that it's downhill, Percy, or we should never find our way to the water's edge. If we keep descending, we must be there, at last."

Before starting, the boys went a few paces from each other; and were pleased to find that their white costumes suited admirably as, between the driving snow and the white sheet upon the ground, they could not make each other out at more than eight or ten yards, even when they knew exactly where they stood. They now began to descend the hill, very carefully, step by step. The snow upon the ground made walking much more easy than it otherwise would have been. Their footsteps--muffled alike by the India-rubber soles, and the snow upon which they walked--were inaudible, even to themselves. They had several walls to climb, and the noiseless India-rubber soles were of good service, here. Several times they could hear the sentries, beating their feet upon the ground to warm them; but in no case were they near enough to see them.

At last, after an hour and a half--spent in passing the three hundred yards which separated them from the river--they reached, in safety, the wall of the road which runs along by the river. Here the sentries were pacing along at distances of thirty or forty yards apart. The white houses, upon the opposite side of the road, could be faintly seen; and the boys moved along until opposite an opening between them, by which they could get through to the river. Looking over the wall, they could watch the sentries and--choosing their time when one had just passed, so that his back would be turned towards them--he no sooner disappeared in the darkness than they dropped noiselessly into the road, ran across the street, climbed a low railing, and stood in a garden which reached down to the river.

They stood watching, for some time, to assure themselves that no sentry was placed in the garden; but at last they stole forwards and stood at the end of the garden, with the river at their feet. The snow--which was at their backs--was falling faster than ever. The river deepened rapidly from the wall; but the water was low enough for anyone to get along on the sloping side--faced with rough stone--between the foot of the wall and the water.

The boys got over the wall, took the dummy from the bag and, holding one end of the cord, put it quietly into the water; and allowed it to float down, about sixty yards.

"Now, Percy," Ralph said, "you get ready to slip into the water, as quietly as possible, the moment you hear a splash. I will leave this bag here, so as to know exactly where you have gone in and--as the rope is plenty long enough--you keep hold of it here, at sixty yards from the dummy; and I will fasten the slack end to the stone so that, when I go in, I have only to hold the rope in my hand, to be able to join you. I will take this heavy coping stone in my hand; will crawl along on this shelving bank, till I arrive at the dummy; and will then throw the stone in, and run back at full speed, and be in the water a few seconds after you are."

"All right, Ralph, I understand. Keep your pistol cocked in your hand, as you go."

Ralph crept quietly along, under the wall, until he saw the dummy floating at the edge of the water, a few feet below him. He rose on his feet, to throw in the stone; when he heard a deep exclamation behind him and, looking round, he saw a dark figure within two feet of him. Another moment, and the sentry would have brought his rifle to his shoulder-- for he sprang back, giving a loud shout--but Ralph wheeled round instantaneously, threw up his revolver, and fired at the sentinel's body.

He saw him fall; turned round, hurled the heavy stone with a loud splash into the water, and then--crawling low under the wall--ran at full speed back again. As he did so, two sentries in the garden over his head fired, in the direction of the splash in the water; and shouts were heard all along the bank.

In another instant Ralph grasped the line, and slid down the snowy slopes into the water; entering so quietly that no sound, whatever, betrayed his entry. It was icy cold, and almost took away his breath. Twenty strokes, and he joined Percy.

"All right, old man, they can't see us now."

"You are not hit, are you, Ralph?" Percy gasped.

"No, it was my revolver. I had to shoot a sentry, to save my life. It's lucky we have got these life belts on, for I am sure we should never get across."

"There! There!" was shouted, in German. "I see his head bobbing up and down," and eight or ten rifle shots were fired, from the garden where the sentry had fallen, in the direction of the dummy.

The boys swam on desperately, then Ralph said:

"You can slip the string now, Percy. The dummy has done its work. It must be quite out of sight from the bank.

"Do not you feel the benefit of the India rubber?"

"Yes," Percy said, "I am warm enough, in the body; but my legs are in agony, from the cold. These gloves are helping us on, though, at a great rate."

"Well, there is one blessing," Ralph said, "we can't miss the way, now."

As he spoke, a heavy fire of musketry opened from the French, upon the other side. Alarmed at the sudden fire on the part of the Germans, they fired at the flashes of their guns and, fresh reinforcements coming up on either side, a heavy exchange of musketry shots took place across the river; partially over the boys' heads, but principally a hundred yards lower down the stream, in the direction where the dummy was seen by the Germans.

The boys swam with long, steady, noiseless strokes.

"We must be halfway across," Ralph said.

"I am getting deadly cold, all over, Ralph. I can't sink, of course; but I shall freeze to death, before I reach the opposite bank."

"No, no, Percy," Ralph said, as cheerily as he could; though he felt, himself, that the intense cold was rapidly overcoming his strength. "Keep up your heart. Strike as hard as you can. The more you exert yourself, the better."

In another minute or two, Ralph found he was leaving Percy behind, and slackened his speed.

"Goodbye, Ralph. My legs are all cramped up, and my arms are numbed. I can't swim another stroke. It is all up with me," he said, faintly. "God bless you. Don't stop with me; you can do no good, and your only chance is to go on."

Ralph, however, put one hand upon Percy's life belt, and struck out for shore; but he felt that it was hopeless. Frightful pains were shooting through his limbs, and he breathed what he believed to be a last prayer; when a boom like thunder, a few yards off, galvanized him into life again--for he saw the gunboat, which they had seen in the morning, only a few yards distant. She had just fired a gun, loaded with grape, in the direction of the Germans who were firing. She was still at anchor, and the stream was drifting them down fast upon her.

"Help!" Ralph shouted. "Help! We are drowning, and have dispatches Throw a rope, quick!"

"Where are you?" answered a voice.

"Here, close to you, just abreast," Ralph shouted.

In another instant a rope struck his face. He grasped it, twisted it tightly round Percy's body and his own, tied a rough knot with his last strength, and then lost consciousness.

When he recovered his senses, his first sensation was that of intense pain--so intense that it extracted a groan from him.

"That's right, rub away; and pour some more brandy down his throat," a voice said.

Then he became conscious that he was being rubbed with hot flannels. He opened his eyes, and saw a gleaming of moving machinery, and the red glare of furnaces.

"Where am I?" he asked, at last.

"In the engine room of the gunboat Farcey," a voice said.

"I am suffering agony," Ralph murmured, between his teeth.

"I daresay," the officer who was standing by him answered. "You were pretty near frozen to death. Luckily your life belts kept you from taking in any water, but it was a near squeak. Another three minutes in the water, and the doctor says it would have been all up with you."

"Where is my brother?" Ralph asked suddenly; sitting up, with a full consciousness of all that had passed.

"He is coming round," the officer said. "He was farther gone than you were; and his heart's action was altogether suspended, from the cold. His limbs are twitching now, and the doctor says he will do.

"You call him your brother, but I suppose you mean your son?"

"Please lend me some clothes," Ralph said. "I can stand, now."

Some clothes had already been got in readiness, and warmed; and in a couple of minutes Ralph was kneeling by his brother's side. Percy was now coming to, and was suffering agonies similar to those which Ralph himself had experienced, from the recommencement of circulation in his limbs. He looked round, utterly bewildered; for he had become insensible before the Farcey's gun had given notice of her proximity. He smiled, however, when his eyes fell on Ralph's face.

"It is all right, Percy, thank God," Ralph said. "We are on board the gunboat Farcey and, in ten minutes, we shall be landed in the heart of Paris."

In another five minutes, Percy was sufficiently recovered to begin to dress. The commander of the Farcey now turned to Ralph.

"Your son has had a very narrow shave of it, sir."

"Son!" Ralph said, "He is my brother."

The officer looked surprised.

"How old do you take me to be?" Ralph asked.

"Forty-five or fifty," the officer said.

"I shall not be seventeen for some months," Ralph answered.

The officer looked at him with an air of intense astonishment, and there was a burst of laughter from the men standing round. The commandant frowned angrily at them.

"Quite so, my dear sir," he said, soothingly. "I was only joking with you. It is evident that you are not yet seventeen."

"You think I have lost my senses, with the shock," Ralph said, smiling. "I can assure you that that is my age. My beard and whiskers are so firmly fixed on, with cobbler's wax, that I shall have an awful trouble to get them off; and my hair the same. If you feel along here, from one ear to the other, you will feel a ridge. That is the cobbler's wax, that sticks all this mass of frizzled hair on.

"Did you not notice that both my brother's and my face and hands were much darker than the rest of our skin?"

"Yes, the doctor did notice that," the captain said--now beginning to think that Ralph was not insane, after all.

Passing his finger where Ralph directed him, he felt the ridge of the false hair.

"Who are you then, may I ask?" he said.

"My brother and myself are named Barclay," Ralph said. "We are lieutenants in the army, and are both decorated for service in the field. We left Tours four days ago, and are bearers of dispatches from Gambetta to General Trochu."

A cheer broke from all who were standing within hearing; and the boys' hands--for Percy came up at the moment--were warmly shaken by the officers of the boat, one after another. Congratulations of all sorts were heaped upon them, and those around were unable to make enough of them.

"No pigeon has come in, for ten days," the commander said. "You will indeed be welcome."

At this moment, a sailor came down to say that they were passing the Louvre and, in another two minutes, the gunboat lay alongside the wharf.

"You do not know, I suppose, where Trochu is to be found?" the commander of the Farcey asked.

"No, indeed," Ralph said.

"I will go with you, myself," the officer said. "If the general has gone to bed, we must knock him up. He won't mind, when he hears the reason."

It was but a short distance to walk, but the boys had great difficulty in getting there; for their limbs were stiff and aching, and they felt a burning sensation all over them, as if they had been dipped in boiling water. General Trochu had not yet gone to bed and--upon the message being delivered by the orderly, "The commander of the Farcey, with officers bearing dispatches, from Tours,"--he ordered them to be instantly admitted.

"These are the Lieutenants Barclay, general," the commander of the Farcey said. "A heavy firing broke out, suddenly, from the water side at Lower Meudon. It was answered from our side and--thinking that it might be someone trying to swim across--I fired a round of grape into the Germans, and ordered a sharp lookout to be kept. I had scarcely spoken the words before we were hailed for a rope; and in another minute these officers--both insensible from cold--were pulled on board. Thinking they might have dispatches, I at once started up the river; and when they were brought round, by the surgeon, they stated that they were the Lieutenants Barclay, bearers of dispatches from Tours."

"Gallantly done, gentlemen! Bravely done!" the general said warmly, shaking both boys by the hand.

The burning heat of Percy's hand struck him, at once.

"Where are your dispatches, gentlemen? You have preserved them, I hope?"

Ralph produced the two quills.

"They are duplicate, general," he said. "We each carried one, in case any accident might befall one of us."

"Thank you," the general said. "I need now detain you no longer. I have work here for all night, and you had better go instantly to bed. Your brother is in a high state of fever."

He touched a bell, and an officer in waiting came in.

"Captain Bar, will you kindly take these gentlemen to a hotel, at once. The horses are, as usual, in the carriage I suppose; and,"--he dropped his voice--"send a message from me to request Doctor Marcey to see them, at once. The younger one is in a state of high fever."

In another quarter of an hour the boys were in comfortable beds, in rooms adjoining each other. Ralph--who was heavy and stupid, with the effects of the cold--was asleep almost the instant his head touched the pillow. He was roused a short time afterwards by being shaken and, opening his eyes, he saw someone leaning over him.

"Drink this," the gentleman said, holding a glass to his lips.

Ralph mechanically did as he was told; and fell off again into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake until late the next afternoon.

His first impulse was to look at his watch. It had stopped at eleven o'clock, the night before--the hour at which he had entered the Seine. Then he rang the bell.

"What o'clock is it?" he asked, when the servant entered.

"Just struck five, sir."

"What, five in the afternoon?" Ralph exclaimed.

"Yes, sir."

"I have slept," Ralph said, with a laugh. "However, I feel all right again, now.

"Is my brother up?"

"No, sir," the man said.

"Percy!" Ralph shouted, "It is five o'clock in the afternoon. Get up."

"The other gentleman is not in the next room, sir," the servant said.

"Is he not?" Ralph said, puzzled. "I was desperately sleepy last night, certainly; but not too sleepy, I should have thought, to have made a mistake about that. I feel sure he was in the next room."

"He was, sir," the servant said, "but Doctor Marcey, when he came to see you--just after you got into bed--ordered him to be carried at once into another room, in order that he might not disturb you. He said it was essential that you should have your sleep out, undisturbed."

"But why should my brother disturb me?" Ralph asked, anxiously. "Is he not well?"

"No, sir, he has got fever. He has been calling out, a great deal. He has got two sisters with him, and the doctor has been every hour."

By this time Ralph was out of bed.

"Here are some clothes, sir," the man said, handing them to him. "The landlord thought you would want some at once, when you woke; and ordered three or four suits for you to try."

Ralph seized the first that came to hand, and threw them on.

"All Paris was talking about your getting through the enemy, last night, sir. There have been hundreds of people here to call."

Ralph did not even hear what was said.

"Now," he said, "take me to him, at once."

The servant led Ralph along a passage and stopped at a door, at which he knocked. A Sister of Mercy opened the door.

"This is the other gentleman."

The sister opened the door for Ralph to enter.

"He is quiet now," she said, in a soft, compassionate tone.

Ralph went into the room. Percy lay in the bed, with his head surrounded with ice. His face was flushed, and his eyes wild. He was moving uneasily about, talking to himself.

"It is that schoolmaster who is at the bottom of it," he muttered. "He was a traitor, and I thought we hung him, but I suppose we didn't. Perhaps he got down, after we had gone off. If not, how could he have betrayed us again?

"I have heard of liquid fire, but that was liquid ice. It got into my veins, somehow, instead of blood. I tell you, Ralph, it's no good. I can't stand it any longer; but I will pay off that schoolmaster, first. Let me get at him," and he made an effort to rise.

The sister tried to restrain him, but so violent were his efforts to rise that Ralph--who was looking on, with tears streaming down his cheeks--was obliged to assist to hold him down. When he became quiet, the sister forced some medicine between his lips--Ralph holding up his head.

"Shall I speak to him?" Ralph asked. "He may know my voice."

"Better not, sir," the nurse said, "it would probably only set him off again."

"What does the doctor say about him?" Ralph asked.

"He says it is brain fever," the nurse said. "He only said it might be some days, before the crisis came; and that he could not give any decided opinion, at present. But he seemed to have hope."

"Thank God, at least, for that!" Ralph said, earnestly.

Percy, turning his head round again, caught sight of Ralph.

"Ah, there is that schoolmaster again! If no one else will hang him, I will do it, myself. Let me get at him!"

And he again made desperate efforts to get out of bed.

"You had better go, sir," one of the sisters said, urgently. "The sight of you makes him worse, and you can do him no good."

Seeing that it was so, Ralph reluctantly left the room; his only comfort being that Percy was as carefully tended, and looked after, as it was possible for him to be. He had scarcely returned to his room, when an officer was shown in.

"I daresay you hardly remember me," he said. "I came here with you, last night."

"I am very glad to see you again, and to thank you for the trouble you took," Ralph said. "I was too sleepy to do so, last night."

"Not at all," the officer answered. "However, I am here with a message from the general, now. He would have asked you to dine with him but, hearing of the state of your brother, he could not ask you to leave him for so long a time; but he would be glad if you would come to see him, for an hour, this evening. He wishes to know how you managed to pass through the German lines; and he also desires to be informed, as far as you can give such information, of the number and position of the enemy.

"What surprises us all, more than anything, is that the dispatches are dated the morning of the thirteenth instant; and you were picked up, by the Farcey, upon the evening of the sixteenth. It seems incredible that you should have done the distance, and managed to get through the German lines, in the time. Only one other messenger has got through; and his dispatches were more than ten days old, when they reached us, and had been forestalled by some pigeons. Your news is six days later than any we have received."

"We slept, on the night of the thirteenth, at Montargis," Ralph said; "on the fourteenth at Melun, on the fifteenth at Versailles; and last night--as you know--here."

"I must not get the information before the general," the officer said, with a laugh. "It is half-past six, now. The general dines at seven. At what time will you be with him? Shall we say nine?"

"I will be there at nine," Ralph said, "but the general will, I hope, excuse my coming either in uniform, or full dress of any kind. I have, of course, nothing with me."

"General Trochu will of course understand that," the officer said. "Goodbye."

Ralph now went back to Percy's room. The doctor had just come. He was accompanied by another medical man. Ralph stood by, in silent attention, while the doctor felt Percy's pulse, and asked a few questions of the nurse. They then gave some orders, and said that fresh medicine should be sent in, in a quarter of an hour; and that they would come in again, at ten o'clock, to see how he was going on.

"What do you think of him, sir?" Ralph asked, as the doctor came out.

"He has a sharp attack of brain fever," the doctor said, "but he is young, with an excellent constitution. I trust we shall pull him through. I cannot say anything for certain, at present--till the fever takes a turn, one way or the other--but I have strong hopes."

Ralph ordered some dinner to be sent up to his room, for he began to be keenly awake to the fact that he had eaten nothing, for more than twenty-four hours. After he had taken the meal, he sat in Percy's room, until it was time to go to General Trochu's; keeping himself, however, in a position so as to be hidden by the curtain--for the sight of him evidently excited the patient. Percy was, as far as his brother could see, in just the same state as before: sometimes talking to himself, in disconnected sentences; sometimes raving wildly, and imagining himself repeating the scenes through which he had passed, since he left home.

At nine o'clock, exactly, Ralph sent in his name to the governor; and was at once shown in. The general had already left the table, and was smoking in a small study. With him were Generals Ducrot and Vinoy. General Trochu rose, and shook him cordially by the hand; presented him to the other generals, and asked him to take a cigar, and sit down.

"Generals Ducrot and Vinoy are surprised, I see, at your appearance, Captain Barclay," General Trochu began.

"By the way," he interrupted himself, "you are in the Gazette, this morning, as captain."

Ralph bowed, and expressed his thanks.

"No thanks are due at all, Captain Barclay," the old veteran said. "You have well earned your promotion; and Gambetta--who speaks of you, I may say, in the highest terms--tells me that he promised you the step, if you got in. I need not say that, whether he had done so or not, I should have given it to you.

"But I was saying, I see Generals Vinoy and Ducrot are surprised--as I am, myself--at your appearance. Gambetta, in his letter, twice uses the expression young officers. Once he said, 'these young officers have greatly distinguished themselves, and have gained the cross of the legion of honor;' and again he says, 'these young officers have volunteered to carry dispatches.'

"Naturally, my friends were looking for a younger man; and having only seen you for an instant last night, and not having observed your features, specially, I confess that I was expecting a younger man.

"You see," he said, with a smile, "we can quite understand Gambetta's calling your brother a young officer, for he is a mere lad; but one would hardly have applied the same term to yourself."

Ralph had flushed crimson, at the commencement of this speech.

"I must apologize very greatly, general," he said, when the Governor of Paris stopped; "for the mistake is certainly due to my own forgetfulness."

His hearers looked surprised.

"I slept until five o'clock this afternoon," Ralph continued; "owing, I believe, to a powerful opiate that the doctor you kindly sent us gave me. Since I woke, my thoughts have been entirely given to my brother; and the thought of my singular appearance never entered my mind. I have become so accustomed--in the few days since I left Tours--to this beard, mustache, and hair, that I never thought of them, for a moment. Had I thought of it, I could not have presented myself before you, this evening; for I should not have presumed to do so, in my present state; and it will take me some hours of hard work, and not a little pain, before I get rid of them--for they are fastened on with shoemaker's wax and, I fear, will not come off, without taking a considerable portion of skin with them."

The three generals laughed heartily at Ralph's apology, and their own mistake; and General Trochu then asked him to give them a full account of what had happened to him, what he had seen, and what information he had gained since he left Tours. Ralph told the story unaffectedly, from beginning to end, and received warm commendation from his listeners.

"Your story began at Tours," General Trochu said; "where had you last been, before that?"

"We had only arrived, ten days before, from a German prison," Ralph answered.

The generals all laughed.

"You are adventurous fellows, you and your brother," General Vinoy said. "How did you get taken, and how did you get out?"

Ralph again told his story.

"You are cool hands, you Barclays," General Ducrot said. "How did you get commissions first? Were you at the Polytechnic, or Saint Cyr?"

"No, general," Ralph said, modestly, "we had no such advantages. We won our commissions--and the cross of the Legion--in the Vosges, as franc tireurs."

"In which corps?" General Trochu asked, a little sharply. "They have not done any very great things, the franc tireurs."

"We were in the franc tireurs of Dijon," Ralph said, a little proudly. "We several times beat superior forces. We blew up the bridge of the Vesouze; and should have blown up the tunnel of Saverne, had it not been for treachery."

"Yes, yes," General Trochu said; "I remember Gambetta has once or twice mentioned your corps, especially. You see, we don't hear much from outside.

"Let us hear of the affairs you have mentioned. Your account will give us a better idea of the state of things, in the Vosges, than fifty dispatches would do."

Thus asked, Ralph gave an account of the doings of the corps; from the day they arrived in the Vosges, to the day he had left them--reduced to a fourth of their original strength. The three generals sat and smoked their cigars while he spoke, asking questions occasionally.

"Very good," General Trochu said, when he finished; and the other generals cordially assented.

"But how come you to speak German so well?" General Trochu asked; "and how was it you understood the English in which the officer spoke, at Saverne?"

"We are English," Ralph said; and his hearers gave a simultaneous start of surprise. "That is to say, our nationality is English, though we are half French. Our father--an officer in the English army--was wounded, left the service, married a French lady, and settled in France for a time. We have been educated partly in England, Germany, and France; so that we speak the three languages nearly equally well."

"Well, Captain Barclay," General Trochu said, "I am almost sorry that you are not French; for you would be a credit to any country.

"And now, I think it is time to be going to bed," and he drew out his watch. "Bless me, it is one o'clock! I had no idea it was so late. Good night.

"I will not ask you to call again, for a day or two; as your brother will naturally occupy your attention, and care. I trust that I shall soon hear good news of him."

"Good night, Captain Barclay," the other generals said, cordially, each giving him their hands; and Ralph made his way across the dark streets--for there was no gas--back to his hotel.

He went at once up to Percy's room; and found that, if not decidedly better, he was at least no worse; and the Sisters of Charity, who were nursing him, said that the doctors had spoken hopefully at their last visit. Ralph had intended to sit up all night, but the nurses assured him that he could be of no use, whatever; and indeed, that he would be worse than useless, as his presence excited Percy. They themselves were keeping watch, by turns.

Accordingly Ralph--who still felt the effects of the cold immersion--went off to bed and--in spite of the late hour at which he had risen--was in a few minutes sound asleep.

Chapter 17: A Balloon Voyage.

For eight-and-forty hours, Percy's fever and delirium continued unabated. At the end of that time, he fell into a long sleep; and the doctor, as he felt his hand and heard his breathing, told his brother that he thought the crisis was over, and that he would awaken, conscious. His prognostication turned out well founded and, to Ralph's intense delight, Percy knew him when he opened his eyes. He was weak--weaker than Ralph could have supposed anyone could possibly have become, after only two days' illness. But he was fairly convalescent.

Ralph had scarcely left him, during these two days; and had only been out once from the hotel. He had sent for a newspaper; to read for himself, in the Gazette, the promotion which General Trochu had notified to him and, after doing so, he turned to another portion; and there, among the lists of decorations given, were the names of Percy and himself, as promoted to be commanders of the Legion for having, with extreme gallantry, conveyed dispatches from Tours to Paris, through the German lines.

It was after reading this newspaper that Ralph went out. His walk was not a long one. He went first to a tailor, and ordered two captain's uniforms; for Percy was so nearly his own size that--except that his shoulders were an inch less in width--Ralph's clothes fitted him exactly. He then went to the Palais Royal, where there are several shops which sell nothing but medals, and decorations; and bought two ribbons of the commander's rank, in the legion of honor.

One terrible morning Ralph spent in a hairdresser's hands and, at the cost of no little pain, got rid of all that mass of hair which had so transformed him. The stain was now nearly worn off the skin; and Ralph was quite surprised, when he again looked at himself in the glass.

"I was about beginning to forget," he said, with a laugh, "that I was a boy, after all."

The first day of Percy's convalescence, he dozed a good deal; but the next day he woke, much brighter and better.

"Look here, Percy," Ralph said, laying the ribbon before him; "that's better than medicine for you. There is the ribbon of a commander of the legion of honor. You can safely boast that you are the youngest who ever wore it; and earned it well, too, old man. Won't they be pleased, at home? And we are both gazetted as captains."

Percy smiled with pleasure. His attack had been a very sharp one; but so short an illness, however severe, is speedily got over. The doctor had, that morning, said that all he wanted now was building up; and that, in a very few days, he would be about. Indeed, Percy wanted to get up that day; insisting that he was quite strong. When he once stood up, however, he found he was much weaker than he had imagined; but sat up in an armchair, all the evening. The next day he remained up all day and, three days after, he felt strong enough to go to the governor with Ralph, to ask for their promised places in the next balloon.

It was now the twenty-third of November. A carriage was sent for and, after some difficulty, procured; for carriages were already becoming scarce, in Paris. They drove up to the entrance, and went in; but were told by an orderly--who could scarcely conceal his surprise at these lads, in the uniform of captains of the staff, and with decorations scarcely ever seen, except upon the breasts of superior officers--that the general was out. They turned and went out but, as they reached the steps, a number of officers rode up.

"There is General Trochu himself, with Vinoy and Ducrot," Ralph said.

The generals dismounted, and came up the steps. As they did so their eyes fell upon the boys, who both saluted. They paused, in surprise.

"What masquerade is this, young gentlemen?" General Trochu asked, sternly. "Allow me to ask how you venture to dress up as captains, on the staff; and still more how you dare to put on the ribbons of commanders of the legion of honor?

"It is no laughing matter," he said, angrily, as Ralph could not resist a smile. "It is a punishable offence; and your impudence in showing yourselves off, at my door, makes the matter the more unpardonable."

"I see, general, that you do not remember us."

"I do not, sir," General Trochu said, looking at him sternly. "To the best of my belief, I never set eyes upon you before."

The numerous staff of officers--who had accompanied the generals, and who were scattered thickly around them-- gave an angry murmur; for scarce one among them wore the coveted decoration.

"I am Ralph Barclay, and this is my brother Percy," Ralph said, respectfully.

"Impossible!" the three generals exclaimed, simultaneously; while there was a general exclamation of surprise, from the officers round--for the courageous deed of the Barclays, in making their way through the enemy's lines, had been a general topic of conversation, and all Paris was familiar with their names.

"It is so, general," Ralph said, respectfully. "I explained to you, at the interview that I had the honor of having with you, in the presence of Generals Ducrot and Vinoy, that it was the false hair which made all the difference; and that I was but little older than my brother."

The generals no longer doubted. They all shook both boys by the hand.

"I am astounded," General Trochu said; "astounded that two such mere boys, as I now see you are, should have accomplished what you have done. However, courage is of no age; and I do not think that there are any here,"--and he turned to the officers round him--"who will not agree with me that these ribbons are worthily placed."

"No, indeed," was the general reply; and the officers all pressed round, to shake hands with the boys, as they accompanied the governor back into the house.

General Trochu went at once into his private study, and told the boys to sit down.

"Now, what can I do for you, boys?"

"Monsieur Gambetta promised us that he would write, to ask for us to have places in the first balloon which came out, after we arrived," Ralph said. "Owing to my brother's illness, I have not been able to ask, before; but I am now anxious to leave as soon as possible, especially as the doctor says that change is desirable for my brother, and that he ought to have at least a month's nursing, at home, before he gets on horseback again."

"A balloon will start tomorrow morning," General Trochu said, "but if you choose to stay here, I will promise you both places upon my own staff; or upon those of Generals Ducrot or Vinoy--either of whom would, I am sure, be very glad to receive you."

"You are very kind, indeed, sir--very kind; and we feel greatly honored by your offer," Ralph said, gratefully. "Had we any intention, whatever, of remaining in the army, we should accept it, with many thanks; but it is not so. We are English; and at the end of the war we leave France, and go back to live at home. We entered the ranks with no thought of winning promotion, or favor; but simply from a sense of duty to the country to which our mother belonged, and in which we were born.

"There will, I suppose, be a great battle fought near Orleans, shortly; and I should like to be present, if possible--and Percy wants rest. Therefore, general, while thanking you most warmly for your kindness, we would rather go out."

"Very well," the general said, "it shall be as you wish. There is certainly more chance of your seeing stirring service, in the field, than in here. I do not blame you for your choice. I will send a note at once to Monsieur Teclier--who has charge of the balloon--to say that you will accompany him.

"Goodbye, lads, goodbye; you are fine young fellows, and your father has every right to be proud of you. Tell him so, from me."

The boys rose, and bowed; but the general held out his hand, and shook theirs warmly.

Upon leaving the room, they found several of the officers of the staff waiting outside; who begged them to stay, and have a chat with them. Ralph at once accepted the invitation; upon the condition that Percy should have a sofa upon which to lie down, for his brother was looking pale, and faint. They were most warmly received, in a large drawing room, in which were over a dozen officers of different ranks. Some bottles of champagne were opened, cigars were lit and, while Percy lay quietly upon the sofa, Ralph chatted with the officers; relating, at their earnest request, several of their adventures in the Vosges, as well as the story of their entering into Paris.

His new friends warmly pressed them to stop and dine with them; but Ralph pleaded that the balloon was to start at five in the morning, and that he wished Percy to lie down, and get a good night's sleep before starting. The carriage had been discharged, hours since; but one of the officers ordered a carriage of General Trochu's to the door and, after a hearty leave taking, the boys returned to their hotel.

"What a curious scene it is, Percy," Ralph said. "Who would think that we were in a besieged city? Everything looks very much as usual: the shops are open; people walk about and chat, and smoke, and drink their coffee or absinthe, just as usual. The only difference is, that everyone is in some sort of uniform or other. One does not see a single able-bodied man altogether in civilian dress; and at night the streets are very dismal, owing to there being no gas."

"How much longer do they seem to expect to hold out, Ralph?"

"Another two months, anyhow; perhaps three, or even more. There seems to be a large stock of everything, and everyone is put on to a regular allowance--just enough to live upon, and no more."

"I seem to have everything I want, Ralph; lots of beef tea, and soup, and jelly, and so on."

"Yes, Percy; but you obtain your food from the hospital. The hotel could not furnish anything of the kind, I can tell you.

"Here we are. Now you lie down at once, and get to sleep. I will wake you in plenty of time."

At ten minutes before the appointed time, the boys arrived at the Northern Railway Station; which presented a very different appearance to that which it ordinarily wore. No whistle of locomotives, or rumble of heavy trains, disturbed the silence of the station. A smell of varnish pervaded the whole place; and several empty balloons hung from the roof, undergoing the process of drying. The official--who had received them at the entrance--conducted them outside the station; and there, in the light of some torches, a great black mass could be seen, swaying heavily to and fro. The aeronaut was standing beside it.

"Here are the gentlemen who accompany you," the officer said to him.

"How are you, gentlemen?" he said, cheerily. "We have a fine night, or rather morning; the wind is northerly. I suppose this is your first ascent?"

"Yes, indeed," Ralph said, "and I own I hope it will be the last. Have the dispatches arrived?"

"No; I have the mail bags, but not the dispatches Hush! There are a horse's hoofs."

A few minutes afterwards a railway official brought a note, which he delivered to Monsieur Teclier.

"Bah!" he said, in an annoyed tone, "why cannot they be punctual?"

"What is it, sir?" Ralph asked.

"A note from the general, to say that the dispatches will not be ready for an hour. That means an hour and a half; and by that time it will be light enough to be seen, and we shall have to run the gauntlet. However, I suppose it cannot be helped.

"The best thing will be to pass the time as cheerfully as we can; and that certainly will not be in waiting out here, in this bitter cold. I have, fortunately, a few bottles of excellent wine in the car; so I propose, gentlemen, that we go in to a fire, have a glass of wine, and smoke a cigar, tranquilly."

Monsieur Teclier gave a few directions concerning the balloon; and they then adjourned to a work shed near, where a good fire was blazing, for the use of the men employed in filling the balloon. Here the hour and a half of waiting passed pleasantly.

At a quarter to seven, the dispatches arrived. They were hastily placed in the car, in which everything else had already been packed. The Barclays took their place, the word was given, "Let go all!" and, in another instant, the earth seemed to sink away from under them, and they were rising over the tops of the houses.

The dawn had already broken, gray and uncertain. Light clouds were floating overhead. For two or three minutes, not a word was spoken. The scene was so wonderful--the effect so extraordinary, to the boys--that they were unable to utter a word. Every instant, the earth seemed to sink away from them; every instant, their view extended farther and farther; and the distant fields, villages, and hills seemed actually to spring into sight.

"It is wonderful!" Ralph said, at last.

"Magnificent!" Percy responded.

"I wonder whether they see us?" Ralph said.

"We shall soon know," Monsieur Teclier said. "We have crossed the river, and over the walls already. In another five minutes, we shall be over their lines."

There were good telescopes in the car, and the boys directed them upon the immense panorama below them.

"What fort is that, immediately beneath us?" Ralph asked.

"That is Vanves. The village you see there is Chatillon. Look out now, we may expect visitors, in a minute."

He had hardly spoken before they heard a faint sound, followed by others similar.

"That is musketry," Monsieur Teclier said. "Listen."

They did listen, and heard a peculiar whistling sound; which seemed below, around, and about them.

"That is a whistle of bullets; there is no mistaking them," Ralph said.

"We are too low," Monsieur Teclier said. "Throw out that bundle of newspapers; we will go up a little."

Ralph did so.

"What would be the consequence, if a bullet hit the balloon?"

"No consequence at all, except that a slight escape of gas would take place.

"There, we are going into the clouds now, and they will not trouble any more about us."

"I thought that we were going to have wind," Ralph said. "The barometer at the hotel had fallen a good deal; and the clouds, before we started, looked like it but, now we are once up here, we do not seem to move."

In another two minutes, they passed through the layer of clouds, and the sun shone brightly upon them. They looked down on a sea of white mist, without a break.

"There," Ralph continued, "we are entirely becalmed. These clouds below do not move, nor do we."

"You cannot tell that," Monsieur Teclier said. "We go in the same direction, and at the same speed, as the clouds. It is just as if you were in a boat, at night, upon a rapid stream. If you could see no banks, or other stationary objects, you might believe yourself to be standing still; while you were being drifted forward, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. We may be traveling, now, forty or fifty miles an hour; and as I agree with you, as to the look of the clouds before starting, I believe that we are doing so--or, at any rate, that we are traveling fast--but in what direction, or at what rate, I have no means, whatever, of knowing.

"Even if we found that we moved, relatively to the clouds below us, that would only show that this upper current was somewhat different from that below."

"But how are we to find out about it?" Percy asked.

"We must keep a sharp lookout for rifts in the clouds. If we could get a peep of the earth, only for a minute, it would be sufficient to tell us the direction and, to some extent, the speed at which we are going."

The boys, in vain, hung over the side. The sea of clouds beneath them changed, and swelled, and rolled its masses of vapor over each other; as if a contest of some gigantic reptiles were going on with them.

"There must be a great deal of wind, to account for these rapid changes of form," Percy said, after a long silence. "Suppose you see nothing of the earth? At what time will you begin to descend?"

"In five hours from the time of starting, at twenty-five miles an hour--supposing that the wind holds north--we should fall south of the Loire, somewhere between Orleans and Bourges. At eleven o'clock, then, I will let out gas; and go down below the clouds, to see whereabouts we are. If we cannot recognize the country, or see any river which may guide us, we shall at least see our direction and rate of movement; and can either throw out more newspapers, and keep on for awhile, or descend at once."

It was just ten o'clock, when Ralph gave a sudden cry.

"The sea!" he said; "the sea!"

"Impossible," Monsieur Teclier said, hanging over the side; "I can see nothing."

"Nor can I, now," Ralph said; "but I caught a glimpse, just now, and I will almost swear to its being the sea--though how we could get there, I don't know."

"If it is," the aeronaut said, "the wind must be blowing half a gale, up here; and must have changed entirely, either to the west or south. It is too serious to hesitate; we must find out if your eyes have not deceived you."

So saying, he pulled the valve.

"Keep a sharp lookout, and look at the compass."

"There, there!" the boys cried, as the clouds opened again, for an instant. "It is the sea, and we are going west."

"Then we are over the Atlantic," Monsieur Teclier said.

The gas was roaring from the valve above, and the balloon sank rapidly into the stratum of clouds. For a minute, all was silent; and then a cry broke from them all. They were a considerable distance from the coast, and were driving along with great rapidity. Immediately under the balloon was an island, of no great size and, beyond that, no land whatever was visible.

"We must descend on that island, or we are lost. It is our only chance."

The valve was still open; and its influence was easily seen, for the balloon sank rapidly down through the opening of the clouds.

"We shan't be down in time," the boys exclaimed, simultaneously.

It was but too evident. The balloon, when the first general view of the situation had been obtained, was fully a mile high; and was traveling seaward at the rate of thirty miles an hour. The island, at the point at which they were crossing, was about three miles wide; but they had passed fully half a mile over it, before they obtained a fair view. In five minutes, therefore, they would be beyond the land again; and they had to fall a mile, in that time.

"Cut the balloon to pieces," Monsieur Teclier said. "Tear it up. We must risk everything."

The boys seized the silk, tore, and hacked at it; as did the aeronaut. In two minutes, a vast quantity of gas had escaped from the rents, and the silk was doubled up near the top of the net.

"That will do," Monsieur Teclier said. "We shall be down in time, now."

The boys looked over the car and, accustomed as they had been to face danger, were appalled.

"It is all up with us, this time," Ralph said; "we shall he smashed, altogether."

"No," the aeronaut exclaimed, "the silk is acting as a parachute, now, and checking the descent. Now, help me to throw out all the bundles."

They did so, working silently and with difficulty; for the car was oscillating so greatly that they were obliged to hold on, by its side, not to be thrown out. The descent was less rapid than it had been, but was still sufficiently alarming.

"Is there a chance?" Ralph said.

"We shall get off with a shaking," Monsieur Teclier said. "The car is made of wicker work, and is as elastic as a ball. Drop the grapnel, now; in another minute, we shall be within holding distance."

As the balloon neared the ground, the oscillation became less violent, and the pace diminished.

"The grapnel is on the ground," Percy said, looking over.

"Hold tight, hold tight," Monsieur Teclier said, warningly. "We shall catch fast on to those trees."

There was a tearing and rending, a series of tremendous jerks, and then a bump against the ground; which threw them all into the bottom of the car, from which the next jerk threw them out on to the ground. Fortunately the ground was even, and the soil had lately been plowed; but the shock was so violent that it was some minutes before either of the boys recovered consciousness. When they did so, they found that two or three gentlemen were leaning over them; while several peasants were endeavoring, under the direction of Monsieur Teclier, to hold the balloon--which was thrashing the ground with great violence.

"Thank God, you are all alive," one of the gentlemen said.

A peasant now came running up, with some water. The gentleman who had spoken dashed a little in their faces.

"I do not think any of your limbs are broken," he said. "Do you feel any pain?"

"I feel sore and bruised, all over," Ralph said, getting up with some assistance; "but I don't think that anything serious is the matter.

"How are you, Percy?"

"I don't think I am hurt seriously, Ralph; but I would rather lie still, for the present."

Ralph explained to the gentleman--who again leaned over Percy, and felt his pulse--that his brother had been recently ill, and was still weak.

"Ah, that accounts for it," the gentleman said. "I do not think that he is seriously hurt. I am a doctor; and was luckily out riding with these gentlemen, when we happened to look up and saw your balloon falling, like a stone, from the clouds. We thought at first that you must be dashed to pieces; but when we saw that the speed was being a little checked, we had some hope, and galloped in the direction in which it was falling. We were within five hundred yards when you fell, but we hardly expected to see anyone alive.

"Do not try to move," he said to Percy. "We sent a man for a vehicle, and a few necessaries, before we set off ourselves."

"Where have we fallen?" Ralph asked. "We were astonished to find ourselves over the sea, for the wind was north when we started."

"You have fallen upon Belle Isle," the gentleman said, "so the wind must have changed materially, since you started."

Monsieur Teclier now came up.

"I must really congratulate you both," he said to Ralph, "upon your coolness and presence of mind, in a very frightful position. The oldest aeronaut could not have shown more nerve."

"You see," Ralph said, "we have been pretty often in danger, now; and although the sort of danger was new, the degree of danger was not."

The gentlemen smiled a little, as Ralph spoke. The Barclays had come out in plain clothes, bringing their uniform in the balloon for, in the event of the balloon having fallen among the Germans, it was of course essential that they should be able to get off, unobserved. They therefore looked mere lads; and their talk, of having passed through as great a danger as that which had just made the spectators of it feel faint and sick only to witness, appeared to be a mere bit of exaggerated braggadocio.

A light cart now arrived, in which some mattresses had been laid; some bandages, and other surgical necessaries had also been added, together with a bottle of brandy.

"Fortunately we do not want any of these, except the brandy," the surgeon said. "A little of that will do you all good.

"Now a few strips of plaster,"--this was to Monsieur Teclier, whose face was cut a good deal--"and then you will do, till you get to the town."

The three voyagers were now helped into the cart; for they were all very stiff and greatly shaken, and were glad to stretch themselves out on the mattresses, covered over with blankets, until they reached the little town. Here they were met by the whole population, cheering lustily. Another wagon had been sent off for the balloon; and a number of people now set out to search for the bags of dispatches, etc. which had been thrown out during the last part of the descent. The Sous Prefect at the island placed his house at once at their disposal. But they said that they would rather go to a hotel, first, and take a hot bath--which the doctor recommended them--but should be very happy to breakfast with him, after that. Before going to the hotel, however, Monsieur Teclier sent off a dispatch to Tours; saying that he had arrived at Belle Isle with news from Paris, at a quarter to seven; and that, at that time, everything was going on well.

He next inquired as to means of reaching the mainland. The wind was dead off shore, and a sailing vessel would have taken a long time to make the passage. However, there was a small steamer in harbor; and the Sous Prefect took upon himself to engage that the fires should be lighted, at once, and that they should cross in two or three hours.

After reaching the hotel they were examined carefully by the surgeon; who pronounced that no harm, whatever, had been done to them, and that they had escaped with a few contusions, and a good shaking.

The breakfast was quite an ovation. All the principal people of the place were assembled; and when Monsieur Teclier entered, followed by the young Barclays, the gentlemen clapped their hands and cheered, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs. After breakfast, the Sous Prefect proposed an adjournment into the drawing room; and now the voyagers each became the center of a knot of questioners as to the voyage.

Monsieur Teclier--as was natural--conversed with the Sous Prefect and other leading men of the town, while their wives and daughters gathered round the lads. Ralph had given his name as Barclay, and had stated that Percy was his brother; but he had said nothing as to their being in the army, as he wished to avoid the oft-repeated tale which the declaration of his rank was sure to necessitate. He had even said a word to Monsieur Teclier, begging him to say the Messieurs Barclay, instead of Captains Barclay--unless, of course, he were actually questioned upon the matter. Percy was allowed to sit in an easy chair, unmolested--for he was quite done up--and Ralph talked for both, relating many details of their journey from Paris; and the ladies examined him most minutely as to his sensation, and especially whether he was not horribly frightened.

Among those standing in a group round the young Barclays was a lieutenant of Mobiles; who evidently by no means approved of the attention, and interest which they excited among the ladies; and who had made several sarcastic remarks, during the course of the narrative. Presently a servant came in and, walking up to Monsieur Teclier, said that two swords had been picked up; had they fallen from the balloon?

"Yes," Monsieur Teclier said, "they belong to those gentlemen."

The servant came up to Ralph, and told him that the swords had been picked up. Ralph at once drew out a five-franc piece, and asked the servant to give it to the man who had found them.

"Ah," said the officer of Mobiles, with a scarcely concealed sneer, "so you have come out from Paris to serve? I should have imagined that there were plenty of opportunities to distinguish yourselves, there. However, you must have had good interest, to get places in a balloon."

"We have fair interest," Ralph said calmly, "as apparently you have, yourself. Each of us have, you see, used our interest in the way most pleasing to us. We have used ours to enable us to go with the army in the field, instead of being forced to remain inactive in Paris. You, upon your part, have used yours to get away from the army in the field, and to remain inactive, here."

These words were spoken with such an air of boyish frankness, and an apparent innocence of any desire to say anything unpleasant, that everyone within hearing was ready to burst with laughter at Ralph's hit--which happened to be thoroughly well deserved.

The officer turned white; and would have burst out into a violent answer, had not a couple of friends at his elbow begged him to restrain himself. The boy evidently meant nothing; besides, he was only a boy, and what could be done with him? Besides which, again, one of them put in, though he was only a boy, he looked an awkward customer. This latter argument weighed more with the lieutenant than any other.

Ralph was not yet seventeen, and looked much younger than a French lad of the same age would do; but in point of size he was considerably taller than the officer of Mobiles, and his broad shoulders gave promise of unusual strength. There was, too, a look of fearlessness and decision about his face which marked him emphatically as an "awkward customer." Seeing this, the lieutenant burst into a constrained fit of laughter; and said that it was "very good--really very good, for a boy."

Everyone else was so occupied in the endeavor to stifle their laughter that the lieutenant again took up the part of questioner.

"I suppose, young gentleman, that you come from Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic; although I should hardly imagine that you have completed your studies, in either of them?"

"I have not the advantage of having been at either of the military academies," Ralph said quietly. "Have you?"

Again there was a laugh and, by this time, most of those in the room had gathered round.

"May I ask to which arm of the service you belong?" the officer asked, with difficulty keeping his temper.

"You may ask, certainly; and I have no objection to answer," Ralph said. "My brother and myself both belong to the general staff."

The officer looked surprised.

"Have you served already, sir, or has your service yet to commence?"

"I have seen some little service already," Ralph said.

"May I ask what general has had the benefit of your assistance?" the lieutenant said, with an affectation of politeness.

At this moment the Sous Prefect pushed forward.

"Silence, sir!" he said to the officer. "There has been too much of this. These gentlemen have performed a great service to France, and are my guests; and I look upon it as a personal attack upon myself."

"Excuse me, sir," Ralph said, rising from his seat for the first time. "I am grateful to you, for your interference in my behalf; but I can make no claim, upon the present occasion, to have rendered any service to France. I had nothing to do with the dispatches, nothing to do with the balloon. I came out as a passenger, upon my private desire and pleasure, at the risk of course of being killed. Undoubtedly I nearly was killed; and I look upon the entertainment that you have given us as a kind congratulation upon our not having broken our necks.

"Kindly, then, permit me to answer this officer for myself. I think I can hold my own."

The Sous Prefect shrugged his shoulders; to signify that, in that case, he washed his hands of the whole business.

"Now, sir," Ralph said, "I will answer the question. The general upon whose staff my brother and myself served was General Cambriels."

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"Since that time," Ralph said, more sternly than he had yet spoken, "my brother and myself have had the offer of posts upon the staffs of General Trochu, General Ducrot, and General Vinoy."

"Oh, come now," the lieutenant said, with a laugh of derision, "that is a little too strong. Imagine a scramble upon the part of Trochu, Ducrot, and Vinoy for the services of these very young officers."

This time the speaker had the laugh with him, for no one could believe that Ralph could be speaking the truth. Ralph grew a little pale.

"Monsieur Teclier," he said, "do me the favor to introduce my brother and myself to this lieutenant of Mobiles, in due form."

The matter had now become so serious that there was a dead hush in the room, while Monsieur Teclier advanced. He had once or twice already made a motion of coming forward, to take Ralph's part; but a motion from the latter had arrested him. He was aware of the furore which the gallant and successful expedition of the Barclays had created, in Paris; and he had been greatly struck and pleased by the calmness of the boys in a great--and to them altogether new--peril. He now advanced slowly.

"May I ask your name, sir, and regiment?" he said to the officer.

"Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne," the officer said, frowning.

"Lieutenant Desmaret of the Mobiles of Vienne, I beg to introduce you to--"

"No, sir," the officer said, passionately, "you introduce them to me, not me to them. The inferior rank is introduced to the superior."

"I know perfectly well what I am doing, sir, and require no lesson from you," Monsieur Teclier said, quietly. "I repeat, I introduce you--Lieutenant Desmaret, of the Mobiles of Vienne--to Captain Ralph Barclay, and Captain Percy Barclay, staff officers, and commanders of the legion of honor."

There was a dead silence of surprise throughout the room.

"Is it possible?" the Sous Prefect said, coming forward again, "that these gentlemen are the Captains Barclay, of whom the Paris papers--which we received three days since--were full, as having passed through the German lines, and having swam the Seine at night, under fire? They had previously been decorated for great acts of bravery, in the Vosges; and were now made commanders of the Legion.

"Is it possible that you are those officers, gentlemen?"

"It is so, monsieur," Ralph said. "We had the good fortune to distinguish ourselves but, as we did not wish to make ourselves conspicuous by new uniforms, and new ribbons, we have put aside our uniforms until required for service; and asked Monsieur Teclier to be silent upon the subject. Of course, we could not guess that, upon our way, we should meet so rude and unmannerly a person as Monsieur the Lieutenant of the Mobiles of Vienne."

The lieutenant stamped his feet furiously.

"You shall answer to me, sir," he said, "for this insult."

"Stop, sir," Ralph said, in a steady voice--which silenced those who were about to interfere. "You have asked me questions, with rare freedom. I have answered them. I am now going to give you my opinion of you, and my advice to you, equally freely.

"If you mean, by what you have said, that you are going to challenge me to a duel, I tell you at once that I shall not accept it. I have, sir," and he raised his head proudly, "proved my courage; and France has recognized it, in the rank and honor she has given me. We English--for I am English--do not fight duels.

"But I will make an exception. When you, Monsieur Desmaret, come to me decorated as I am; or having, in any signal way, proved your courage and devotion to France, I will meet you. At present I see that you--an officer in the French army, well in health--are staying here in idleness, instead of being in the field. Go and fight the enemies of France, first, Monsieur Desmaret; and after that talk, if you like, about fighting her friends."

There was a loud exclamation of applause and satisfaction, at these words, from those who had been looking on at this unpleasant scene; and the Sous Prefect warmly shook Ralph by the hand.

"Well said, Captain Barclay; well said, indeed. I believe I may say that everyone here agrees with you, entirely. There are too many officers continually absent from the army upon 'private affairs;' and those of Monsieur Desmaret have taken longer to arrange than usual, for he has been staying here for five weeks now.

"However," he said, significantly, "he will hardly prolong his stay in the island.

"Enough upon that subject," he said, as Monsieur Desmaret left the room, pale and furious. "I am glad--I am proud, sir--to make the acquaintance of yourself and your brother; and I can really, at heart, feel grateful to that fellow, for having forced you to declare who you are. Had he not done so, you would have left without our knowing that we had you among us."

There was now quite an ovation to the boys. The ladies, especially, would hardly conceive that it was possible that these quiet-looking young fellows had performed feats of such daring. They now begged to hear the details of the adventures but, at this moment, word was brought that steam was up, and the vessel ready to start; and as Monsieur Teclier was most anxious to get on, and as Percy was quite done up, Ralph was glad to seize the excuse, and to make his apologies for leaving at once. The Sous Prefect, all the breakfast party, and a large proportion of the population of the little place accompanied them thence to the landing place; and then, amidst hearty cheering, the little steamer--carrying the voyagers, the dispatches, and the remains of the balloon--started for the mainland.

Chapter 18: A Day Of Victory.

After traveling all night, the Barclays arrived at Tours at ten o'clock, on the morning of the day after that upon which they had left Belle Isle. At the station they said adieu to Monsieur Teclier; who went at once to Gambetta, with the dispatches; while the Barclays turned away to Colonel Tempe's lodgings and, to their great surprise as well as delight, found him in.

The colonel gave quite a shout of joy, when he saw them.

"Ah, my brave boys, my brave boys, I am glad to see you," and he took them in his arms, and kissed them as heartily and as earnestly as if he had been their father.

"I am glad to see you," he repeated, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "I was sure you would do it. I never really doubted--I told Gambetta it was as good as done--but I could not help being nervous, horribly nervous; and when the news came, five days ago, by the balloon which left three days after you got in, I almost lost my head. I laughed, I cheered, I shook everyone by the hand--ma foi, I don't know what I did, I was so pleased.

"Your Irishman was the funniest thing. He was not surprised, or pleased, or even interested. I explained to him over and over again, thinking he did not understand; but he only shook his head and said, in his strange English:

"'Sure, colonel, I never doubted them for a moment. Aren't they clever enough to decaive the ould gintleman, himself? It was as sartin as peas is peas that they would slip in, somehow; and if they did get into a scrape, that they were the boys for getting themselves out of it. It's the coming out I am afraid of.'

"I looked surprised, naturally enough, and he went on:

"'And doesn't your honor know that they are talking of coming out in a balloon? Only to think of it, colonel, flying through the clouds, shut up in a big ball of silk! It's just flying in the face of Providence. What's the use of scheming, or of courage? You can't decaive a cloud, though it's as aisy as dancing to take in a German. When you tell me, colonel, that they're safe out of the balloon; then I'll shout, as loud as you like.'

"Yesterday, when the telegram from Teclier came--saying that he had fallen in Belle Isle, had had a narrow escape of being driven into the sea, but had avoided that by running the risk of breaking his neck--and mentioned that you were with him; and had, like himself, escaped with a few bruises, Tim went nearly out of his mind with joy. He has been cleaning his sword and accouterments, this morning.

"I am off tomorrow, and you are only just come in time to see the fighting.

"But you are looking ill, Percy; far too ill for service, just at present."

"Yes, he has been very ill," Ralph said. "He had a touch of brain fever, the night we got into Paris; and was delirious for two days. He has picked up quickly, but that balloon descent was not the thing for an invalid. The doctor in Paris ordered a month, at least, of absolute rest; and has given him a sick certificate."

"He needs rest, certainly," Colonel Tempe said, "but he cannot go home, at present. The Prussians hold Dijon in considerable strength. There are far too many people in the town who have heard of your connection with the franc tireurs. Some spy or other would be certain to peach."

"Yes," Ralph assented, "we have been talking it over, and quite agree that Percy could not go back as--although he would willingly run the risk, himself--it would bring such serious consequences upon them at home, if he were found there, that he has determined to go down to Nice for a while, and rejoin as soon as he gains strength again."

"Yes," Colonel Tempe said, "but above all things, do not let him be in a hurry.

"You have gone through an immense deal, Percy; and have done a great deal more than your share for France, and have gained great honor and credit. Be content with that. You might ruin your constitution for life, by further exertions."

"But about yourself colonel, where are you going?"

"I am starting, tomorrow, to join General Chanzy's staff."

"I have not heard his name before," Ralph said.

"He commands the Sixteenth Corps. He has not had much opportunity yet, but he is a good soldier. If you like, Ralph, I will go with you at once, to Freysinet, and get you attached with me."

"Thank you very much, colonel. I should like it of all things."

"Come along, then; Freysinet is in his office."

Percy accompanied them, to obtain a signature to his leave of absence, and left next day for the south. An hour later, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were in the train, upon their way to Orleans--Tim, again in his hussar uniform, and half wild with delight--being, with Colonel Tempe's orderly, in charge of the horses.

Colonel Tempe, as Ralph was not mounted, had offered to lend him one of his own; but Ralph had refused it, unless the colonel would sell it, as he said he should be always afraid of getting the animal shot, unless it was his own. Seeing that Ralph was determined upon this score, the colonel had reluctantly agreed to take the sum he had paid for the horse. Ralph's only other purchase in Tours was a fur greatcoat.

"And now, colonel," Ralph said, when the train had started, "we have time to talk--tell me, what chances have we of success?"

"Between ourselves, Barclay," Colonel Tempe said, "I do not think that our prospects are brilliant. In my opinion, Aurelles de Paladine--or rather Gambetta, for it was he who ordered the advance--made an immense mistake in attacking Von der Tann when he did. Of course, he drove him back, and took Orleans; but what was the use of that? Absolutely nothing. He was not strong enough to push his advantage; but the movement served to draw the attention of the Germans to his force, and Prince Frederick Charles--who was marching south from Metz--has been hurried towards Orleans, and has now united his forces with those of Von der Tann and the Duke of Mecklenburg; so that, although we have received large reinforcements--for the whole of the army of the east is up, now--the Germans have been equally reinforced, and are quite as strong as we are.

"We ought never to have attacked, until we were ready to follow up our advantage at once. It was nothing short of madness; yet what can you expect, with a civilian acting as commander-in-chief? I believe that we shall make a tough fight of it, but I can hardly hope that our new levies can prove a match for the veterans of Frederick Charles."

"When do we begin, do you think?"

"In two or three days at latest. You have not seen a great battle yet, Barclay."

"No," Ralph said, "nor shall I see much of it, now; for the country is so perfectly flat that it will be impossible to get anything like a general view of it. Do you know, colonel, I feel a good deal more comfortable than I did during my last journey between Tours and Orleans; for although I thought that we should manage, somehow, to get through into Paris; still, I could not conceal from myself that it was a very serious undertaking.

"How bitterly cold it is."

"It is, indeed," Colonel Tempe assented. "Being upon the staff we shall, no doubt, manage to get a roof of some sort over our heads; but for the sentries it must be terrible. The tents d'abri--if the men can scrape away the snow, and get an armful of straw to lie on--are snug enough; the men lie close together, and share their blankets."

Half an hour after arriving at Orleans, Colonel Tempe and Ralph were riding out upon the north road; followed by Tim Doyle, and the colonel's orderly. The frost was keen, but the afternoon was bright and clear; and as they cantered along the road--beaten flat and hard, with the enormous traffic--their spirits rose, and Ralph regretted that Percy was not there to share in his enjoyments.

Colonel Tempe shook his head when the wish was mentioned.

"No, no, Barclay, it is far better as it is. You are young enough, in all conscience, for this iron work of war; your brother has done far more than a man's share already, and will find it difficult enough to go back as a schoolboy. He has escaped thus far, almost by a miracle; but he was looking shaken, and worn. I am glad that he is not here."

Three hours' riding took them to the little village near which General Chanzy was quartered. The Sixteenth Corps lay to the left of the French army, facing the Germans; who held the line of villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. It was already dark when they arrived. The general's quarters were in a chateau, a quarter of a mile distant from the village. When they reached it, they were at once shown in; and found General Chanzy leaning over a map, which he was trying to examine by the light of a solitary candle.

"How are you, colonel?" he asked, shaking hands with him heartily--for they were old friends. "I am very glad you have come. There is plenty to do, and few to do it; at least, very few indeed who know anything about their work.

"Who have you here?"

"Allow me to introduce Captain Barclay, general. Freysinet has attached him to your staff. He served with me in the Vosges, distinguished himself greatly, and won his lieutenancy and the Cross. Since then he has been into Paris. No doubt you saw the account of his swimming the Seine, with his brother."

"Of course, of course," General Chanzy said, warmly. "I am very glad to have you with me, Captain Barclay. You will not be long before you are at work, for the affair is just beginning. I have just got news that there has been some sharp fighting, today, at Beaurre la Rolande."

"With what results, sir?" Colonel Tempe asked.

"We gained a great deal of ground, in the morning," General Chanzy said; "but they brought up reinforcements, and no material advantage is claimed.

"And now," the general went on, "as to quarters, you must shift for yourselves. Beds are out of the question; but you will find some empty rooms upstairs and, fortunately, there is a little straw in the stable. The outhouses are extensive, and you will be able to get your horses under shelter. I should advise you to see about them, at once. In an hour we shall have something to eat. I cannot call it dining.

"Captain Barclay, will you kindly see to these matters? I shall be glad to go through this map, at once, with Colonel Tempe."

Ralph at once obeyed the order, much pleased with his new commander. General Chanzy was a man to inspire confidence in all those who served under his orders. He was a young man, for a general; but was very bald, and had a quiet and thoughtful air which made him look older than he was. He was a man of few words; and had a sharp, steady look which seemed to master, at once, the important points of anything that was said to him. When he smiled, the whole of his face seemed to light up.

"Just the man to serve under," Ralph thought to himself. "Cool, self possessed, and with an eye that will see a weak point in a moment.

"Is my orderly still at the door?" he asked a soldier in the passage.

"Yes, sir; two orderlies, with the four horses."

"Can you get me a light of any sort?" Ralph asked. "I want to go round to the stables, and get the horses somewhere in shelter."

"I will get you a lantern, sir," the man said. "But I fear that you will find the place all crowded; but of course, you can turn some of them out."

The orderly accompanied Ralph, with a lantern, across the yard; Tim and Colonel Tempe's orderly following. Round the yard were many cavalry horses, tied to pegs; driven in close by the wall of the stables, so as to give them some little shelter from the intense cold. The poor animals stood, side touching side, for warmth.

The orderly opened the door of one of the stables; and Ralph entered, and looked round by the light of the lantern. The horses were ranged together in the stalls, as closely as they could stand; while the rest of the area was completely covered with cavalry soldiers, some sitting up smoking and talking, others already wrapped in their cloaks and stretched at full length.

A sergeant, seeing the marks of Ralph's rank, at once rose to his feet and saluted.

"I have two horses here, sergeant; my own, and one of Colonel Tempe's. General Chanzy told me I should find room here, but it does not look like it."

"I will turn two of these horses out, sir," the sergeant said.

"Is there no other place?" Ralph asked.

"They are all as full as this, sir."

"There is a little shed, down at the end of the garden," one of the men said. "I noticed it this afternoon. The door was locked. I looked in, and it seemed a cow shed. I don't know whether anyone is there. I will go down with you, sir, and show you the way, if you like."

The shed was soon found, and the soldier forced the door open with his sword bayonet. The place had, as he supposed, been a cow shed; but the walls and roof were in good order, and the ground hard.

"This will do first rate, your honor," Tim said. "There is room for all four horses, if they squeeze a bit; and for Jacques here, and myself. I suppose, your honor, there will be no harm in knocking up some of this woodwork, to make a bit of a fire? It's too dark to look for sticks, tonight; and they would be so damp, from the snow, that the smoke would choke the bastes entirely--to say nothing of us."

"Well, under the circumstances, Tim, I agree with you; but don't do more damage than you can help, and only make enough fire to make the water hot for coffee, and so on. You will be warm enough, here, with the four horses. You must go and see if you can get them some forage."

"But how about your honor's and the colonel's dinner?" Tim asked. "I haven't drawn rations; but I have got plenty of bread and meat, in the haversack. I got them at Tours, for I thought there wouldn't be much to be had here."

"Thank you for thinking of it, Tim, but we dine with the general. When you have got the horses comfortable, and lit your fire, one of you bring up our cloaks to the house. Keep the horses' saddles on, with loosened girths. We may want them suddenly, at any moment of the night."

The next morning, General Chanzy said to Ralph:

"I should recommend you, Captain Barclay, to spend an hour studying this map; and getting up, from these lists, the exact position of our forces. When you think you have mastered them, ride through the whole of the positions occupied by the corps and, without exposing yourself, gain as good an idea as you can of the country beyond. Tomorrow you may have to ride straight to certain points, with orders; and it may save important time if you are thoroughly acquainted with the ground, and position."

After a couple of hours' study of the staff map, so as to know every little by-lane and hamlet, for ten miles on either side, Ralph mounted his horse and went for a long ride. When he returned, Colonel Tempe told him that General Chanzy was gone over to General D'Aurelle's quarters, to arrange the details; and that the attack was to take place the next day.

At five o'clock the general returned; and Colonel Tempe and the chief of his staff were occupied with him, for two hours, in drawing up the specific orders for each corps. Colonel Tempe had not been out, all day; and he therefore offered his horse to Ralph, in order that Ralph's own might be fresh for the next day.

Four staff officers set off in various directions with the dispatches; and Ralph congratulated himself upon having been upon the ground he was now traversing once before that day as, even with that previous acquaintance, it was hard work to find the way through the darkness, from the snow altering the general appearance and apparent distance of each object. Thanks, however, to his ride of the morning, he reached the various corps to which he was dispatched without any serious mistakes in his way; and got back to headquarters by eleven o'clock.

Tim was waiting up for him.

"Sure, your honor, and it's a mighty cold night. I've got a pot of coffee on the boil in the stables."

"Thank you, Tim. I will just go in and make my report to the general, and then go off to bed. Bring the coffee into my room. We shall be up early, for we fight tomorrow."

"Do we, now?" Tim said, admiringly. "And it's about time; for we should be all frozen into skeletons, if we were to wait here doing nothing much longer. Bad luck to the weather, says I."

At ten o'clock the next morning the French troops were in motion, the objects of their attack being the villages of Guillonville, Terminiers, and Conier. The country was extremely flat and, for an hour, they saw no bodies of the enemy. A few videttes, only, were seen. These galloped off hastily, the moment they caught sight of the heavy masses of the French debouching from the wood. Ralph was riding, with the rest of the staff, behind the general.

"That is Terminiers," Colonel Tempe said, pointing to a house or two at a distance, on the plain.

As he spoke, a puff of smoke came from the houses.

"There is the first shell," was the general exclamation.

In another instant the missile burst near some infantry, at two hundred yards to the right.

"Take orders to that battery, there, to take position on that little eminence to the left there, Captain Barclay. Tell them to keep the guns a little back among the trees, and to open sharply upon Terminiers."

It was just twelve o'clock now and, in five minutes, there was a roar of cannon along the whole length of both lines. For half an hour the combat continued a mere artillery duel. The shells fell in all directions; cutting the dry branches from the trees, tearing up the ground, and leaving deep black gashes in the white snow; crashing through a wall or, occasionally, exploding among the troops.

"Their fire is slackening a little," General Chanzy said. "It is time to be pushing forward.

"Lieutenant Porcet, take my orders to the colonel of that regiment of Mobiles to advance at once, covered by skirmishers.

"Captain Barclay, order that Line regiment to support.

"Captain Maillot, order the artillery to concentrate their fire upon the village, and to advance by batteries."

The orders were carried out, and the Mobiles advanced to within five hundred yards of the village. The musketry fire was now tremendous, and the Mobiles wavered. The Germans were entrenched in the gardens and walled enclosures of the village. Every wall, every house was loopholed; and rough barricades had been erected, to fill up the breaks in the walls.

General Chanzy was sitting on horseback, a short distance in the rear of the fighting. Mounted officers rode up and left again, every moment, with news of the battle going on near the other villages.

"Ride up and order the Mobiles to lie down, Captain Barclay; then tell the colonel of the Line to bring his troops up in line with them. Let them lie down, also.

"Tempe, have the two reserve batteries of artillery brought up, at full speed, to silence that battery in the wood to the left of the village. Its fire crosses the ground we have to pass over."

Ten minutes more of continuous cannonading, and then it was apparent that the Prussian fire was weakening.

"Now, Barclay, tell them to charge, at the double."

Ralph set spurs to his horse but, just as he reached the troops, a shell exploded just under his horse. Ralph heard a crash; felt a shock, and a whirling through the air; and then fell heavily upon the ground. Believing he was dangerously wounded, he made no effort to get to his feet; but sat up and shouted to the colonel of the Mobiles, who were not thirty yards from him:

"The Mobiles and Line are to charge, at the double, and to carry the village with the bayonet."

The Mobiles had flinched a little before, as they had advanced with the deadly fire of shot and shell; but they did not flinch now, and leaping upon their feet, with a cry of "Vive la France!" the Mobiles and Line soldiers literally made a race of it for the village.

Ralph, after having given his message, lay back again, with a sort of bewildered sensation. A minute afterwards he heard a rapid galloping; and Colonel Tempe rode up, followed by Tim Doyle.

"Are you badly hurt, my dear boy?" the former exclaimed, as he leaped from his horse. "The general himself asked me to come, and see after you."

"I don't quite know, colonel," Ralph answered. "I feel, at present, as if my head was knocked in, and my legs shot off."

"You had a tremendous shake," said Colonel Tempe--who was, with Tim, by this time kneeling beside him--"and your horse is blown almost to pieces; but I don't think, as far as I can see, at present, that you are hit anywhere. Here, take a sip of brandy. It will bring you round; you are stunned a little, you know.

"There, you are better now," he said; as Ralph, having drunk a little brandy, sat up and looked round.

"I am all right, I think, colonel; don't stay any longer. Tim will wait here. I don't think I was stunned, else I could not have given the order. No, I imagine I had a near escape of breaking my neck.

"Please, don't wait. I shall be all right again, in five minutes. I will take Tim's horse, and join you again. Tim will pick up a musket--there are plenty about--and do a little fighting on his own account."

Colonel Tempe jumped on his horse, and rode off. In a minute or two, Ralph was able to mount Tim's horse, and ride slowly up to the village, where a heavy musketry fire was still going on; but as no shell or shot were now coming in the direction in which Ralph was, it was evident that the French had taken the position, and had opened fire upon the retreating Germans. The fight still raged, both to the right and left; but in another quarter of an hour it slackened also, here, and the three villages were all in the hands of the French.

In a quarter of an hour, Ralph felt quite himself again and, seeing one of his fellow staff officers gallop up, he asked him where he could find the general.

"He is at Guillonville. But he will be here, in a few minutes. The advance is to continue. We are to carry the villages of Monneville, Villepani, and Faverolles."

In half an hour, the troops were again moved forward; but this time the resistance was more obstinate than before, the Prussians having received reinforcements. Hour after hour the fight continued. The short winter day faded, and the gathering darkness was favorable to the assailants and, at half-past five, they carried the villages by assault.

The scene was a wild one. It was perfectly dark, save from the incessant flashes of rifle and cannon. In the streets of the village men fought, hand to hand. Some of the Germans, taking refuge in the houses, refused to surrender. Others threw down their arms, and cried for quarter. Shouts, screams, curses, cheers, the explosion of firearms and the clash of steel mingled, in one wild and confusing din. When it ceased, the village remained in the hands of the French; and the Prussians retreated, sullenly, into the darkness.

There was no rest for the staff, for hours--they were galloping about, carrying orders--but at last Ralph returned to Villepani, at which village General Chanzy had his headquarters. At the door of the cottage which was pointed out, as that in which the general was, Tim was waiting.

"Faith, your honor, if this is war, I've had enough of it."

"What is it, Tim?"

"What is it, your honor! Here have we been fighting all day, and not a blessed thing to eat or to drink. No one knows what became of the wagons; and here we are, without as much as a biscuit to ate--and in such weather as this, too; and another battle in the morning."

"Ay, Tim, it's bad enough, but think of the thousands of poor fellows lying wounded, and freezing to death, on the snow."

"I do think of them, Mister Ralph; and I've been at work, ever since we got in here, carrying the poor creatures in from the gardens and fields. There is not a house here that's not full, from the top to the bottom.

"Have you lost the wallet off my saddle, your honor?"

"No, Tim; why should I do that?"

"I don't know why you should, sir, but I have been making up my mind that you would, all along; either that you would have had it shot off, or that you'd throw it away to aise the horse. Now, we shall do."

"Why, what's in the wallet, Tim?"

"Just a big chunk of bread, your honor It was left on the table when you had breakfast, this morning; and I said to myself, it may be useful before night, and so just slipped it into the wallet."

In another minute the bread was taken out, and cut into two portions.

"I would not eat it all tonight, Tim, if I were you," Ralph said. "It is not by any means too large for supper, but a mouthful in the morning will be a great comfort. I suppose there is no chance of getting anything for the horse?"

"Trust me, your honor One of the first things I did, when the firing was over, was to pop into a stable and to get a big armful of hay; and take it out and hide it away, under a hedge. It was lucky I did; for the minute afterwards we could not have got a handful, if we had offered a Napoleon for it."

"Where are you going to sleep, Tim?"

"Under that same hedge, Mister Ralph. The horse always lies down; and he's so tired he won't break the rule, tonight; so I'll give him half the hay for his supper and, when he's laid down, I'll put the rest between him and the hedge, and roll myself up in my cloak and--what with the cloak, and the horse, and the hedge, and the hay, not to mention the supper--I shall be as warm as a lord; and it's a comfort to think that there will be something to eat, both for the baste and myself, in the morning."

"Well, good night then, Tim."

"Good night, your honor."

If Tim Doyle slept, there were not many of his comrades that did, on that night. The cold was fierce, in the extreme; and those who could obtain wood of any kind made fires, and crouched over them. Others lay on the ground, and huddled together for warmth. Others dragged their feet wearily backwards and forwards. Many and deep were the curses poured out upon the intendance--or commissariat--whose utter incompetence, throughout the war, was one of the great reasons of the continuous bad fortune of the French.

When Ralph entered the room, he was saluted by a variety of voices. The only light was a dim lantern. The room was half full of officers; some dozing in corners, others sitting round the table, smoking.

"Where is the general?"

"He has got a room, about half the size of this, for the use of himself, Tempe, and the chief of the staff. They are writing; and will go on writing all night, I expect. These are the only two rooms not full of wounded in the whole village.

"You had a narrow escape, today. We have had our share of casualties. Poor Maillet and Porcet are both killed, and we have three wounded. Were you hurt at all?"

"No," Ralph said; "but I was tremendously shaken, and feel stiff all over. I will lie down by the wall, here, and get a few hours' sleep."

And so ended the 1st of December.

Chapter 19: Down At Last.

At half-past eight o'clock the next morning horsemen came dashing in, with the news that the Germans were advancing in force. Stiff--many half frozen, and half starved--it was an absolute relief, to the men, to have some break to the monotony of cold and hunger. They were already assembled under arms and, in a few minutes, the artillery upon both sides was at work.

"I fear you will see that we shall be beaten, today," Colonel Tempe said to Ralph as they mounted. "The men are worn out with hunger; disgusted at the wretched mismanagement, which sends them into a battle without having had food for twenty-four hours, and with no prospect whatever of it for another twenty-four. Besides, we ought to have been reinforced.

"Our line is too long, Ralph. There is neither direction nor management."

For a time the French held their position well, against the tremendous artillery fire which was maintained upon them. Gradually, however, the Germans pushed their heavy masses of troops forwards; and the French reserves had already been brought up.

Several of the mobile regiments showed signs of wavering. General Chanzy rode backwards and forwards along the front of the position; exposing himself recklessly, in order to give courage and confidence to his men. Cigar after cigar he smoked, as tranquilly as if sitting in an armchair, a hundred miles away from the din of battle. At last, after exchanging a few words with the generals of brigade, he called Ralph--who happened to be the only aide-de-camp unemployed--up to him.

"Captain Barclay," he said, "ride at once to General Sonis. Tell him that my division--not having received the promised reinforcements--must fall back. He has already sent, to say he is hard pressed. Ask him to hold his ground, if possible, for another half hour; by which time I shall have fallen back towards the position I left yesterday morning--but will draw rather to my right, so as to keep our connections nearer, and to afford him help, if necessary."

Without a word Ralph turned his horse, and galloped off at full speed. A quarter of an hour's riding, and he rode up to General Sonis; who was just calling upon several regiments, among whom were the Papal Zouaves, to make a charge.

This fine body of men--the Papal Zouaves--acquired, and justly acquired, more glory than any other French corps throughout the war. They behaved, upon every occasion, magnificently. In the first fight at Orleans, upon this 2nd of December, and afterwards at the battle of Le Mans, the Zouaves of Charette fought with the courage of lions. A great many of them were men of good family. All were inspired by the ardor and spirit of their chief. Their uniform was similar in cut to that of the French Zouaves; but was of a quiet gray color, trimmed with a little red braid.

Ralph rode up, and delivered his message.

"I am going to carry that position, sir," the general said; "and in that case I shall not have to fall back at all, and General Chanzy can close up on me--throwing back his left, so as not to be outflanked. If you wait a few minutes, you will see the result of this charge.

"Now, gentlemen."

So saying he rode, with his staff, in front of the line.

"Forward, men!" he shouted, drawing his sword.

Ralph had naturally fallen in with the staff, and was now able to see and admire the daring of the proposed movement which, if successful, would have changed the fortunes of the day. Upon an eminence, some three-quarters of a mile distant, were several batteries of artillery; supported by a large body of infantry, who extended to within about half the distance between the French line and their own reserves. The fire was terrific--so terrific that several of the French regiments refused to advance. Others started; but withered away so fast, under the deadly fire, that only two corps--besides the Zouaves--persevered to the end.

The Zouaves advanced at a double, but with as much coolness as if on parade. They did not fire a shot, but made straight at the Prussian infantry. As they approached the enemy's line, General Sonis and his staff fell in between the Zouaves, and a regiment of Mobiles next to them, in order not to interfere with the fire.

"For God and France!" Charette shouted, as he led the charge; and the whole regiment responded, as one man, "For God and France!"

So fierce was this onslaught that the Prussian infantry refused to face it, and fell back upon their supports. Still the Zouaves rushed on, and again the Prussians fell back; but the assault was growing more and more hopeless. The Zouaves were unsupported, save by a few hundred men. The other regiments were far in the rear. The shot and shell were mowing lanes through them. An army was in front.

At last, they halted. Colonel Charette marched on in front, waving his sword. General Sonis, with his staff, again rode forward. It was heroic, but it was heroic madness.

Again the Zouaves advanced. Again a storm of shell poured upon them, and then a regiment of German cavalry swept down. There was a crash. Charette and his officers disappeared, beneath the hoofs of the cavalry. General Sonis and his staff went down like straw before them; but the Zouaves stood firm, fired a volley into them; and then-- having lost eight hundred men, in that desperate attempt to retrieve the fortunes of the day--the remainder retreated, sullenly, with their faces to the foe.

Ralph Barclay, when the cavalry swept upon them, had shot the first two of his foes with his revolver; and had then been cut down by a tall German dragoon, just at the moment that his horse fell dead, shot through the head. Ralph had a momentary vision of gleaming hoofs above him; and then he remembered nothing more, until he came to himself, hours afterwards.

His first sensation was that of intense cold. He endeavored to rise, but was powerless to move hand or foot. He lay quiet for a few minutes; and then made another effort, but with a similar want of success. This time, however, he felt that his limbs would have moved, had they not been fastened down by some weight.

He now concentrated all his strength upon one arm. It yielded suddenly and, when it was free, he was able to turn partly round, so as to feel what it was that had confined it. He found that his own blood, and that of the horse, had frozen his arm fast to the ground. It required a considerable effort before he could get altogether free, for he was stiff with the cold. Putting his sword up to his head, he found that he had been saved by the very means which were now giving him so much pain. The intense cold had frozen the blood, as it flowed; and stanched it more effectively than any surgeon could have done.

Ralph--after rubbing his hands and arms, to restore circulation--now endeavored, by the remains of twilight, to see where he was, and how he had been saved. His horse lay next to him, and almost covering him. The poor animal had fallen on to its back; or had rolled over, afterwards and, in the latter case, it was fortunate indeed, for Ralph, that it had not taken another half turn. Had it done so, it would have crushed him to death. As it was, it had reached to within an inch or two of him; partly concealing him from sight, protecting him from the cold, and also greatly diminishing his chance of being trampled upon by cavalry passing over.

A short distance off, Ralph could see parties with lanterns; and one of them seemed approaching. Far in his rear, he could hear an occasional shot; and it rushed across his mind, at once, that the French had been defeated, and were falling back upon Orleans. These lights, therefore, must be in the hands of Germans.

The thought that a German prison awaited him roused Ralph from his inactivity. It flashed across his mind that, as he had escaped before, they would take care and give him but little chance of escaping again and--although stiff, and bruised from head to foot; half frozen, and faint from loss of blood--the hope of liberty roused him to new exertion. With some effort, he got at the holster of his pistol; in which was a flask of strong brandy and water which, though icy cold, had yet a sensibly warming influence. The lights were still at some distance off; and Ralph, after considerable trouble, and after cutting the straps which fastened it to the saddle, succeeded in getting at his fur overcoat. This he put on, picked up the cap of one of the German troopers who had fallen near, and then walked slowly away, over the deserted battle ground.

Ten minutes later, he heard a horse's hoofs upon the hard ground. He cocked the pistol--which had remained fastened to his belt, when he fell--pulled forward the German soldier's cap, and walked quietly on.

"Who goes there?" shouted a voice, and two German officers rode up.

It was far too dark, now, to distinguish faces.

"Karl Zimmerman, of the Seventh Dragoons," Ralph said, in German, saluting.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am servant to Lieutenant Falchen, who fell today; and I had been to look for his body. It was somewhere about here, when we charged the gray Zouaves."

"But your regiment is miles off," one of the officers said. "I saw them an hour ago."

"I don't know where they are, sir," Ralph said, "for I had my head laid open, with a sword bayonet, just as I was cutting down the man I had seen shoot my master. I was carried to the rear, but the surgeon had gone on; and my wound stopped of itself and, when I reached the hospital, the doctors were so busy that I asked leave to go, and see if I could find my master."

"Where are the ambulances now?" one of the officers asked, as they turned to ride off.

"Over in that direction. Look, sir, there are some of the searchers, with lanterns. They will direct you, at once."

"Thanks," the officer said, riding off; "good luck in your search."

Ralph had noticed a cottage, standing by itself at the edge of a wood, at some little distance from the bivouac of the night of the 30th of November; and had stopped for a moment, and asked a few questions of the woman who lived there. She had appeared a kind-hearted woman, full of hatred for the invader; and had two sons in the Mobiles, who had marched north when Paris was first threatened, and who were now besieged there. For this cottage Ralph determined to make, in order--if the owners would receive him--to take shelter in the house; otherwise, to find a refuge in the wood, itself, where he doubted not that they would assist him to lie hid for a few days. He had no great fear of a very active search being made for fugitives, at present, as the Prussians had only driven back two divisions of the French army; and had, Ralph believed, plenty of work on their hands, for some time.

It was fortunate for Ralph that he had studied the ground so carefully; for he soon came upon the road, and the stars--which were shining brightly--gave him his direction and bearings. The battle had extended over the whole of this ground. Many times Ralph could hear groans; and saw, in places, dark forms thickly scattered over the ground--showing where a stand had been made, or where a regiment had lain exposed, for hours, to an artillery fire.

The distance was considerable to the place Ralph had marked out for himself. Eight miles, at least, he thought; for it was away behind what had, two days before, been Chanzy's left. It was, in Ralph's state of feebleness, a very long journey. Over and over again, he had to sit down and rest. He did not feel the cold, now; the fur coat, and the exertion of walking, kept his body in a glow. He took great pains, however, not to exert himself, so as to make himself too hot; as he feared that his wound might break out, if he did so. He was fully twelve hours upon the road; and daylight was just breaking in the east when--exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood--he crawled up to the door, and knocked.

There was a movement inside, but it was not until he had knocked twice that a voice within asked:

"Who is there?"

"A wounded officer," Ralph said.

There was a whispered talk, inside.

"Let me in, my friends," he said, "for the remembrance of your boys in Paris. There is no danger to you in doing so as, if the Germans come, you have only to say you have a wounded officer. I can pay you well."

"We don't care for pay," the woman of the house said; opening the door, with a candle in her hand--and then falling back, with a cry of horror, at the object before her: a man, tottering with fatigue, and with his face a perfect mask of stiffened blood.

"You do not remember me," Ralph said. "I am the captain of the staff who chatted to you, two days ago, about your boys in Paris."

"Poor boy!" the woman said, compassionately. "Come in.

"Monsieur will pardon me," she went on, apologetically, "for speaking so, but I called you the boy captain, when I was telling my good man what a bright--

"But there, what you want now is rest, and food. The question is where to put you. We may be searched, at any time; though it's not likely that we shall be, for a few days. The battle has gone away in the direction of Orleans, and we have not seen half a dozen men since I saw you, two days ago.

"The first thing is to give you something warm. You are half frozen. Sit down for a few minutes. I will soon make a blaze."

Ralph sank down--utterly exhausted and worn out--in the settle by the fireplace; and fell into a half doze, while the woman lit a bright fire on the hearth. In a few minutes she had drawn some liquor from the pot-au-feu--the soup pot--which stands by the fireside of every French peasant, however poor; and into which all the odds and ends of the household are thrown. This liquor she put into a smaller pot; broke some bread into it, added an onion--which she chopped up while it was warming--together with a little pepper and salt and, in ten minutes from the time of Ralph's entry, she placed a bowl of this mixture, smoking hot, before him.

At first, he seemed too exhausted to eat; but gradually his appetite returned, and he finished off the hot broth.

"What shall I do to your wound, sir?" the woman said. "It is a terrible sight, at present."

"It is the cold which saved my life, I fancy," Ralph said, "by stopping the bleeding; but now it wants bathing in warm water, for some time, and then bandaging.

"But where are you going to put me?"

"In the boys' room, upstairs, sir. It is just as they left it."

"I have no doubt it is very comfortable," Ralph said, "but all this country is certain to be scoured, by the enemy's cavalry. I do not want to be taken prisoner; and rather than that I would go and live out in the woods, and only crawl here, once a day, for some food."

The husband had now come downstairs and, as he aided his wife to first bathe and then bandage the wound, they talked over the matter; and agreed that Ralph could be hid in a loft over a shed, a hundred yards from the house, and very much concealed in the woods, without much fear of discovery. The farmer at once started to make the place as comfortable as he could; and the wife followed with a couple of blankets, a quarter of an hour later.

Ralph, by this time, could scarcely crawl along. The fever consequent upon the wound, the fatigue, and the cold made his head throb so terribly that he could scarcely hold it up and, had it not been for the assistance of the farmer's wife, he could not have crawled across the short distance to the shed. The loft was low and small and, when the wooden shutter of the window--or rather opening, for it was unglazed--was closed, it was lighted only by the light which came in at the crevices. The shed was altogether of wood; so that the shutter--which happened to be at its back--would scarcely have been noticed while, from the shed being high and the loft very low, anyone inside would scarcely have suspected the existence of any loft, at all. It was reached by a ladder and trap door.

The farmer assisted Ralph up the ladder. The shutter was open, and Ralph saw that the farmer had made a bed of straw, upon which his wife was spreading one of the blankets. Ralph now took off his uniform, and lay down; and was covered first by the other blanket, and then with his own fur-lined coat. The farmer's wife had thoughtfully brought a pillow with her; and Ralph in a few minutes was lying in what--had it not been for the pain of his wound--would have been intense comfort, after the cold and fatigue. His hostess went away, and returned with a large jug of water and a glass, which she put down within reach of his arm.

"There is nothing else you want?" she asked.

"Nothing, thank you, except to sleep," Ralph said.

"I shall shut this shutter," the farmer said. "Enough light will come through the cracks to see well, when your eyes get accustomed to the darkness. I shall shut the trap close down after me, as I go, and lift down the ladder. It is very light, and my wife can easily put it into its place again. We will come and see you again, in the afternoon. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Ralph answered, faintly; and before the sound of their footsteps had died away, he fell into a sort of feverish doze.

For a time he turned uneasily, muttered incoherent words, and moved his hands restlessly. Soon, however, the effects of the cloth soaked in icy-cold water, which the farmer's wife had placed on the bandages over the wound, began to subdue the feverish heat; and in half an hour he was sleeping soundly, and quietly. He woke at last, with a flash of light in his face and, opening his eyes, saw the good woman again bending over him.

"I am glad," were her first words. "I thought, for a moment, you were dead."

"No, no," Ralph said, with a faint smile; "a long way from that, yet. My sleep has done me a world of good. What o'clock is it?"

"Nine o'clock," his hostess said. "I could not come before, for I have had several parties going past, and the house was searched once. I kept on wondering whether you wanted me, until I nearly worked myself into a fever."

"Thank you," Ralph said. "I have been all the better for being allowed to sleep on. I have had nearly thirteen hours of it. I feel queer, about the head; but otherwise I feel all right.

"I am terribly thirsty."

"I have got nothing but water to offer you," the woman said. "The Germans drank the last drop of our wine up, months ago. But I had a few apples; and I have roasted them, and put them in this jug of water. It will give it a taste, and is good for fever.

"In this jug is some herb tea, which you must drink when you feel feverish.

"And now, do you feel as if you could eat some broth?"

"That I do," Ralph said.

His hostess put her arm under him, and raised him up into a sitting posture; in which she retained him by kneeling down beside him, and holding him up as if he had been a child. Then she gave him a basin of bread broth, and a drink of water; shook up his pillow, arranged the things over him; and put a fresh cloth, dipped in water, on his head.

"Here is a box of matches," she said, "and here is the water and herb tea, in reach of your arm. You're not cold, are you?"

"No, thank you," Ralph said, "and in spite of the sleep I have had, I feel as if I could go off again till morning, comfortably."

"Be patient, if I am late," the woman said. "I will come as soon as I can. If I am late, you will know that there are Germans about."

Ralph's idea of his capacity for sleep turned out correct. It was still dark when he woke but, striking a match, he found that it was nearly seven o'clock. He at once blew out the match, felt for the apple water, took a drink, and then nestled down deep into the fur coat.

"It will be getting light in another hour," he said to himself. "It's awfully cold, too; but I am better off, here, than I should be in the field. I hope she will be here soon; I want to know if she has any news. Well, there is only an hour to lay awake," and, almost as he murmured the words, Ralph dropped off again, and slept until ten o'clock.

This time, he woke with the slight creaking which the trap door made.

"How are you today, Monsieur le Capitaine?" his hostess said.

"I am getting on capitally, thanks to your care," Ralph said. "And what have you there?"

"Your breakfast and some plaster. My husband started, yesterday evening, to walk to the doctor, who lives twelve miles off. He told him all about you; but the doctor would not come, himself. However, he sent word that the wound was to be washed well, twice a day, with warm water; and that a little lint is to be laid in it each time, after the bathing and, when the inflammation ceases to look angry, I am to draw the edges together as closely as I can, and strap them together with these strips of plaster."

"It is very kind of your husband," Ralph said, "very kind. Did the doctor say how long I should be, before I could be about again?"

"No," the woman said. "Jacques asked him, but he said that he could not say without seeing the wound, and examining you. Jacques described its position: coming down from the back of the head, taking off just a little bit of the top of the ear, and then ending on the cheekbone. He said that Monsieur le Capitaine must have a head as thick as a wall, or it would have killed him."

Ralph smiled, and his hostess set to work to carry out her instructions.

"Shall I take away your uniform and hide it away so that, in case the enemy search and find you, they will have no proof against you?"

"No, no," Ralph said; "the uniform shows I am not a franc tireur; and so will prevent my being hung, and you having your house burnt over your head. Besides which, I should be entitled to be treated as an officer. My uniform is the best protection for us all.

"Have you any news of what is going on?"

"We heard firing yesterday," the woman said, "and today we can hear a constant booming, from the direction of Orleans."

Ralph listened, but the bandage prevented his hearing anything.

"You are very kind," he said, "but you can hardly think how I want to be off. However, I fear that I am here for a week, at the very least. Just think what I am missing."

"It seems to me," the woman said, "you are missing a great many chances of being killed; which I should consider to be a very fortunate miss, indeed. I should not like Jacques to have that gash on the head; but I would a great deal rather that he was lying here wounded, just as you are, than to know that he was in the middle of all that fighting at Orleans.

"Be patient, my friend. We will do our best for you. If you have no fever, tomorrow, Jacques will try and buy some meat and some wine for you, at one of the villages; and then you will soon get quite strong."

When Ralph had eaten his breakfast, he again laid down; and his kind hostess left him, as her husband was obliged to be out and at work, and it was necessary that she should be at home, to answer any straggling troops of the enemy who might pass.

"I wish I had Tim with me," Ralph said, to himself. "Tim would amuse me, and make me laugh. It would be desperately cold for him. I am all right, under my blanket and this warm coat. Well, I suppose I must try to sleep as many hours away as I can."

Chapter 20: Crossing The Lines.

Ralph was destined to a longer stay upon his hay bed in the loft than he had anticipated. The next day, instead of being better he was a good deal worse. Inflammation had again set in, and he was feverish and incoherent in his talk. He was conscious of this, himself, by seeing the dismay in the face of the nurse, when he had been rambling on to her for some time, in English.

At last, with an effort, he commanded his attention, and said to her:

"How far is it from here to Orleans?"

"Seventeen miles," she said.

"Look here," he said, "you are very kind, and I know that you do not want to be paid for your kindness; but I am well off, and I know you have lost your horse and cow, and so you must let me pay you for what you do for me.

"I am afraid I am going to have fever. I want your husband to go into Orleans. The Prussians went in yesterday, you say; and so your husband will not have to cross any outposts to get there. There is an English ambulance there. I will write a line in pencil; and I am sure they will give him some fever medicine, and anything else I may require. Please feel in the breast pocket of my coat; you will find a pocket book, with a pencil in it."

The woman did as he told her; and Ralph, with a great effort, wrote:

"I am an Englishman, though a captain in the French service. I am wounded with a saber, in the head; and am sheltered in a loft. Inflammation has set in and, I fear, fever. I am obliged, indeed, to make a great effort to master it sufficiently to write this. Please send some fever medicine, by the bearer, and some arrowroot. A lemon or two would be a great blessing.

"Ralph Barclay."

He then tore out the leaf, folded, and directed it to the head of the English ambulance, Orleans.

"How is he to know the English ambulance?"

"It has a red cross on a white ground, as all the others have; and an English flag--that is, a flag with red and white stripes going from corner to corner, and crossing each other in the middle. But anyone will tell him."

"I am sure he will set out at once," the woman said, and left the loft.

In ten minutes she returned.

"He has started," she said, "but not to Orleans. My husband, directly I gave him the message, said that he had heard that there was an English ambulance at Terminiers, attending to the wounded picked up on the battlefield. It is only five miles from here."

"Thank God for that," Ralph said.

Three hours later the farmer returned, with a bottle of medicine, some arrowroot, lemons, a bottle of wine, some Liebig's essence of meat--for making broth--and a message that the English surgeon would ride over, as soon as he could get away. The farmer had given him detailed instructions for finding the house; but was afraid of stopping to act as his guide as, had he been seen walking by the side of the surgeon's horse, the suspicions of any German they might encounter would be at once excited.

The surgeon arrived an hour later, and was at once taken to Ralph's bedside. Ralph, however, could not speak to, or even recognize the presence of his countryman; for he was in a high state of fever. The surgeon examined his wound carefully.

"I think he will get over it," he said, to the farmer's wife. "It is a nasty cut; but there is nothing dangerous in the wound, itself. It is the general shock to the system, together with the hardships and suffering he had gone through. He is a mere boy--not above seventeen or eighteen. He says in his note he is a captain, but it can hardly be so."

"He is a captain, sir. There is his uniform hanging up."

"Yes," the surgeon said, "that is the uniform of a captain in the staff, and he has got the commander's button of the legion of honor. I wonder who he can be.

"Ralph Barclay," he said thoughtfully, looking at the pencil note Ralph had sent him. "Ah, now I remember the name. I thought it was familiar to me. This is the young Englishman who made his way through the lines into Paris, with dispatches He is a fine young fellow. We must do what we can for him."

"Could you take him into your hospital, sir?" the woman asked.

"He will be better where he is, if you will continue to nurse him."

"Yes, I will do that; but I thought he would be so much better looked after, in the hospital."

"No," the surgeon said, "that is just what he would not be. Every room is literally crowded with wounded; and wounds do infinitely better in fresh, pure air, like this, than in a room with a close atmosphere, and other bad wounds.

"The fever medicine I sent over will last him for some days. I have brought over a tin of little biscuits. Give him the fever medicine, every two hours, until there is a change; and whenever you can get him to take it, give him a little broth made of a spoonful of the essence of meat in a liter of boiling water or, for a change, some arrowroot. I will show you how to make it, when we get back to the house.

"Can you manage to stay with him? He will want a good deal of looking after, for the next two days."

"Yes, sir, I was talking to Jacques about it, today. He will go over to the next village--it is only a mile away--and will fetch my sister, who lives there, to keep house for a bit."

"That is capital," the surgeon said. "And now, watch attentively how I put this bandage on; and do it the same way, once a day. When you have put the bandage on, you must put wet cloths to his head, as long as he remains delirious. I am awfully busy; but I will ride over again, in three or four days, to see how he is getting on.

"By the way, it may be an advantage to you if I give you a paper, signed by me, to say that you are taking care of a wounded French officer at my request as--although you wished to send him to the ambulance--I refused because, in the first place, he could not bear moving; and in the second, the ambulance was as full as it could possibly hold. That will clear you, in case any German parties come along and find him."

It was a week before Ralph opened his eyes with any consciousness of what he saw. He looked round, with a vague wonderment as to where he was. In a minute or two, a look of recognition came into his face. Looking round, he saw that there were changes. A small piece had been sawn out of the shutter, so as to let in air and light while it remained closed. A table and a chair were beside his bed. In a corner of the loft was a small flat stove, with a few embers glowing upon it, and a saucepan standing upon them. Upon the opposite side of the loft to that where he was lying was a heap of hay, similar to his own; with a figure, rolled up in a blanket, lying on it.

For some time, Ralph thought all this over in the vague, wondering way peculiar to people recovering from a long illness. Most, he puzzled over the occupant of the other bed; and at last concluded that it was some fugitive, like himself. For some time he lay and watched the figure until, presently, it moved, threw off the blanket and rose and, to his surprise, he saw that it was his nurse.

"Thanks to all the saints!" she exclaimed, when she saw him looking at her. "You are better, at last. I think that I was asleep, too. But you were sleeping so quiet, that I thought I would take a nap; for I was so sleepy."

"How long have I been here?" Ralph asked.

"Just a week, from the time the fever took you. The English doctor came over and saw you, and sent lots of things for you, and said you were not to be left; so I had the bed made up here, and my sister came over to take care of Jacques. And now, you must not talk any more. Drink this broth, and then go off to sleep again."

Ralph complied. He was too tired and weak to ask any more questions, and it was not until next day that he heard of the obstinate battles which General Chanzy had fought--on the 7th, 8th, and 10th--near Beauguency.

"Thank goodness," Ralph said, "we can't have been very badly beaten, if we were able to fight three drawn battles within about twenty miles of a first defeat."

For the next two days, Ralph improved in health. Then he had a relapse, and was very ill, for some days. Then he began, steadily but slowly, to gain strength. It was three weeks after his arrival at the cottage before he could walk, another week before he had recovered his strength sufficiently to think of moving.

One of his first anxieties--after recovering consciousness after his first, and longest, attack of fever--had been upon the subject of the terrible anxiety which they must be feeling, at home, respecting him. They would have heard, from Colonel Tempe, that he was missing and, as he would have been seen to fall, it was probable that he was reported as dead. Ralph's only consolation was that, as the Germans were at Dijon, the communication would be very slow, and uncertain; and although it was now ten days since the engagement, it was possible--if he could but get a letter sent, at once--that they would get it nearly, if not quite as quickly as the one from Colonel Tempe; especially if as was very probable the colonel would be a great deal too engaged, during the week's tremendous fighting which succeeded the day upon which Ralph was wounded, for him to be able to write letters.

The first time that he saw the English surgeon, he mentioned this anxiety, and the doctor at once offered to take charge of a letter; and to forward it with his own, in the military post bag, to the headquarters of the ambulance at Versailles, together with a note to the head of the ambulance there, begging him to get it sent on in the first bag for Dijon. In this way, it would arrive at its destination within four or five days, at most, of its leaving Orleans.

It was on the 2nd of January--exactly a month from the date of the fight in which he was wounded--that, after very many thanks to his kind host and hostess, and after forcing a handsome present upon them, Ralph started--in a peasant's dress which had been bought for him--for Orleans. He had still plenty of money with him; for he had drawn the reward, of fifty thousand francs, in Paris. The greater portion of this money he had paid into the hands of a banker, at Tours, but Percy and he had kept out a hundred pounds each; knowing by experience how useful it is, in case of being taken prisoner, to have plenty of money. Ralph's wound was still bound up with plaster, and to conceal it a rabbit-skin cap with flaps had been bought so that, by letting down the flaps and tying them under the chin, the greater part of the cheeks were covered.

The farmer had made inquiries among his neighbors and, finding one who was going into Orleans, with a horse and cart, he had asked him to give Ralph a lift to that place. The start had been effected early, and it was three o'clock when they drove into Orleans. Here Ralph shook hands with his driver--who wished him a safe journey home--and strolled leisurely down the streets.

Orleans presented a miserable aspect. The inhabitants kept themselves shut up in their houses, as much as possible. The bishop was kept a prisoner, by the Prussians, in his own palace; troops were quartered in every house; the inhabitants were, for the most part, in a state of poverty; and the shops would have been all shut, had not the Prussians ordered them to be kept open. The streets were thronged with German troops, and long trains of carts were on their way through, with provisions for the army. These carts were requisitioned from the peasantry, and were frequently taken immense distances from home; the owner--or driver, if the owner was rich enough to pay one--being obliged to accompany them.

Many were the sad scenes witnessed in these convoys. The grief of a father dragged away, not knowing what would become of his wife and children, during his absence. The anguish of a laborer at seeing his horse fall dead with fatigue, knowing well that he had no means of taking his cart home again; and that he had nothing to do but to return to his home, and tell his wife that the horse and cart--which constituted his sole wealth--were gone.

Ralph waited until, late in the afternoon, he saw a long train halt by one of the bridges. It was evidently intending to cross, the next morning, and go down south. In a short time the horses were taken out, and fastened by halters to the carts; two or three soldiers took up their posts as sentries, and the drivers were suffered to leave--the Germans knowing that there was no chance of their deserting, and leaving their horses and carts.

The poor fellows dispersed through the town. Those who had any money bought food. Those who had not, begged; for the Germans allowed them no rations, and left them to shift for themselves--or starve--as they liked. Ralph joined in conversation with a group of these, who were relating their hardships to two or three sympathetic listeners. An old man, especially, was almost heartbroken. His wife was dying, and he had been forced from her bedside.

"What could I do?" he asked, pitifully. "I was a carrier. My horse and cart were all I had in the world. If I had not gone with them they were lost for ever. What was I to do?"

No one could answer him but, when the party had broken up, Ralph went up to him.

"How much are your horse and cart worth?" he asked.

"The horse is worth five hundred francs," he said. "The cart is an old one--two hundred and fifty would pay for it. It is not much, you see, but it is all I have."

"Look here, old man," Ralph said, "I am not what I look. I am a French officer, and I want to get down near the Prussian outposts, but without passes I could not get on. Besides I have been wounded, and am too weak to walk far. I will give you the seven hundred and fifty francs which are the value of your horse and cart, and will take your place as driver; so that you can start back, at once, to your wife. Do you agree?"

The old man was so affected with joy that he burst into tears.

"God bless you, sir," he said. "You have saved my life, and my poor wife's life, too."

"Very well, it is a bargain, then," Ralph said. "Here is half the money. You shall have the rest tomorrow.

"Now you must go with me tomorrow morning, at the hour for starting; and tell the officer in charge that I am a nephew of yours--living here, but out of work, at present--and that you have arranged with me to drive the cart, as long as it's wanted, and then to take it home again."

After a few more words, the peasant took him back and showed him his cart; in order that he might know where to find him, in the morning.

"We start at daybreak," he said, "so you had better be here by half-past six."

"Where do you sleep?" Ralph asked.

"I? Oh, I don't sleep much. I lie down for a bit, underneath the carts; and then walk about to warm myself."

"Take this warm fur coat of mine," Ralph said. "It will keep you warm tonight, anyhow. I shan't want it; I shall get a bed somewhere."

The coat was the one Ralph had worn on his night walk, after being wounded. He had had all the braid, and the fur of the collar and cuffs taken off; and had had it purposely dirtied, so that it was no longer a garment which could attract attention, on the back of a man with a cart.

After some difficulty, Ralph got a bed; and was at the agreed place at the appointed time. The old man went up to the Prussian sergeant in command, and told the tale Ralph had dictated to him. The sergeant agreed to the arrangement, with a brief nod. The old man handed Ralph his whip, and returned him the fur coat; which Ralph was glad enough to put on, for the morning was bitterly cold, and Ralph--enfeebled by his illness--felt it keenly. In another five minutes, the carts were in motion across the bridge, and then away due south.

For half an hour Ralph walked by the side of his cart and--being, by that time, thoroughly warm--he jumped up in the cart and rode, during the rest of the day; getting down and walking--for a short time only--when he found his feet getting numbed with the cold.

In the afternoon they arrived at La Ferte, some fifteen miles from Orleans. There they remained for the night. There were not very many troops here, and Ralph could have obtained a bed by paying well for it; but he feared to attract attention by the possession of unusual funds and, therefore, slept in a hay loft; afraid, in spite of his fur coat, to sleep in the open air.

The next morning the train was divided, twenty of the carts going down towards Romorantin; while the rest--now fifteen in number--kept on towards Salbris. Ralph's cart formed part of this latter division. The night after they left La Ferte, they halted at La Motte Beuvron, where there was a strong force of Germans. The following day only four carts continued their route to Salbris, Ralph happening again to be among them. He had regretted two days before that he had not formed part of the division for Romorantin, as from that place he would have been less than twenty miles from Tours, which the Prussians had not yet entered; but as he had the good fortune to go on to Salbris, he did not mind--as Salbris, like Romorantin, was one of the most advanced stations.

They arrived late in the afternoon, and the carts were at once unloaded. The sergeant in charge told them to wait, while he got their papers for them; and in ten minutes he returned.

"You will have tomorrow to rest your horses, and the next day a train will start for the north. Your work is over now, as there is nothing to go back. Here are the passes for you, saying that you have carried goods down here for the army; and are therefore to return back, without your carts being further requisitioned."

Ralph put up his horse and cart for an hour in the village, while he went to search for some farm house upon which no Prussian soldiers were quartered. He was unable, for some time, to find one; but at last, over a mile from the town, he found a small place which had escaped the attention of the Prussian quartermaster, and where there was a small, unoccupied stable. Ralph soon struck a bargain with its owner; returned to Salbris, mounted his cart, drove out; and was soon settled in the little farm house.

He anticipated no great difficulty in passing out through the outposts; as there was no French force of any importance, near, and the German troops interfered but little with the movements of the country people. The affair, however, turned out more easy than he had anticipated for, towards morning, he was awoke by the distant sound of bugles.

"Something is up," he said to himself; "either a French attack, a general advance, or a recall. If it should be the latter, I am in luck."

It turned out to be as Ralph hoped. The peasant in whose house he was stopping went into Salbris, early; and came back with the news that there was no longer a German there. Orders had come for them to fall back, towards Orleans.

"I am not at all surprised," Ralph said, when he heard it, "for Orleans was emptying fast of troops. This sudden march of Bourbaki for the east, and the necessity to reinforce Frederick Charles, near Vendome must try even Prussian resources to the utmost."

Half an hour later, Ralph was jogging along on his way to Vierzon. There he found that the railway was open to Bourges, from which town he should have no difficulty in getting on to Dijon. He soon found a purchaser for his horse and cart, at ten pounds, and the next morning started on his way home.

Chapter 21: Home.

It was a long journey from Vierzon to Dijon. At Bourges Ralph had taken advantage of a delay of some hours--necessitated by the fact that no train was going--to get some suitable clothes, instead of the peasant's suit in which he had traversed the lines. He had, of course, brought his papers with him; so that he had no difficulty, whatever, in getting on by the train. But the train itself made but slow work of it. Bourbaki had passed west only the week before, with all his army, upon his march to the relief of Belfort; and the railway was completely choked. However, Ralph was not inclined to grumble at the cause of his delay; for it was only upon Bourbaki's approach that the Germans had evacuated Dijon--which was now held by Garibaldi's irregulars, and a considerable force of Mobiles.

So great were the delays that it was evening when the train reached Dijon. Ralph had scarcely stepped out on to the platform when Percy bounded upon him, and threw his arms round his neck.

"Dear, dear old Ralph! Thank God you are back again."

"My dear Percy, where did you spring from?"

"I have been home five days. I was still down at Marseilles, when I heard that Dijon was open again; and I came straight up.

"And how are you, Ralph?"

"Oh, I am getting all right again. How are they all, at home?"

"Well--quite well--but dreadfully anxious about you."

By this time the boys were out of the station, and were walking homeward.

"But you have not told me how you happened to be at the station."

"Well, I was waiting there, just on the chance of seeing you. Mamma was so dreadfully anxious about you that I wanted to do something. At any rate, I could not sit quiet at home. There are never more than two trains with passengers in a day, sometimes only one; so I have been staying down in the town, most of the days since I came home--having paid one of the railway people to send me word, directly the train was telegraphed as starting from Dole."

"How long is it since my letter arrived?"

"Nearly three weeks, Ralph; fortunately it came four or five days before a letter from Tempe, saying that he feared you were killed. Not having heard again, they were terribly anxious."

"I had no means of writing," Ralph said. "The English ambulance--through whom my letter was sent--moved down to Vendome, the very day after I wrote; and I had no other way of sending my letter."

"I said it was something of that sort. I pointed out to them that it was evident, by what you said, that the fever had passed off, and that you only wanted strength; but that being in hiding, of course, you could not write. I gave you three weeks to get strong enough to start, and four or five days to manage to get through the lines; so that by my calculation you were just due, when you arrived.

"It has pulled you down, Ralph, very much. I wish I had been there to nurse you."

"Thank you, Percy. Fortunately I did fall into very good hands, and was well looked after. I hope papa has not been over anxious about me?"

"I think he has been nervous, Ralph; but he did not show it, but talked cheerfully to keep up mamma and Milly."

"And are you quite strong again, Percy?"

"Yes, I think I am nearly as strong as ever, Ralph.

"There, we are just at the house, now. You had better wait outside; while I go in and let them know, gradually, that you are home. I came in like a fool, suddenly, and mamma fainted--she says for the first time in her life--and Milly went into hysterics, and cried and laughed so wildly that you might have heard her in Dijon. She frightened me nearly out of my senses."

Ralph remained, accordingly, outside the door; while Percy went in alone. The others had finished tea.

"You are a little late, Percy," Mrs. Barclay said. "We gave you twenty minutes' law. It is not the least matter, your being late; but I do not think it is wise to be out, these bitter nights, until you are quite strong."

"I am quite strong, mamma, as strong as ever," Percy laughed; but his laugh was, in spite of himself, a little unnatural.

His father looked sharply up.

Percy sat down, and drank a little of the tea his mother handed to him.

"I waited for the train to come in," he said, "and--of course it may not be so--but I heard of someone who, by the description, seemed to be Ralph."

"What was it, Percy, what was it?" Milly cried; while her mother gazed at him with a pale face, and appealing eyes.

"Don't agitate yourself, mamma dear--you see, it may not be true, after all--but among the people in the train was one who had come straight from Bourges. I spoke to him, and he said that he had heard--by a friend who had come straight from Vierzon--that a young officer had just arrived there, in disguise; who had been wounded, and in hiding, ever since the capture of Orleans. You know, mamma, it is just the time I calculated he would be coming; and from the fact of his being a young staff officer, and in disguise, I have very little doubt it is Ralph."

Captain Barclay rose from his seat and--standing for a moment behind his wife's chair--looked at Percy, and then at the door, inquiringly. Percy nodded.

Captain Barclay leaned over, and kissed his wife

"Thank God, dear, for all His mercies! Another day or two, and we shall be having him home."

"Thank God, indeed!" Mrs. Barclay said; "but though I hope--though I try to think it was him--perhaps it was not, perhaps--"

"No, mamma," Percy said, "from some particulars he gave, and from what he said, I feel almost sure--I may say I am quite sure--it is Ralph. I would not say so, you know, unless I felt very certain."

Mrs. Barclay felt that he would not, and fell into her husband's arms, crying softly with happiness.

Milly was no longer in the room. She had caught the glance between her father and Percy, and had rightly interpreted it. She had risen to her feet, but a warning gesture from Captain Barclay had checked the cry of gladness on her lips; and she had stolen quietly from the room, closed the door noiselessly, had flown to the front door and out into the road beyond, and was now crying happily in Ralph's arms.

"And when do you think he can get here, Richard?" Mrs. Barclay asked her husband.

"Soon, dear--quite soon," he answered. "He may come tomorrow. He would be certain to come almost as quickly as the news."

"Oh, how happy I am!" Mrs. Barclay said. "Thank God for His mercies! To think that, tomorrow, I may have both my boys back again."

"Will there be another train in, tonight, Percy?" Captain Barclay asked.

"Quite possibly," Percy said; "indeed, indeed,"--and he hesitated--"you see, I walked up fast; it is just possible that he may have arrived by this train."

Mrs. Barclay understood now.

"He is come," she exclaimed, looking up. "I know it, now."

Captain Barclay took her up in his arms.

"You can bear it, can't you, Melanie? Yes, dear, he has come."

Percy saw that it was safe now. He went to the door, and opened it. Ralph was standing outside, in readiness; and in another moment his mother was in his arms.

Later in the evening, Captain Barclay said to Ralph:

"I suppose tomorrow you will obtain a medical certificate, and write to General Chanzy: saying that you are alive, but unable to rejoin?"

"Yes," Ralph answered, "I suppose that will be the best plan. I must have a month's rest."

"That means, my dear boy, that you will not have to go out any more. Another month will see the end of the struggle--or at any rate, if the end has not absolutely arrived, it will be unmistakable.

"The game is, I am convinced, altogether lost. A fortnight ago, I had still hope. Chanzy and Bourbaki had each an army, nearly or quite equal to that of Prince Frederick Charles. He could not attack one in force, without leaving the road to Paris open to the other.

"Bourbaki has come upon this mad expedition to the east; and you will see Prince Frederick Charles will throw his whole strength upon Chanzy, crush him, and then attend to Bourbaki. Bourbaki may relieve Belfort, but in that corner of France what is he to do? Prussian reinforcements are coming down to Werder, every day. Troops are marching on this town from Paris and, if Bourbaki is not wonderfully quick, we shall have another Sedan here.

"After the defeat of these, the last two armies of France, it would be madness to continue the war. Paris must surrender, for there would be no further possibility of relief; and there would be no advantage, whatever, in enduring further sufferings.

"No, my boys, I said 'Go' when I thought that there was a possibility of saving France. You have done your duty--more than your duty. It would be worse than folly--it would be wickedness--to voluntarily put your lives into danger, when success has ceased to be possible. I should be the last man to hinder you from what was your duty. I said 'Go' before, when few fathers would have said so. I would say 'Go' again, now, if your duty called you; but as you can both obtain sick leave, for another six weeks, I say take that leave. Do not do more than your duty, for heroism is now of no use to France."

"I agree with you altogether, papa," Ralph said. "I have seen, and had, quite enough fighting for my lifetime. Of course, if the war goes on Percy and I, as officers, must return to our duty, but I am willing to obtain all the sick leave I can get; for although I still believe in the individual bravery of the French soldiers, I am quite convinced that it is altogether out of the question that--with their want of organization, want of generals, want of officers, want of discipline, want of everything--they can drive out the magnificent armies of Germany.

"Has Percy got his leave extended?"

"Yes," Percy said; "I am fairly well, but I am still shaky. I have not quite got over that swim; and the surgeon said, without my applying for it, that I must have prolonged rest so, at the end of the month, he extended it for two months longer.

"I thoroughly agree with you both. We have had quite enough of it. We shall always have the satisfaction that we did our duty to France, and our rank; and these ribbons,"--and he touched the rosette of the legion of honor, in his buttonhole--"will prove that we have distinguished ourselves. We have had great good fortune, hitherto; it might turn, next time."

And so it was settled that the boys should remain at home, for the next two months; by which time they agreed, with their father, the resistance would be fairly worn out. Ralph wrote to General Chanzy, relating the whole circumstances of his absence. General Chanzy wrote in reply--in spite of the demands upon his time--saying how pleased he was that Ralph had escaped, as he had quite given him up. He ended his note by saying that he had already mentioned his name, in dispatches, and should now make a fresh report.

Colonel Tempe--or rather General Tempe, for he now commanded a brigade--wrote also to congratulate him. One portion of his letter contained bad news; for he mentioned that Tim had lost an arm, at the battle of the 8th December, but that he was now doing well.

Those were exciting days at Dijon. The news of the victory at Villersexel, followed by the fighting which ended in the capture of Montbeliard; and then the obstinate contests near Belfort, when Bourbaki in vain endeavored to drive back the Germans, and to relieve the besieged town--all this kept the excitement up, at fever heat.

It was not fated that the war should end without the boys seeing service once more for, upon the 21st, heavy firing was heard upon the northwest of Dijon. The Barclays' house was on the southwest of the town. Upon the northwest the ground rises in two steep hills--or rather one steep hill, with two summits about a mile apart. One of these summits is called Talant, the other Fontaine les Dijon. Behind the latter, and upon even higher ground--at a distance of two and three miles, respectively--lay the villages of Daix and Hauteville.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning that the boys heard the faint boom of a cannon.

"Listen, papa," Percy shouted; "there are cannon. The Prussians are attacking the heights, on the other side."

Captain Barclay came out into the garden, and listened for a while with them. The enemy had taken up positions upon some of the numerous heights surrounding, and were playing upon the batteries at Talant, Fontaine les Dijon, Daix, and Hauteville. The French replied vigorously; and it was evident that they were stronger, in artillery, than were the enemy.

"I fancy," Captain Barclay said, "that it is no attack. It is merely, I think, a fire opened to occupy our attention; in order that a body of troops may pass along to the northward of Dijon, to fall upon Bourbaki's rear. However, my place is with my company of national guards. There is no fear of an attack, at present; but they will get under arms no doubt."

"We will go down into the town with you, papa."

The firing continued until five o'clock, when it gradually died away, the Germans retiring. An hour later, the greater portion of the troops marched back to the town. The enemy, they reported, were not over 15,000 strong while, in all, the Garibaldians and mobilized national guards in the town were 30,000 to 40,000 strong. The French were also much stronger in artillery.

Captain Barclay returned home with the boys. They sat up late, talking over the affair, and it was nearly midnight when they went up to their rooms. Suddenly, they were startled by a fresh outburst of fire upon the heights. In a minute or two, all the household were in the garden.

"It is a night attack," Captain Barclay said; "and judging by the sound, they are in earnest. I can hear musketry, as well as artillery."

As they listened, it came nearer.

"They have taken Daix and Hauteville," Ralph said. "What shall we do, papa? We can't stay here, quiet. It is our plain duty to go down, and report ourselves to General Pelissier."

"I think you ought to do so," Captain Barclay answered, gravely.

The boys went off to put on their uniforms--for Ralph had replaced the one he had left behind, in the cottage near Orleans.

"I do not think you need be uneasy, Melanie," Captain Barclay said to his wife. "It is our duty to go; but I hardly think that they can have been reinforced in sufficient strength to attack the town."

The boys were soon down.

"Goodbye, mamma; goodbye, Milly. Don't be alarmed about us. We have no horses, and there can be no risk of our being sent on any perilous service, tonight."

Two silent kisses, and then father and sons hurried away towards the town.

"They have taken Fontaine les Dijon," Ralph said. "We shall soon see if they are in earnest."

Dijon they found in utter confusion. Mounted orderlies galloped about. The troops were all under arms. Engineers were at work, crenelating the walls and houses upon the side threatened with attack. General Garibaldi was sitting in his carriage, in readiness to move in any direction, instantly. General Pelissier--who commanded the mobilized guards--was in his office, and staff officers came in and out with reports, every five minutes.

The boys entered, and briefly reported themselves for service. They had already reported their presence in the place, upon their arrival.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "I do not think that you can be of any use, just at present; but if the Germans press the attack, I shall be greatly obliged. In that case, please dismount two of the orderlies, and take their horses."

The night passed off, however, quietly. The Germans, satisfied with the advantage, remained in the positions they had taken; and the French prepared to drive them back again, in the morning.

At daybreak, the troops began to pour out from the town; and the cannonade commenced with greater fury on both sides. Two of the orderlies, in obedience to General Pelissier's orders, gave up their horses to the Barclays; who rode out with the general's staff. The Prussians had evidently been reinforced, in the night; but the French nevertheless gained ground, gradually. After several hours' heavy cannonading, the Mobilises were ordered to take the position of Fontaine les Dijon, with the bayonet. Three Zouaves--who happened to be present--took their places at the head of the column and, at the double, they went up the hill amidst a storm of shot and shell. The Germans did not await the assault, but fell back upon Daix.

The spirit of the Mobilises was now up and, still led by the three Zouaves, they dashed forward. The resistance here was obstinate; but the Germans were driven back, with great loss. The pursuers gave them no rest; but went forward at the double, and drove them out of Hauteville at the bayonet's point, thus winning back all the positions lost in the night. The Barclays had little to do during the affair as, after the orders had once been given, the spirit of the troops carried them on over everything. The loss upon both sides was considerable, and one of General Werder's sons was among the prisoners taken by the French.

The fight over, the boys returned home for a few hours. Their father had come in half an hour before them.

The next morning they returned, at daybreak, to Dijon. The Prussians had received considerable reinforcements, in the night; and had executed a long detour, advancing this time by the Langres Road, nearly due north of the city. They left the road and took up their position upon a plateau, near the village of Pouilly, about three miles from Dijon. The French positions were about a mile nearer to the town, extending from the foot of Fontaine les Dijon through the villages of Saint Marten, and Fontaine.

From the morning, until three in the day, a heavy artillery fire was kept up, on both sides. At that hour, the Prussians gave signs of an intention to advance. Their artillery took up fresh positions, their fire increased in rapidity, and it was evident that the crisis of the day was at hand. Up to this time, the boys had had but little to do. Sitting on their horses, or leaning against them, they had chatted with the officers of the general staff. At this period, however, General Garibaldi drew up; and there was a brief consultation between him and General Pelissier. A few hasty orders were given and, in an instant, the whole of the staff were dashing away to different parts of the ground.

"Charge in line!" was the order and, forming shoulder to shoulder, the Garibaldians and Mobiles moved forward in a grand line, a mile and a half long; uttering loud and inspiriting cheers. The boys had been sent to the regiments next to each other and, their message delivered, they joined each other and rode on with the advancing line.

"This is grand, Ralph," Percy said, enthusiastically. "We have seen a good many defeats. We are going to wind up with a victory, at last."

For a while the Germans stood their ground, pouring a shower of shot and shell into the advancing French; but the dash and go of the latter--excited by their successes of the two preceding days--were irresistible. The Germans wavered and fell back as the French advanced and, from that moment, the fate of the day was decided. Isolated German regiments fought desperately, but in vain. The French pushed them back, from position to position, until nightfall covered the retreat.

The German loss was very heavy; and the French, in addition to a considerable number of prisoners, had the satisfaction of taking a German color--the only one captured throughout the war.

This was the last fight in which the Barclays took part during the war. The boys escaped unhurt; as did their father, who had joined one of the regiments of Mobiles, and had advanced with them.

The events followed fast, day after day. In rapid succession, they heard of the defeat of Chanzy at Le Mans, the retreat of Bourbaki; the terrible sufferings of the troops, as they fell back upon the Swiss frontier, for refuge. Simultaneously with the news of this retreat came the intelligence of the surrender of Paris, and of the armistice and, grieving over France's misfortune, they were yet heartily rejoiced that the hopeless contest was over.

No sooner were the preliminaries of peace signed than Captain Barclay carried out his intention of leaving for England. Monsieur Duburg had already agreed to purchase the cottage, and adjoining grounds; which he intends for Louis, when he marries. The Barclays were sorry to leave their uncle and cousins, but there was no great grief with reference to the separation from Madame Duburg.

General Tempe they parted from with regret. That officer's fighting days were over, for he lost a leg in the battle before Le Mans.

Ralph obtained the step as major, in consequence of General Chanzy's report in his favor, but he never put on the uniform of the rank; nor is it likely that he ever will do so, although he hopes, some day, to attain the grade in the British service. He is at present studying hard for an examination in the artillery which, if practical knowledge goes for anything, he is pretty certain to get.

Percy has had enough of fighting, and his present idea is that he shall go to the Bar; but he has plenty of time before him, yet. Both never boast of their achievements--indeed, are straightforward, unaffected English lads, still--and it is only to intimate friends that they ever speak of their adventures in the war.

The Barclays live now a short distance out of London; and the pony chaise in which Captain Barclay drives his wife and Milly can be seen, any day, on the Richmond road. If you stop and watch it turn into the little drive, up to the house, you will observe that a one-armed man--who has previously been busy in the garden--throws down his spade, and takes the ponies off to the stables and, should he not happen to be at the front of the house, as the ponies draw up, you will hear Milly summon him with a loud call of "Tim!"

Table of Contents

In Greek Waters

Out with Garibaldi

Jack Archer

Condemned as a Nihilist

The Young Franc Tireurs